Chapter VII: The Sallah at Zaria

All Zaria is astir, for this is December, the sacred month, the month when the pilgrims to Mecca are offering sacrifices, and to-day the Sallah celebrations begin. At an early hour masses of men began to swarm out of the great Hausa city, dressed in their best gowns, driving before them bullocks, sheep, and goats to be sacrificed on the hill—even Kofena, the hill of many legends, the old centre of Hausa “rock worship,” beyond the city walls—to the sound of invocations to Almighty God. For days beforehand people have been pouring in from the villages in the surrounding plain. Long files of oxen, sheep, and goats have been passing through the gates. Every household has been busy getting together presents for friends, making provision for poor relations, bringing forth the finest contents of their wardrobes, preparing succulent dishes for entertainment. Every class of the population has been filled with eager anticipation, agriculturists and weavers, blacksmiths and tanners, dyers and shoemakers. The barbers have plied an active trade, and the butchers likewise. Every face has worn a smile, and the hum of human life has been more insistent than usual. A city of great antiquity this, boasting a long line of fifty-eight Hausa kings before the Fulani dynasty arose, and thirteen since that event early in last century. It rises out of an enormous plain, cultivated for many miles around, dotted here and there with fantastic piles of granite, resembling mediæval castles. Its reddish clay walls, crumbling in parts, twenty to thirty feet high in others, and many feet in thickness at the base, enclose a sea of compounds and tortuous picturesque streets, above which wave the fan-palms, the paw-paw, the beautiful locust-bean tree, and the graceful tamarind. In the plain itself the gigantic _rimi_, or cotton tree, is a conspicuous landmark, and its rugged staunchness is the subject of a legend uncomplimentary to the ladies of Zaria: _Rimayin Zaria sun fi matan Zaria alkawali_, meaning that the old _rimi_ trees are more dependable than the fickle beauties of the town.

But the outstanding feature of the day approaches. It is ten o’clock, and the procession from Kofena hill is winding its way back again to the city. Here the Emir will arrive in state after the performance of his religious devoirs, and will address his people. Here, in the great open square flanking the mosque, the district chiefs and notables will charge down upon him in the traditional “jaffi,” or mounted salute. As we enter the gates of the city, after a two miles canter from the Residency down a long and dusty road, we find almost deserted streets. Every one is congregating in the square. Soon we enter into it, to see a vast concourse of people clothed in white and blue. They form a living foreground to the walls on either side of the Emir’s residence, which stands at one extremity of the square. Around the mosque, on the left, they are as thick as bees, and, opposite the mosque, some broken hillocky ground is covered with a multitude. At its further extremity the square narrows into the road leading through the city to Kofena, and towards the opening of this road as it debouches into the square all eyes are directed. The brilliant sun of tropical Africa smites downwards, giving a hard line to lights and shadows, and throwing everything into bold relief. With the exception of a few denationalised Hausa wives of our own soldiers, the crowd is exclusively one of men and youths, for, according to custom, the women will not put in an appearance until later in the day. We three White men,—the Resident, much respected, and wise with the wisdom which comes of long years of experience of this fascinating country, and with a knowledge of Mohammedan law which fills the wisest _mallams_ with astonishment—his assistant, and the writer take our stand on the right of the Emir’s residence. Behind us a few mounted men in gallant array, and immediately on our left a charming group of the Emir’s sons, or some of them, in costly robes of satin. One little fellow, eight years old, perhaps, with a light olive complexion, glances rather bored looks from under a snow-white turban. Another rather bigger boy, clad in dark yellow satin, is an imposing figure.

A deep “Ah” comes from the throats of the assembled thousands as the blare of trumpets resounds faintly in the distance, and a cloud of dust rises from the road. From out of it there emerge a dozen horsemen charging down the square at break-neck speed, their right arms raised, their multi-coloured robes flying out behind them. With a shout they rein up their steeds in front of the Emir’s residence, then wheel swiftly, and are off again whence they came—the _avant-garde_ of the procession. The sound of drums and trumpets gets louder. The head of the procession comes in sight, or, to be more accurate, the dust solidifies itself into a compact mass, flashing and glittering with a thousand shades. First, many hundreds walking on foot, who, as they enter the square, deploy right and left and mingle with the waiting crowd. Behind them more horsemen detach themselves and gallop towards us, backwards and forwards. Each man is dressed according to his own particular fancy. Some in red, some in blue, some in white, some in green, others in vivid yellows, but most of them, it would seem, wearing half a dozen different colours at the same time, both as to robes and turbans. Their leather boots, thrust into shovel-headed stirrups, are embroidered with red and green; their saddle-cloths and bridles are also richly embroidered and tasselled. The majority, we observe, wear long cross-handled swords in leather scabbards. Some carry thin spears in their hands; one fierce-looking warrior a battle-axe. He seems to have stepped out of the Middle Ages does this particular chief, his horse wearing a metalled protection as in the old days of the Crusaders. But the heart of the procession, moving up slowly, puts an end to these evolutions, and the horsemen range themselves up on either side of the Emir’s residence, their gallant beasts, curvetting and prancing as the “Ah” of the crowd changes into a great roar of sound. As a trial of patience I commend the effort to take a photograph over the ears of a horse who is making strenuous efforts to stand up on its hind legs, while a fine and smarting white dust rises in clouds, entering eyes and mouth, and all round you are people in a fine frenzy of excitement, mingled with apprehension, lest your mount takes it into his head to ride amuck in the midst of them, which he has every appearance of wishing to do.

