**KANEMI'S DAUGHTER**
My name is Mallam Alhaji Ibrahim Ilia. I was born five-and-sixty years ago, in an age when a man was truly a man, and women were won only by those whose hearts and arms deserved them. In my youth my life was wild and free, and nothing gave me greater delight than a stout combat or a hard gallop across the plains on a swift horse. My parents were wealthy, and they saw to it that I lacked for nothing: slaves, gold, horses, rich merchandise in plenty, and the choicest company within the famous walls of Kano.
As I grew toward manhood, my parents began to speak earnestly of taking a wife, and they caused the fairest maidens of the town to be brought before me. Yet none of them touched my heart. I prided myself upon being a true man, and it seemed to me no gallant thing merely to buy or to claim a wife as one might claim a horse. I longed for something more romantic, more worthy of the name of love.
One evening we sat round a fire outside my father's house, discoursing of the brave men of old, of the rumoured coming of the British with their army to Kano, of who would dare oppose them, and of the chances we had of driving them back. In the midst of our heated talk there came the sudden clatter of many horses' hooves. A company of riders cantered up to our gate and drew rein.
They were Arab traders out of the Great Desert. Splendid turbans crowned their heads, and their faces were veiled against the dust.
"Greetings while you rest!" they cried.
"You are welcome," I answered. "How does it fare with you? May we be of service?"
"Aye," sneered their leader, "you may be of the greatest service — if you are not cowards."
At that hateful word my sword flashed out like lightning. The firelight gleamed upon the blade as I sprang toward the speaker's horse; but with a careless flick of his riding-whip the great man struck the weapon from my hand and burst into loud laughter.
"A brave lad indeed! Ha, ha! A brave lad! How would you like to win the hand of my daughter Zarah?"
My companions, who had risen with me at the insult, stood staring at my fallen sword in wonder no less than mine. Never before had I been so easily disarmed, and that in the presence of my friends and admirers.
"Begone!" I roared. "You and your daughter!"
"Softly, young man," said he, "lest I make you repent your words. How dare you speak to Kanemi, Prince of the Tuaregs?" His eyes pierced me like daggers; for a moment I thought he would ride me down. Then he changed his mind and gave a sharp command.
"Maji, set Zarah down, and let them behold her!"
One of the men rode forward, sprang to the ground, and lifted another figure from the same horse. She was clad all in white, her head bowed. We could not see her face, yet it was plain she was tall and slender, and every movement spoke of grace and noble bearing.
"Take off the veil!" Kanemi ordered.
The veil was lifted, and there stood before us, in all her glory, the most beautiful maiden I had ever beheld. Her face was radiant and calm; I felt a sudden desire to fall upon my knees and worship her. Her eyes were cast down beneath long lashes; her lips were parted, and though she smiled not, her teeth gleamed like pearls in the firelight — truly a woman such as one might dream of in the wildest flights of fancy.
"She is yours for the winning," said Kanemi.
"But how?" I asked.
"That you shall learn in due time."
He gave another order; the maiden was helped once more into the saddle. "Come tomorrow at nightfall to Unguan Kanawa," he said, "and I will tell you all. Bring with you the sword you let fall so easily, and see that you hold it more firmly when you come."
With a taunting laugh he wheeled his horse and rode away into the darkness.
We sat far into the night speaking of Kanemi's daughter. None among us had ever heard of the Prince of the Tuaregs, and Zarah herself seemed a mysterious princess out of some ancient tale. So stirred was I that I could scarce wait for the morrow; never had such a romantic adventure befallen me.
The next evening I saddled my swiftest horse and rode to Unguan Kanawa. It was a small village some five miles beyond the walls of Kano. In its midst stood a large mud building hung with flags and filled with the sound of music. Clearly some great festival was headed, and the man at the gate knew me at once.
"Prince Kanemi awaits you within," he said, taking my horse. "He has inquired for you by name — Mallam Ilia, is it not?"
Wondering how he knew me, I bowed and entered. The whole place was in darkness save for one small pool of light where Zarah sat. I had taken but a few steps when strong hands seized me and guided me toward her. Then the lamps were kindled, and I saw that I was ringed about by a dozen youths in cloaks and turbans, their swords at their sides.
Prince Kanemi appeared, splendid in a velvet turban embroidered with gold, a gay cloak about his shoulders clasped with a great jewel. He raised his gold-crowned staff; the music ceased.
"Welcome, my sons," he said. "Tonight one of you shall win the hand of my daughter Zarah. But he must be the bravest among you all. These days a man's right is his might." He paused and looked at me. "Have you all heard of the game called Shanchi?"
