It was clear in the mind of Bernard Henry Bourdillon GCMG KBE, Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Nigeria, that the tide of the second world war had turned inexorably, and the Germans would soon be vanquished. The thought gave him some comfort as he got up to take a last look at the Government House, Lagos. He had been sitting immobile in his study, lost in his thoughts. Violet was standing over him. Her hat was daintily perched on her head. She touched his cheek gently with her finger.
He rose to his feet. It was time to leave Lagos.
In the hour of his reverie, he had been considering many things – the War, with the millions of people needlessly dead. Lagos and the colonial contraption known as Nigeria over which he was Governor.
He loved Lagos and many of its ways. “Going native” was not good form, he knew, and it was not the sort of thing one admitted in discussion with the chaps at Ikoyi Club on Mulliner Street, where he sometimes went for a gin and a natter, or to play a round of golf.
He was sixty years old and going into retirement, effective today. He knew that many people at his time of life, after only a few months of rest, held themselves out for fresh challenges. He was not thinking about the future now. He wanted to go home to Jersey, where he had family roots, though he had been born in Tasmania.
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He rolled his eyes up in a mock gesture of submission as he took Lady Bourdillon’s arm and they headed out of the door. The colonial staff and house servants in their white livery had lined up all the way to the driveway, where the car stood waiting.
“Will I ever know happiness again?” he asked himself suddenly. He almost choked at the thought.
He played back the high points of his Lagos experience in his mind. The several fights over the government’s decision to tax high-income women, in order to have enough revenue to develop Lagos, since the Colonial Office was reluctant to come up with development money for the colonies. The intense engagement with the National Youth Movement over the activities of the European Cocoa Pool in London, which was hurting Nigerian traders, and which he eventually helped to resolve. Even the “West African Pilot” had uncharacteristically praised him for that. The several run-ins with that stormy petrel Herbert Macaulay, with whom his relationship could best be described as “love-hate”.
But the most striking personality he had met in all his life was that illiterate Amazon – Alimotu Pelewura. Her image towered over everything else in his recollection. Their encounters were permanently seared on his mind. She had sent him a message yesterday that she would be closing all markets in Lagos in his honour, and that she would bring the market women to say farewell to him at Balogun Market, if he would be kind enough to stop by on his way to embarkation at Apapa. He smiled. He should be cross. In no other part of the British Empire did anybody – least of all an illiterate woman, have the right to close down markets. But this was Lagos, and she was Pelewura, and, yes, he had replied, he would stop by.
But the most striking personality he had met in all his life was that illiterate Amazon – Alimotu Pelewura. Her image towered over everything else in his recollection. Their encounters were permanently seared on his mind
He shook hands with the more senior of the staff. He noticed that a few were in tears.
By the car, he turned to give a smart salute, to no one in particular.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The car surged forward.
His work was done.
Alimotu Pelewura, Iya l’Oja of Lagos
She had wanted only twenty women from each market to come for this occasion. All she wanted were women in blue aran and blood red gele, adorned with finery, lining both sides of Balogun, and waving to Bourdillon as he drove past.
She did not generally have any use for “oyinbo”, who had no business in her Lagos in the first place. But she made an exception for this man. He was, indeed, omoluabi.
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The square was full. The women had defied her and flooded Balogun in their thousands. There was drumming and singing everywhere. It was like a celebration of Eyo.
It was barely midday, but the sun was up, and sweat was already breaking out on her forehead, running down over the three awori marks on each side of her face.
“Such typical Lagos chaos,” she thought, fondly, as the square throbbed with the discordant voices of several singers and talking drums.
The Governor’s car emerged from Marina.
She had fought him over the taxation of women, over the plan to relocate Ereko market, over countless matters where she had had to put down her foot for Lagos women. If he did not succumb, he always at least endeavoured to meet her halfway. And he was such a courteous man, genuinely respectful. Once, after a hot exchange at the Government House, he had promised to invite her to tea with Lady Bourdillon.
“Tea?” – she had responded, before she could stop herself.
“Kini mo fe fi tea se?”
She stepped forward now as the car rolled up. The women began to sing with one voice and to wave their hands. It was a truly colourful sight.
“O d’igbo’se Bourdillon. K’a pade l’ayo”
The car rolled to a stop.
“No – he’s not getting down!”, Pelewura thought, alarmed.
The Governor alighted. He held out his hand.
He was saying something, but she could hear nothing from the singing and the drumming in her ears.
She took the hand he held out, and for a long moment, they held hands – two people who had fought bitter wars.
The women gasped, never having witnessed such a spectacle.
He retreated into his car.
She raised her hand in silent salute as the car headed towards Carter Bridge.
FEMI OLUGBILE
