‘Yes, I like too much.’
‘Foine, foine … come, we go for dancing house,’ he said, rising to his feet majestically, and stifling a belch with one slender hand. Two of his wives, who had been sitting quietly in the background, rushed forward and seized the tray of drinks and scuttled ahead of us, as the Fon led us out of his house and across the compound towards his dancing house.
The dancing house was a great, square building, not unlike the average village hall, but with an earth floor and very few and very small windows. At one end of the building stood a line of wickerwork arm-chairs, which constituted a sort of Royal enclosure, and on the wall above these were framed photographs of various members of the Royal family. As we entered the dancing hall the assembled wives, about forty or fifty of them, uttered the usual greeting, a strange, shrill ululation, caused by yelling loudly and clapping their hands rapidly over their mouths at the same time. The noise was deafening. All the petty councillors there in their brilliant robes clapped their hands as well, and thus added to the general racket. Nearly deafened by this greeting, Jacquie and I were installed in two chairs, one on each side of the Fon, the table of drinks was placed in front of us, and the Fon, leaning back in his chair, surveyed us both with a wide and happy grin.
‘Now we go have happy time,’ he said, and leaning forward poured out half a tumblerful of Scotch each from the depths of a virgin bottle that had just been broached.
‘Chirri-ho,’ said the Fon.
‘Chin-chin,’ I said absent-mindedly.
‘Na whatee dat?’ inquired the Fon with interest.
‘What?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘Dis ting you say.’
‘Oh, you mean chin-chin?’
‘Yes, yes, dis one.’
‘It’s something you say when you drink.’
‘Na same same for Chirri-ho?’ asked the Fon, intrigued.
‘Yes, na same same.’
He sat silent for a moment, his lips moving, obviously comparing the respective merits of the two toasts. Then he raised his glass again.
‘Shin-shin,’ said the Fon.
‘Chirri-ho!’ I responded, and the Fon lay back in his chair and went off into a paroxysm of mirth.
By now the band had arrived. It was composed of four youths and two of the Fon’s wives and the instruments consisted of three drums, two flutes and a calabash filled with dried maize that gave off a pleasant rustling noise similar to a marimba. They got themselves organized in the corner of the dancing house, and then gave a few experimental rolls on the drums, watching the Fon expectantly. The Fon, having recovered from the joke, barked out an imperious order and two of his wives placed a small table in the centre of the dance floor and put a pressure lamp on it. The drums gave another expectant roll.
‘My friend,’ said the Fon, ‘you remember when you done come for Bafut before you done teach me European dance, eh?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember.’
This referred to one of the Fon’s parties when, having partaken liberally of the Fon’s hospitality, I had proceeded to show him, his councillors and wives how to do the conga. It had been a riotous success, but in the eight years that had passed I had supposed that the Fon would have forgotten about it.
‘I go show you,’ said the Fon, his eyes gleaming. He barked out another order and about twenty of his wives shuffled out on to the dance floor and formed a circle round the table, each one holding firmly to the waist of the one in front. Then they assumed a strange, crouching position, rather like runners at the start of a race, and waited.
‘What are they going to do?’ whispered Jacquie.
I watched them with an unholy glee. ‘I do believe,’ I said dreamily, ‘That he’s been making them dance the conga ever since I left, and we’re now going to have a demonstration.’
The Fon lifted a large hand and the band launched itself with enthusiasm into a Bafut tune that had the unmistakable conga rhythm. The Fon’s wives, still in their strange crouching position, proceeded to circle round the lamp, kicking their black legs out on the sixth beat, their brows furrowed in concentration. The effect was delightful.
‘My friend,’ I said, touched by the demonstration, ‘dis na fine ting you do.’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed Jacquie enthusiastically, ‘they dance very fine.’
‘Dis na de dance you done teach me,’ explained the Fon.
‘Yes, I remember.’
He turned to Jacquie, chuckling. ‘Dis man your husband ’e get plenty power … we dance, we dance, we drink … Wah! We done have happy time.’
The band came to an uneven halt, and the Fon’s wives, smiling shyly at our applause, rose from their crouching position and returned to their former places along the wall. The Fon barked an order and a large calabash of palm wine was brought in and distributed among the dancers, each getting their share poured into their cupped hands. Stimulated by this sight the Fon filled all our glasses again.
‘Yes,’ he went on, reminiscently, ‘dis man your husband get plenty power for dance and drink.’
‘I no get power now,’ I said, ‘I be old man now.’
‘No, no, my friend,’ said the Fon laughing, ‘I be old, you be young.’
‘You look more young now den for the other time I done come to Bafut,’ I said, and really meant it.
‘That’s because you’ve got plenty wives,’ said Jacquie.
‘Wah! No!’ said the Fon, shocked. ‘Dis ma wives tire me too much.’
He glared moodily at the array of females standing along the wall, and sipped his drink. ‘Dis ma wife dey humbug me too much,’ he went on.
‘My husband says I humbug him,’ said Jacquie.
‘Your husband catch lucky. ’E only get one wife, I get plenty,’ said the Fon, ‘an’ dey de humbug me time no dere.’
‘But wives are very useful,’ said Jacquie.
The Fon regarded her sceptically.
‘If you don’t have wives you can’t have babies … men can’t have babies,’ said Jacquie practically.
The Fon was so overcome with mirth at this remark I thought he might have a stroke. He lay back in his chair and laughed until he cried. Presently he sat up, wiping his eyes, still shaking with gusts of laughter. ‘Dis woman your wife get brain,’ he said, still chuckling, and poured Jacquie out an extra large Scotch to celebrate her intelligence. ‘You be good wife for me,’ he said, patting her on the head affectionately. ‘Shin-shin.’
The band now returned, wiping their mouths from some mysterious errand outside the dancing house and, apparently well fortified, launched themselves into one of my favourite Bafut tunes, the Butterfly dance. This was a pleasant, lilting little tune and the Fon’s wives again took the floor and did the delightful dance that accompanied it. They danced in a row with minute but complicated hand and feet movements, and then the two that formed the head of the line joined hands, while the one at the farther end of the line whirled up and then fell backwards, to be caught and thrown upright again by the two with linked hands. As the dance progressed and the music got faster and faster the one representing the butterfly whirled more and more rapidly, and the ones with linked hands catapulted her upright again with more and more enthusiasm. Then, when the dance reached its feverish climax, the Fon rose majestically to his feet, amid screams of delight from the audience, and joined the end of the row of dancing wives. He started to whirl down the line, his scarlet and yellow robe turning into a blur of colour, loudly singing the words of the song.
‘I dance, I dance, and no one can stop me,’ he carolled merrily, ‘but I must take care not to fall to the ground like the butterfly.’