We were silent.
"It is no pastime for the faint-hearted," he continued. "Let any man who thinks Zarah is not worth the hazard depart now."
None moved. Kanemi's face grew dark.
"Some of you will not breathe tomorrow's air, for tonight Shanchi may claim you." He led us down to an open field where a ring had been made. "Here the game shall be played. You will all enter. The lights will be extinguished. In the darkness each man shall do what he can to disable his fellows. At the end, he who alone remains shall take Zarah for his wife."
One of the youths asked timidly how they were to disable their opponents.
"You have swords, don't you?" answered Kanemi.
The man grew pale. "If — if he should die?"
"If he dies, we remove him."
Kanemi turned to us. "Make ready."
He waved his staff; trumpets blared. When their harsh notes died away, he spoke softly to Zarah. She took up her gwoje — an instrument like unto a violin — and played so sweetly, so softly, that the very night seemed to stand still and listen. Yet there was a mournful note in her music, as though great sorrow must follow this contest.
"To the ring!" cried Kanemi.
We crowded in. The space was small. Scarcely were we inside when the lights were put out. I stood clutching the ropes, blinded for a moment, while strange fear stole over me. I knew then that death might be my portion in this game, and that I might never win the hand I so desired. I had heard of Shanchi before, yet never had I dreamed I should play it and for such a prize.
In those days human life was counted cheap no more than a fowl's and it was the year 1902. Soon afterward the British came and put an end to such dreadful customs; but that night the old ways still held sway.
Scarcely had I grown used to the darkness when a man stole past me. I drew my knife, crouched, and sprang like a leopard. He groaned and fell back; a moment later a piercing scream told that another had finished him. The lights returned; Kanemi's men carried the bleeding body away. In that brief interval we studied one another's positions.
Again the darkness fell. Two groans sounded at once; two more bodies were borne out. The game of Shanchi was warming. Three gone, nine left. Each time the ring was lighted, Kanemi licked his lips with satisfaction and stroked his moustaches. Zarah had ceased to play; she sat upright upon her couch, her eyes wide with horror and yet with a strange beauty that fired my blood. I swore then that I would fight to the death to win her.
One by one our number thinned. At last only four of us remained. Of the eight who had fallen, four were sorely disabled and four were dead. The spectators grew wild with excitement as we stood panting and glaring in the lamplight.
When the lights went out once more, I flung myself upon my belly, spun round, seized a man by the legs and hurled him down. He stabbed wildly, but I was upon him like a cat. Two swift thrusts and he lay still. His body was removed.
Three remained. In the next glimmer of light I saw my two adversaries — both huge men. One towered above six feet and fixed his eyes upon me. I knew he would come for me when the instant darkness returned.
And so he did. He swept past as I sprang aside. A wild yell rang out. I leapt after him and struck with the short knife I carried at my elbow. He fell without a sound. When the lights rose again I saw, to my bitter disappointment, that it was not the giant but my second foe who lay dead; he had rushed in at the same moment and taken the blow meant for the other.
Now only two of us were left. My opponent was an enormous fellow, heavy-jawed and long-toothed.
"You are about to die," he growled. "Your knife can do nothing against me. I have swallowed the medicine against steel."
He stabbed himself with his own blade; the steel bent. He cast it aside and drew another. The lights were extinguished, and I was alone with him. Never in my life had I stood so near to death. What hope had I against such a man? He could crush me with his fist, and my knife was useless.
For a long time we circled each other in the dark. I moved with the silent caution of a chameleon, listening. Suddenly we met. His elbow struck my head; with the strength of panic I thrust upward. The knife bent like a pin. He wore a coat of chain-mail.
Henceforth cunning, not valour, must be my weapon. He gave chase as I fled round the ring. Then fortune turned. All at once he stumbled and fell. He had trodden upon the very knife he had thrown down; its bent edge pierced his bare foot.
Now was my moment. I drew my knife and struck at his bare neck. He was helpless. Had our places been reversed, he would surely have slain me. Yet I only disabled him — a mercy I have regretted every day of my life.
I left him lying in his blood while Kanemi led me to my prize.
"Zarah," he said, "you have won a brave husband."
"A lucky one," I answered.
When the excitement had died away, preparations were made for Zarah and me to return home. Her father sent horsemen to escort us, and women brought her possessions. From their talk I gathered that none rejoiced in my victory. They whispered that Zarah carried ill fortune with her, and that her beauty would bring me ruin and sorrow as it had brought to others.
I would not believe it, and strove to put their warnings from my mind.
