It Had Monotony, Without
Having Enough Of It To Amount To Grandeur.
Every now and again we
came to villages, each of which was situated on a heap of clay and
sandy soil, presumably the end of a spit of land running out into
the mangrove swamp fringing the river.
Every village we saw we went
alongside and had a chat with, and tried to look up cargo in the
proper way. One village in particular did we have a lively time at.
Obanjo had a wife and home there, likewise a large herd of goats,
some of which he was desirous of taking down with us to sell at
Gaboon. It was a pleasant-looking village, with a clean yellow
beach which most of the houses faced. But it had ramifications in
the interior. I being very lazy, did not go ashore, but watched the
pantomime from the bamboo staging. The whole flock of goats enter
at right end of stage, and tear violently across the scene,
disappearing at left. Two minutes elapse. Obanjo and his gallant
crew enter at right hand of stage, leg it like lamplighters across
front, and disappear at left. Fearful pow-wow behind the scenes.
Five minutes elapse. Enter goats at right as before, followed by
Obanjo and company as before, and so on da capo. It was more like a
fight I once saw between the armies of Macbeth and Macduff than
anything I have seen before or since; only our Rembwe play was
better put on, more supers, and noise, and all that sort of thing,
you know.
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