Rattle, rattle, come the drums, mingled with the long-drawn-out notes of the tin or silver trumpets. Suddenly a loud shout arises, a shout of merriment, as a monstrous figure, clad in skins of beasts, and, apparently, hung round with bladders, in his hand a long stick, dashes out of the advancing throng, clearing the intervening space between it and the Emir’s residence in a succession of frantic bounds. This is the Court fool, and his appearance is quite in setting with the piece. For this whole scene is a scene out of the Arabian Nights, and, really, one would hardly be astonished at the appearance of Jins, or even of Eblis himself. At last, here is the Emir and his immediate bodyguard, and the drummers and the trumpeters. The air resounds with prolonged “Ah! Ah! Ahs.” There is a vast tossing of arms, and prancing of horses, and glittering of spears, a climax of sound and colour—and dust.

The Emir Aliu is a fine looking man, with a good straight nose, intelligent, rather cruel-looking eyes. His mouth we cannot see, for the folds of the turban are drawn across the lower part of his face. A dark, indigo-dyed purple turban and under-cloak; over it a snow-white robe of silk with a tasselled cape which half hides the turban—these are the principal coverings to voluminous robes of many tints. His feet are encased in beautifully embroidered boots, and his saddle is richly ornamented. On the forefinger of his left hand is a heavy silver ring. Halting, he turns and faces the multitude. His attendants, one on either side, wave the dust away from his face with ostrich feather fans. Others, dressed in red and green, and carrying long staves, range themselves in front of him and shout his praises in stentorian tones. Four figures on foot advance, three of them are clad in skins and carry drums. The fourth is a crouching creature with a curious wizened face bearing a drawn sword in his hand. A sword dance ensues, the four going round and round in a circle. The gentleman with a sword contorts himself, prods viciously at imaginary foes, and every now and then makes a playful attempt to smite off one of the drummers’ legs. This performance being terminated—accompanied the while by incessant shouting on the part of every one in general—the actors retire, and the Emir holds up his thin aristocratic hand.

Instantly a silence falls. The change is singularly impressive. The Emir begins to speak in a low voice to a herald mounted on a raised platform at his side. The herald, the perspiration pouring down his face, shouts out each sentence as it falls from the Emir’s lips. As the speech proceeds the Emir becomes more animated. He waves his arm with a gesture full of dignity and command. And now the silence is occasionally broken with sounds of approval. Finally he stops, and it is the turn of the Resident who smilingly delivers himself of a much shorter oration which, as in the previous case, is shouted to the assemblage by the herald. I was able to obtain, through the courtesy of the Resident, from the Emir’s _Waziri_ a rendering of the speech of which the following is a translation—

“The Emir greets you all with thanks to God. He thanks God’s
messenger (Mohammed). He gives thanks for the blessings of his
parents and his ancestors. He gives thanks to the Europeans who
are the gates of his town. He thanks all White men. Next—you
must attend to the orders which the Emir gives you every year.
I say unto you leave off double dealing. Remove your hand
from the people. Let them follow their own courses. Separate
yourselves from injustice. Why do I say ‘Give up injustice’?
You know how we were in former days and you see how we are now.
Are we not better off than formerly? Next—I thank my headmen
who assist me in my work. I thank my servants who are fellow
workers. I thank my young chiefs who are fellow workers. I
thank the men of my town who are fellow workers. I thank my
followers in the town. I thank the village heads. I thank
all the people of the land of Zaria who are helping me in my
work. Next—I wish you to pay attention to the commands of the
English. And I say unto you that all who see them should pay
them respect. He who is careless of the orders of the White
man does not show them respect. Though nothing happens to
him he cries on his own account (_i.e._ his stupidity is his
punishment), for it is his ignorance that moves him. Next—every
one who farms let him pay his tax. Every one who says this man
is my slave, or this woman is my slave, or these people are my
slaves, and uses force against them, let judgment fall upon
him. What I say is this—may God reward us! May God give us
peace in our land! May God give us the abundance of the earth!
Amen. Those who feel joyful can say—‘This is our desire! this
is our desire!’”

After a vain attempt to shake hands with the Emir, our respective mounts altogether declining to assist, we ride out of the town escorted by a couple of hundred horsemen. A little way past the gates we halt while they, riding forward a hundred yards or so, wheel, and charge down upon us with a shout, reining their horses with a sudden jerk, so near to us that the ensanguined foam from the cruel bits bespatters us.

As we ride home to the Residency two miles out of the town, uppermost in the mind at least of one of us is the fascination of this strange land, with its blending of Africa and the East, its barbaric displays, its industrial life, its wonderful agricultural development—above all, perhaps, the _tour de force_ of governing it with a handful of White officials and a handful of native troops.