Zarah proved a most capable and gentle wife, and for the first year we lived in great happiness. She was not too proud to share in the work of the house, and when we rode out in the evening she carried herself like the true princess she was; I was proud beyond measure.
Yet at times she would fall into deep pensive moods and speak to no one, not even to me, for days together. At first I was sorely troubled, but in time I came to think these silences are part of that mysterious nature of woman which no man fully understands.
Little by little the story of Zarah reached me — in fragments overheard, in open talk in the town, and in gossip flung carelessly into my ears. She was the second daughter of Kanemi, Prince of the Tuaregs. He loved her best of all his children and had betrothed her in childhood to another Tuareg prince whom she grew to loathe. On the night appointed for her marriage she vanished and was later found hiding in the house of a former servant.
Kanemi, enraged that the match — which would have strengthened his power — was now impossible, resolved to punish her in a manner that suited his warlike soul: he would gamble her away in a game of Shanchi. On the night of his decision he rode through the town calling upon the young men to come and contend for her.
Of the others whom Zarah had ruined I heard little, nor could I learn anything certain of the danger said to lie in her beauty. Perhaps it was idle gossip. Yet there came whispers that, just before I won her, Zarah had given her heart to a certain Mallam Usuman — a man who called himself the son of an Emir, wealthy, powerful, and fonder of the sword than of honest toil. My friends who knew him counselled me to leave the town before he recovered from his wounds.
"Is he sick, then?" I asked.
"Aye — he was wounded on the night of the Shanchi."
When they described him, I began to suspect that this Mallam Usuman was none other than my last adversary in the ring — the man who had boasted of swallowing medicine against steel. Yet I could not be certain.
One evening I sat in my chamber listening to Zarah playing upon her gwoje when a loud greeting was shouted at the door. I went out. There stood Mallam Usuman with three mounted men behind him. Their bearing spoke of trouble. Usuman's face was pale by daylight, and a deep knife-scar marked his neck and cheek.
"Ho, Ilia!" he roared. "Look at this!"
He flung down a bundle from his horse. It was the mutilated body of a child.
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded. "How did he get to his death?"
Usuman turned to his men with a terrible laugh. "Hear him! He asks how the boy died!"
"Have I offended you by asking?"
"You play the innocent," he snarled. "You killed this boy, Ilia, and we have come to take you before the law."
I was struck dumb with amazement. "Killed him?"
"Aye. When a man lets his horse run wild through the town…"
"My horse?"
"Show him."
They led forward my own favourite horse, Wutsia. Its forelegs were stained with blood.
"Is that not your horse?"
I could not deny it.
"This morning," said Usuman, "your horse ran riderless through the streets and trampled the child to death. You should guard your livestock better, Ilia." He turned sharply to his men. "Take him!"
They seized me and cast me into prison. The charge was false; I knew nothing of the matter, and there was no chance to prove my innocence. They threw me into a stifling cell shared by twenty or thirty others. The season was the hottest in Kano, and smallpox raged through the town. Every day some died; the jailers were often too weary to remove the bodies, and we lived with the dead among us.
While I lay there, great events were passing in the world outside. It was the year 1903 — the year of the Kano rising. The Emir of Keffi and the Magaji of Zaria had taken refuge in Kano, being hunted by the British. The tale spread that the British had sent a messenger to treat them, but the rulers' servants had seized and murdered the white man. That was the story men believed. Yet we prisoners knew the true murderer was Mallam Usuman.
One morning we heard the roar of great guns, the crash of shells, and the cries of the people. Panic filled the town. Our jailers vanished. Neglected and starving, we knew nothing until afternoon, when a band of African riflemen broke open the doors and set us free.
I came forth weak and stiff, scarcely able to stand. An African soldier gave me water, and slowly my strength returned. My first thought was of home and of Zarah.
The town was greatly changed: broken bottles lined the walls, thorn-bushes blocked the roads, ditches had been deepened, and every man I met carried a weapon. One house near my own had been half destroyed, its roof gone and part of the wall fallen. A terrible fear seized me. Was Zarah dead? Did her gentle body lie crushed beneath the ruins?
I reached my house in a state of wildest agitation. The door had fallen in; I had to climb over splintered wood and rubble. The goats ran loose, and of the servants only one remained. He followed me from room to room, silent and bewildered.
"Zarah!" I called.
No answer — only the mournful moaning of the wind.
"Zarah!…"
Still silent, save for that desolate wind.
I made my way to our private chamber.
