In the southern portions of Southern Nigeria, where Sir Walter Egerton is a resolute foe of medical vandalism, I am inclined to think that the doctors will find it about as easy to cope with plant growth as King Canute is reputed to have found the waves of the seashore. But in Northern Nigeria and in the northern regions of Southern Nigeria it is a different matter, and one is tempted to query whether the sacrifice of all umbrageous plants in the neighbourhood of official and other residences because they are supposed to harbour—and no doubt do harbour—the larvæ of all sorts of objectionable winged insects, may not constitute a remedy worse even than the disease. I can imagine few things more distressing for a European in Northern Nigeria, gasping in the mid-day heat of the harmattan season, to have nothing between his eyes, as he gazes but beyond his verandah, but the glare of the red laterite soil and the parched-up grasses and little pink flowers springing up amidst it; and one feels disposed to say to the devoted medicos, “De grâce, Messieurs, pas de trop zèle.”

In the particular part of the country of which I am now writing, another aspect of the case strikes you. In very many rest-camps, and mining camps one comes across, the ground is cleared of every particle of shade-giving tree—cleared as flat as a billiard table. There is no shade for man or beast. Now a grass-house is not the coolest place in the world with an African noon-day sun beating down upon it—I mean an all-grass-house, not the cool native house with clay walls and thatched roof, be it noted—and … well, I content myself with the remark that it would be much cooler than it is with the shade of a tree falling athwart it. Then they—the Public Works Department—have built a road from Riga-Chikum to Naraguta. I will say nothing about it except that it is, without exception, the hottest road and the one more abounding in flies that I have struck in this part of the world. And I assign a proper proportion of both phenomena to the—to me—inexplicable mania of the builders thereof to hew down the trees on the side of the road.

To come back to our Great White Road. What a history it might not tell! For how many centuries have not Black and Brown men pursued upon it the goal of their trade and their ambitions; have not fled in frantic terror from the pursuer, ankle deep in dust. What tragedies have not been hurried along its dusty whiteness. To-day you will meet upon it objects of interest almost every hour. Now, a herd of oxen on their way to doom, to feed the Southern Nigerian markets; now, a convoy of donkeys going south, in charge, maybe, of Tuareg slaves from far-distant Sokoto, or the Asben oases. These will be loaded with potash and tobacco. And even as you pass this one going south, another convoy of donkeys, going north, loaded with salt and kolas, will be trudging along behind you. Anon, some picturesquely-clothed and turbaned horseman will be seen approaching, who, with ceremonious politeness, will either dismount and salute, or throw up his right hand—doing the “jaffi,” as it is termed.

The African is credited with utter callousness to human suffering. Like most generalities concerning him, it is exaggerated. Life in primitive communities (and to get a proper mental grasp of this country, and its people, you must turn up your Old Testament and read Exodus and Leviticus) is much cheaper and of less account than in more highly civilized ones. That is a commonplace too often forgotten by people who accuse the African of ingrained callousness. As a matter of fact, I have noticed many sights on the Great White Road which show how rash such generalities can be. I have seen water handed from one party to another under circumstances which spoke of kindly appreciation of a want. I have frequently seen fathers, or elder brothers, carrying small children on their backs. The Residents have known cases of men found injured on the road who have been tended and taken home by utter strangers; the Good Samaritan over again, and in his old-world setting.