‘Dust too much, sah,’ he roared at me, in case the fact had escaped my observation. As Jacquie and I were almost as dusty in the front of the lorry, I was not inclined to be sympathetic.
‘How are the animals?’ I asked.
‘’E well, sah. But dis bush-hog, sah, ’e get strong head too much.’
‘Why, what the matter with it?’
‘’E done tief dis ma pillow,’ said Phillip indignantly.
I peered into Ticky the black-footed mongoose’s cage. She had whiled away the tedium of the journey by pushing her paw through the bars and gradually dragging in with her the small pillow which was part of our cook’s bedding. She was sitting on the remains, looking very smug and pleased with herself, surrounded by snow-drifts of feathers.
‘Never mind,’ I said consolingly, ‘I’ll buy you a new one. But you go watch your other things, eh? Sometime she go tief them as well.’
‘Yes, sah, I go watch um,’ said Phillip, casting a black look at the feather-smothered Ticky.
So we drove on through the green, gold and white grassland, under a blue sky veined with fine wisps of wind-woven white cloud, like frail twists of sheep’s wool blowing across the sky. Everything in this landscape seemed to be the work of the wind. The great outcrops of grey rocks were carved and ribbed by it into fantastic shapes; the long grass was curved over into frozen waves by it; the small trees had been bent, carunculated and distorted by it. And the whole landscape throbbed and sang with the wind, hissing softly in the grass, making the small trees creak and whine, hooting and blaring round the towering cornices of rock.
So we drove on towards Bafut, and towards the end of the day the sky became pale gold. Then, as the sun sank behind the farthest rim of mountains, the world was enveloped in the cool green twilight, and in the dusk the lorry roared round the last bend and drew up at the hub of Bafut, the compound of the Fon. To the left lay the vast courtyard, and behind it the clusters of huts in which lived the Fon’s wives and children. Dominating them all was the great hut in which dwelt the spirit of his father, and a great many other lesser spirits, looming like a monstrous, time-blackened beehive against the jade night sky. To the right of the road, perched on top of a tall bank, was the Fon’s Rest House, like a two-storey Italian villa, stone-built and with a neatly tiled roof. Shoe-box shaped, both lower and upper storeys were surrounded by wide verandahs, festooned with bougainvillaea covered with pink and brick-red flowers.
Tiredly we climbed out of the lorry and supervised the unloading of the animals and their installation on the top-storey verandah. Then the rest of the equipment was offloaded and stored, and while we made vague attempts to wash some of the red dust off our bodies, Phillip seized the remains of his bedding, his box full of cooking utensils and food and marched off to the kitchen quarters in a stiff, brisk way, like a military patrol going to quell a small but irritating insurrection. By the time we had fed the animals he had reappeared with an astonishingly good meal and having eaten it we fell into bed and slept like the dead.
The next morning, in the cool dawn light, we went to pay our respects to our host, the Fon. We made our way across the great courtyard and plunged into the maze of tiny squares and alleyways formed by the huts of the Fon’s wives. Presently, we found ourselves in a small courtyard shaded by an immense guava tree, and there was the Fon’s own villa, small, neat, built of stone and tiled with a wide verandah running along one side. And there, at the top of the steps running up to the verandah, stood my friend the Fon of Bafut.
He stood there, tall and slender, wearing a plain white robe embroidered with blue. On his head was a small skull-cap in the same colours. His face was split by the joyous, mischievous grin I knew so well and he was holding out one enormous slender hand in greeting.
‘My friend, Iseeya,’ I called, hurrying up the stairs to him.
‘Welcome, welcome … you done come … welcome,’ he exclaimed, seizing my hand in his huge palm and draping a long arm round my shoulders and patting me affectionately.
‘You well, my friend?’ I asked, peering up into his face.
‘I well, I well,’ he said grinning.
It seemed to me an understatement: he looked positively blooming. He had been well into his seventies when I had last met him, eight years before, and he appeared to have weathered the intervening years better than I had. I introduced Jacquie, and was quietly amused by the contrast. The Fon, six foot three inches, and appearing taller because of his robes, towered beamingly over Jacquie’s five-foot-one-inch, and her hand was as lost as a child’s in the depths of his great dusky paw.
‘Come, we go for inside,’ he said, and clutching our hands led us into his villa.
The interior was as I remembered it, a cool, pleasant room with leopard skins on the floor, and wooden sofas, beautifully carved, piled high with cushions. We sat down, and one of the Fon’s wives came forward carrying a tray with glasses and drinks on it. The Fon splashed Scotch into three glasses with a liberal hand, and passed them round, beaming at us. I surveyed the four inches of neat spirit in the bottom of my glass and sighed. I could see that the Fon had not, in my absence, joined the Temperance movement, whatever else he had done.
‘Chirri-ho!’ said the Fon, and downed half the contents of his glass at a gulp. Jacquie and I sipped ours more sedately.
‘My friend,’ I said, ‘I happy too much I see you again.’
‘Wah! Happy?’ said the Fon. ‘I get happy for see you. When dey done tell me you come for Cameroon again I get happy too much.’
I sipped my drink cautiously.
‘Some man done tell me that you get angry for me because I done write dat book about dis happy time we done have together before. So I de fear for come back to Bafut,’ I said.
The Fon scowled.
‘Which kind of man tell you dis ting?’ he inquired furiously.
‘Some European done tell me.’
‘Ah! European,’ said the Fon shrugging, as if surprised that I should believe anything told to me by a white person, ‘Na lies dis.’
‘Good,’ I said, greatly relieved. ‘If I think you get angry for me my heart no go be happy.’
‘No, no, I no get angry for you,’ said the Fon, splashing another large measure of Scotch into my glass before I could stop him. ‘Dis book you done write … I like um foine … you done make my name go for all de world … every kind of people ’e know my name … na foine ting dis.’
Once again I realized I had underestimated the Fon’s abilities. He had obviously realized that any publicity is better than none. ‘Look um,’ he went on, ‘plenty plenty people come here for Bafut, all different different people, dey all show me dis your book ’e get my name for inside … na foine ting dis.’
‘Yes, na fine thing,’ I agreed, rather shaken. I had had no idea that I had unwittingly turned the Fon into a sort of Literary Lion.
‘Dat time I done go for Nigeria,’ he said, pensively holding the bottle of Scotch up to the light. ‘Dat time I done go for Lagos to meet dat Queen woman, all dis European dere ’e get dis your book. Plenty plenty people dey ask me for write dis ma name for inside dis your book.’
I gazed at him open-mouthed; the idea of the Fon in Lagos sitting and autographing copies of my book rendered me speechless.
‘Did you like the Queen?’ asked Jacquie.
‘Wah! Like? I like um too much. Na foine woman dat. Na small small woman, same same for you. But ’e get power, time no dere. Wah! Dat woman get power plenty.’