"Zarah!…"
Then I heard a strange sound — a low, piteous cry, as of one in the extremity of pain, to whom a moment's help might yet mean life itself. My heart leapt within me. I burst into the chamber with all the haste that my weary limbs could command. At that very instant a man wheeled round and drew his sword with a fierce hiss of steel. Behind him, upon the floor, lay my beloved Zarah, rigid with terror and well-nigh fainting, her eyes wide with mortal dread.
One glance at those heavy, scowling brows and I knew him — Mallam Usuman, the thief, the cheat, the highway robber, the murderer — the very man who had cast me into prison out of blackest envy. Rage, hot and blinding, swept over me like a desert storm. Scarcely pausing to consider my own safety, and forgetting utterly that I stood unarmed and weakened by long hunger and confinement, I sprang at him like a wounded lion. He made a desperate thrust; I stumbled upon a fallen brick and by the narrowest chance escaped the point.
He was hale and strong, while I was faint from the starvation he himself had ordered. My blows were feeble; I knew in my soul that this reckless onset would have cost me my life had it not been Zarah, gathering her last strength, staggered to her feet, seized a heavy club that lay near, and brought it down with all her might upon his head. The great Usuman sank slowly to his knees; for a moment we both believed he had been slain outright.
I caught Zarah in my arms, and in hurried, breathless words we spoke of all that had passed in my absence. She told me how Usuman had tormented her without ceasing from the hour I was taken. "Ilia will rot in that prison," he had boasted to her again and again. "He will never see daylight more. Come with me, Zarah. I will make you rich beyond measure — the wife of a future Emir."
She had refused him with steadfast courage, and many times had charged her retainers to bar him from the house. He would disappear for short seasons — doubtless upon some fresh deed of blood — but during the tumult of the Kano rising he had forced his way into her very chamber, declaring that the city had surrendered, that I was already dead, and that her only safety lay in fleeing with him before the British arrived. They were yet in the midst of this bitter argument when I had entered.
I turned my eyes to where Usuman lay senseless among the broken stones and wreckage. "Know you, Zarah," I said, "that a price is set upon this man's head? He stands accused of the murder of an English captain at Keffi — that, beyond doubt, is why he was so eager to escape the town. Yet the British have now occupied Kano; there is no fighting in the streets, and we may still dwell here in peace if we choose…"
"What shall we do?" she whispered.
"Are you ready to follow me wherever I go?"
"Yes, Ibrahim. Where you lead, there I will go also."
Even as we spoke, the fallen Usuman gave a deep groan. I stepped across, took up his own sword, and began to gather my few remaining treasures — my sacred Koran, my chaplet of prayer-beads, and the talismans that had been my father's. Zarah had little to prepare; her jewels, her gold, and the delicate ornaments of her womanhood she placed within a small black casket she had brought long ago from her father's house.
"Is that all?" I asked, smiling faintly for the first time in many days.
"Yes," she answered, and her smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Then I must saddle the horses. We may need to ride through the night. Fetch something for us to eat upon the road, for I am faint with hunger."
Only one horse remained to me — a noble black mare, long of leg, deep of chest, and full of enduring spirit. I saddled her with trembling hands and turned again to Zarah.
At that moment I saw, to my horror, that Mallam Usuman had risen and was staggering toward her like a demon from the pit. His hair hung wild and shaggy; his arms swung like the branches of a storm-tossed tree; his teeth were bared in a grin of fury. In two strides he was upon the terrified maiden and had seized her in his iron grasp.
"You shall not take her from me!" he roared, crushing her against his breast.
"I shall!" I cried.
"You shall not!" With a sudden movement he drew a small dagger, and, still holding Zarah as a living shield, challenged me to come on.
How could I strike? Sword in hand, I stood for one bewildered instant while his burning eyes mocked me. Then Zarah, in a last effort of despair, kicked and bit at him, loosening his hold. As he struggled to regain his grip, I made a clean thrust at his ribs. But the villain had laid a trap worthy of his black heart. At the very instant my blade flew forward, he snatched Zarah before him as a living buckler. The deed was done before my eyes could warn my hand. The sword passed straight through her heart.
Usuman flung her aside like a broken doll and burst into a roar of laughter that still echoes through my sleepless nights. As he fled toward the door he shouted:
"What did I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I said you would never take her!"
"Ibrahim!… Ibrahim, come back!"
It was Zarah's voice — faint, yet clear as a silver bell. I had already vaulted over the fallen body and was closing upon Usuman when I heard it. I turned at once. Zarah lay breathing her last. Great streams of blood had left her; her eyes were grown pale and dim. She gasped and panted when she tried to speak, yet no words came. Beautiful Zarah! Beautiful even in the very arms of death! Kneeling beside her, I could not bring my heart to believe that this was the end — that she was leaving me for ever.
