‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we are very grateful to you for allowing us to see your zoological collections. May I ask if you would be kind enough to answer some of the boys’ questions?’
‘Yes, with pleasure,’ I said, taking up my stand on the steps above the crowd.
‘Boys,’ roared the Head, ‘Mr Durrell has kindly say that he will answer any questions. Now who has a question?’
The sea of black faces below me screwed themselves up in thought, tongues protruded, toes wiggled in the dust. Then, slowly at first, but with increasing speed as they lost their embarrassment, they shot questions at me, all of which were extremely intelligent and sensible. There was, I noticed, one small boy in the front of the crowd who had, throughout the proceedings, fixed me with a basilisk eye. His brow was furrowed with concentration, and he stood stiffly at attention. At last, when the supply of questions started to peter out, he suddenly summoned up all his courage, and shot his hand up.
‘Yes, Uano, what is your question?’ asked the Head, smiling down fondly at the boy.
The boy took a deep breath and then fired his question at me rapidly. ‘Please, sah, can Mr Durrell tell us why he take so many photographs of the Fon’s wives?’
The smile vanished from the Head’s face and he threw me a look of chagrin.
‘That is not a zoological question, Uano,’ he pointed out severely.
‘But please, sah, why?’ repeated the child stubbornly.
The Head scowled ferociously. ‘That is not a zoological question,’ he thundered. ‘Mr Durrell only said he would answer zoological questions. The matter of the Fon’s wives is not zoological.’
‘Well, loosely speaking it could be called biological, Headmaster, couldn’t it?’ I asked, coming to the lad’s rescue.
‘But, sir, they shouldn’t ask you questions like that,’ said the Head, mopping his face.
‘Well, I don’t mind answering. The reason is that, in my country, everyone is very interested to know how people in other parts of the world live and what they look like. I can tell them, of course, but it’s not the same as if they see a photograph. With a photograph they know exactly what everything is like.’
‘There …’ said the Headmaster, running a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘There, Mr Durrell has answered your question. Now, he is a very busy man so there is no more time for further questions. Kindly get into line.’
The boys formed themselves once more into two orderly lines, while the Headmaster shook my hand and earnestly assured me that they were all most grateful. Then he turned once more to the boys.
‘Now, to show our appreciation to Mr Durrell I want three hearty cheers.’
Two hundred young lungs boomed out the hearty cheers. Then the boys at the head of the line produced from bags they were carrying several bamboo flutes and two small drums. The Headmaster waved his hand and they started to walk off down the road, led by the school band playing, of all things, ‘Men of Harlech’. The Head followed them mopping his face, and the dark looks he kept darting at young Uano’s back did not augur well for the boy’s prospects when he got back to the classroom.
That evening the Fon came over for a drink and, after we had shown him the new additions to the collection, we sat on the verandah and I told him about Uano’s zoological question. The Fon laughed and laughed, particularly at the embarrassment of the Headmaster. ‘Why you never tell um,’ he inquired, wiping his eyes, ‘why you never tell um dat you take dis photo of dis ma wife for show all Europeans for your country dat Bafut women be beautiful?’
‘Dis boy na picken,’ I said solemnly. ‘I think sometime he be too small to understand dis woman palaver.’
‘Na true, na true,’ said the Fon, chuckling, ‘’e be picken. ’E catch lucky, ’e no get women for humbug him.’
‘They tell me, my friend,’ I said, trying to steer the conversation away from the pros and cons of married life, ‘they tell me tomorrow you go for N’dop. Na so?’
‘Na so,’ said the Fon, ‘I go for two days, for Court. I go come back for morning time tomorrow tomorrow.’
‘Well,’ I said, raising my glass, ‘safe journey, my friend.’
The following morning, clad in splendid yellow and black robes and wearing a curious hat, heavily embroidered, with long, drooping ear flaps, the Fon took his seat in the front of his new Land-Rover. Into the back went the necessities of traveclass="underline" three bottles of Scotch, his favourite wife and three council members. He waved vigorously to us until the vehicle rounded the corner and was lost from sight.
That evening, having finished the last chores of the day, I went out on to the front verandah for a breath of air. In the great courtyard below I noticed large numbers of the Fon’s children assembling. Curiously I watched them. They grouped them selves in a huge circle in the centre of the compound and, after much discussion and argument, they started to sing and clap their hands rhythmically, accompanied by a seven-year-old who stood in the centre of the circle beating a drum. Standing like this they lifted up their young voices and sang some of the most beautiful and haunting of the Bafut songs. This, I could tell, was not just an ordinary gathering of children; they had assembled there for some definite purpose, but what they were celebrating (unless it was their father’s departure) I could not think. I stood there watching them for a long time and then John, our houseboy, appeared at my elbow in his unnervingly silent way.
‘Dinner ready, sah,’ he said.
‘Thank you, John. Tell me, why all dis picken sing for the Fon’s compound?’
John smiled shyly. ‘Because de Fon done go for N’dop, sah.’
‘Yes, but why they sing?’
‘If the Fon no be here, sah, each night dis picken must for sing inside de Fon’s compound. So dey keep dis his compound warm.’
This, I thought, was a delightful idea. I peered down at the circle of children, singing lustily in the gloomy wastes of the great courtyard, to keep their father’s compound warm.
‘Why they never dance?’ I asked.
‘Dey never get light, sah.’
‘Take them the pressure light from the bedroom. Tell them I send it so that I can help keep the Fon’s compound warm.’
‘Yes, sah,’ said John. He hurried off to fetch the light and presently I saw it cast a golden pool round the circle of children. There was a pause in the singing, while John delivered my message, and then came a series of delighted shrieks and echoing up to me the shrill voices crying, ‘Tank you, Masa, tank you.’
As we sat down to dinner the children were singing like larks, and stamping and weaving their way round the lamp, their shadows long and attenuated, thrown half-way across the courtyard by the softly hissing lamp in their midst.
Mail by Hand
My good friend,