He was pleased that Glover Hall was packed full. The gate fee of one penny did not seem to have kept many Lagosians away from coming to savour this new thing in the world that he, Herbert Olayinka Samuel Badmus Heelas Macaulay had arranged to thrill the people, and in the process to cement his place as the leading promoter and defender of the masses of the Lagos colony, all forty-two thousand of them.
The hall still carried an air of newness about it, set in ample grounds in Victoria Gardens on Customs Street near the Marina. It could easily accommodate a thousand people in the main auditorium and there was an upper gallery that ran along both of the long sides. There were offices and meeting rooms with signs above the doors. The two exits were clearly marked in red paint that could be seen even in the dark. The seats were stout polished wood benches arranged down the hall in such clean symmetry that there were free walkways on two sides.
He was sitting on the front row. Beside him were his friends and close associates. They included some of the leading lights of Lagos society, especially the young and upwardly mobile who had been educated in England or Sierra Leone and had returned to make a life in the growing colony. They were here in curious, if good, humour to support “The Wizard of Kirsten Hall,” as they liked to call him.
A few seats away from him was Alimotu Pelewura, a young lady with a growing reputation as a leader of the market women in Ereko. She was accompanied by a group of her fellow market women. They looked elegant in a uniform iro and buba made of cotton material, topped with red gele. He was aware some of his friends thought it odd that he, one of the most educated and flamboyant of Lagosians, had such affinity with these unlettered market women. He smiled as he reflected on what he had grasped instinctively since resigning from the Colonial Service in 1898 to set up his own practice as a Surveyor, and also to indulge his increasing passion to fight for the rights of the indigenous people against the overbearing presence of British Colonial authorities. The insight was that the women held the real power behind the scenes, and you gave yourself great advantage if you cultivated them. Period.
For instance, he had seen a spark of great promise in the way this young market woman carried herself, and how she was able to organise her peers. Older people deferred to her authority instinctively. She had inherited the fish trade from her mother, but her stout spirit and leadership powers were entirely her own. She, for her part, enjoyed the attention he lavished on her, and the attendant public recognition.
The film projector was cranking to life, indicating the proceedings were about to get under way. As in the previous ten days of Mr Balboa’s shows in Lagos, he, Herbert, as host, would get up on the podium in front to give a brief speech to the audience, in English and Yoruba, telling them that moving pictures were the latest thing in world culture and that his dream was that the people of Lagos would always be in the very forefront of modernity – in Education, in Science, as in Entertainment. Afterall they already had the trappings of modernity which others in the hinterland could not even dream of – a tram service which transacted the island, offering mass transit at a penny a ride. And a railway service which linked them all the way to Ibadan. And Carter Bridge – a world class construction over the Lagos lagoon linking the island with the mainland. All of this meant that Lagos was unique. “Eko duro gedegbe” was a phrase he like to use.
It was a delivery that bordered on the seditious, shot through as it was with a spirit of indigenous independence that could make the Europeans in the audience squirm with discomfort, but what did he care?
He was already regarded with suspicion by the colonial government. He had heard rumours that his resignation from the Colonial Service had been because he was under a cloud of suspicion for dubious professional activities. They had no proof. As long as it was all at the level of insinuation, the efforts of officialdom to tar him with the brush of notoriety gave him a sense of pleasure, confirming his growing prominence as a “freedom fighter”.
It was a delivery that bordered on the seditious, shot through as it was with a spirit of indigenous independence that could make the Europeans in the audience squirm with discomfort, but what did he care?
The Balboa company was a one-man outfit from Spain. The man carried his clunky equipment around like a magician with a box of tricks, exhibiting short silent films in different parts of the world. He, Herbert, had made contact with Balbao through a friend in Sierra Leone, and they had agreed on terms for him to spend a couple of weeks in Lagos. Observing how the people of Lagos responded enthusiastically over the eleven days of Balboa’s shows, he was happy he had taken the financial risk.
The films were short “Western” stories with cowboys and bandits riding on horses and firing guns. There was a musical accompaniment. The audience applauded enthusiastically as the hero won the gun battle and “got the girl” each time.
Sitting in the audience, Herbert knew that this would skyrocket his fame and street credibility, to the further chagrin of the colonial officialdom.
Perhaps he should start a newspaper, he thought. Perhaps even form a political party.
All manner of possibilities played around in his head concerning the future as he sat comfortably back in his seat to savour the final showing of the first film in the country that would, eleven years hence, be known as the colonial territory of Nigeria.