"Zarah!…"
She turned her fading eyes toward me.
"Zarah, can you hear me now? I shall not rest, I shall know no peace until I have avenged you."
She strove yet again to form some word. Her eyes closed; her lips, once so rosy, were now white as lilies.
"Ib… ra… h…"
She died with my name half-spoken upon her lips.
It was long afterward, as I still sat motionless beside her quiet form, that the faithful servant spoke and broke the heavy stupor that held me.
"Our mistress is dead," she said softly. "She was so brave while you were away, and she prayed daily for your safe return."
I raised my head. The words chased one another through my brain like swift horses. Consciousness returned, and with it a burning purpose. What did I hear, kneeling beside the body of a dead woman?
I turned to the servant. "Here is money," I said. "Call the others and see that your mistress receives a burial worthy of the wife of Mallam Alhaji Ibrahim Ilia. I will go on with my mission."
With her little casket of jewels and gold beneath my arm, and murder kindled in my eyes, I rode out into the gathering dusk.
USUMAN, TERROR OF THE NORTH
Many weeks passed before my eyes again beheld Mallam Usuman. After leaving my ruined house I rode through the troubled streets of Kano seeking Yisa, my trusted trading agent, yet nowhere could he be found. Whether he had fallen in the fighting or had fled with my goods and gold, I knew not. Thus I was compelled to pursue my enemy with neither food nor money to sustain me.
Some two weeks after the death of Zarah, word reached me that Mallam Usuman and his followers had gathered a great host and were even then descending from Sokoto toward Kano. The British force in the city was small — a handful of officers and trained African soldiers, many of whom had already perished in the earlier fighting. When they called for volunteers I stepped forward at once, though my only true purpose was to meet Usuman face to face upon the field of battle.
We were scarce a thousand strong. In the dark hours before dawn we marched out from Kano to meet the foe. Toward afternoon we sighted them. The pitiless sun flashed upon spears and swords of every kind; horses reared and plunged, raising clouds of dust; men on foot brandished bows and arrows and long lances. They halted when they saw us and held brief counsel.
Our General gave a sharp command. At once the soldiers formed a hollow square. We were bidden to hold our fire until the enemy came within eighty paces. Never shall I forget that hour. Never have I seen a braver stand. There they came — an army at least ten times our number — charging down upon us with yells that might have shaken the heavens, their turbans streaming, their flowing robes billowing like sails, their horses snorting and panting with fury; and there we lay, crouched beneath the burning sun, as still as though our visitors had come in peace.
When they entered range the General's arm fell. We were fired as one man. Many dropped dead upon the instant; the rest wavered, then fell back. Beyond range they re-formed and charged again, only to suffer yet heavier loss. It seemed for a time that Usuman and his host would never regain the city. The air grew thick with dust; the ground was strewn with the bodies of the slain; vultures already circled overhead. Still we lay upon our bellies, praying that the great horde would not overwhelm us, for our ammunition was failing fast. Indeed, I prayed above all that the fight might come to hand-to-hand combat, so that I might cross swords with Usuman at last.
Just as the order to fix bayonets rang out, Usuman's men suddenly turned and fled. Then we saw the cause: another British column had cut them off from behind, leaving them no escape. A bitter disappointment for me.
When I returned to Kano, no man could tell me where Mallam Usuman had gone. Some declared they had seen him at Sokoto; others swore he had led the retreat. I remained a short while longer in the British service, for it seemed the only path open to me. Yet soon restlessness seized me; my promise to Zarah and to my own soul burned like fire within my breast. Every time I recalled her dying upon that sword-thrust in the shattered house, my heart was pierced afresh, and I knew my great mission in life was yet unfulfilled.
At that season the whole of Northern Nigeria lay in confusion. Some Emirs had fled; others, it was said, had been seized and punished. None knew with certainty who ruled. The white men were still observing and learning; in any case they were too few to impose order everywhere.
The roads were then as perilous as the lair of a lion. No traveller dared venture beyond Kano without risk of being waylaid by masked horsemen and slain or robbed. One of the wildest and most dreaded bands at large was said to be commanded by none other than my enemy Mallam Usuman. He had become the terror of the North, from Maiduguri in the east to Sokoto in the west.
The tale ran that he rode with four other Mallams of note, pretending to be upon a holy pilgrimage; that he had passed safely through British territory, yet once beyond their reach had returned to his old ways of cheating, plundering, and killing without mercy.
I longed for the day — nay, I lived only for the day — when we should stand once more face to face, swords drawn, fire in our eyes, and justice at last in my hand.