Here are two animals I am senting you like those animals that you should me in the pictures. Any tipe of money you want to sent to me try and rapp the money in a small piece of paper and sent it to that boy that brought animals. You know realy that a hunter always be derty so you should try to send me one bar soap.
Good greetings to you.
Yrs,
Peter N’amabong
Chapter Two. The Bald-headed Birds
On the opposite bank of the Cross River, eight miles through the deep forest, lay the tiny village of Eshobi. I knew both the place and its inhabitants well, for on a previous trip I had made it one of my bases for a number of months. It had been a good hunting-ground, and the Eshobi people had been good hunters, so, while we were in Mamfe, I was anxious to get in touch with the villagers and see if they could get us some specimens. As the best way of obtaining information or sending messages was via the local market, I sent for Phillip, our cook. He was an engaging character, with a wide, buck-toothed smile, and a habit of walking with a stiff military gait, and standing at attention when addressed; this argued an army training, which, in fact, he had not had. He clumped up on to the verandah and stood before me as rigid as a guardsman.
‘Phillip, I want to find an Eshobi man, you hear?’ I said.
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Now, when you go for market you go find me one Eshobi man and you go bring him for here and I go give him book for take Eshobi, eh?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Now, you no go forget, eh? You go find me Eshobi man one time.’
‘Yes, sah,’ said Phillip, and clumped off to the kitchen. He never wasted time on unnecessary conversation.
Two days passed without an Eshobi man putting in an appearance, and, occupied with other things, I forgot the whole matter. Then, on the fourth day, Phillip appeared, clumping down the drive triumphantly with a rather frightened looking fourteen-year-old boy in tow. The lad had obviously clad himself in his best clothes for his visit to the Metropolis of Mamfe, a fetching outfit that consisted of a tattered pair of khaki shorts, and a grubby white shirt which had obviously been made out of a sack of some sort and had across its back the mysterious but decorative message ‘PRODUCE OF GR’ in blue lettering. On his head was perched a straw hat which, with age and wear, had attained a pleasant shade of pale silvery green. This reluctant apparition was dragged up on to the front verandah, and his captor stood smugly to attention with the air of one who has, after much practice, accomplished a particularly difficult conjuring trick. Phillip had a curious way of speaking which had taken me some time to understand, for he spoke pidgin very fast and in a sort of muted roar, a cross between a bassoon and a regimental sergeant-major, as though everyone in the world was deaf. When labouring under excitement he became almost incomprehensible.
‘Who is this?’ I asked, surveying the youth.
Phillip looked rather hurt. ‘Dis na man, sah,’ he roared, as if explaining something to a particularly dim-witted child. He gazed at his protégé with affection and gave the unfortunate lad a slap on the back that almost knocked him off the verandah.
‘I can see it’s a man,’ I said patiently, ‘but what does he want?’
Phillip frowned ferociously at the quivering youth and gave him another blow between the shoulder blades.
‘Speak now,’ he blared, ‘speak now, Masa de wait.’
We waited expectantly. The youth shuffled his feet, twiddled his toes in an excess of embarrassment, gave a shy, watery smile and stared at the ground. We waited patiently. Suddenly he looked up, removed his headgear, ducked his head and said: ‘Good morning, sah,’ in a faint voice.
Phillip beamed at me as if this greeting were sufficient explanation for the lad’s presence. Deciding that my cook had not been designed by nature to play the part of a skilled and tactful interrogator, I took over myself.
‘My friend,’ I said, ‘how dey de call you?’
‘Peter, sah,’ he replied miserably.
‘Dey de call um Peter, sah,’ bellowed Phillip, in case I should have been under any misapprehension.
‘Well, Peter, why you come for see me?’ I inquired.
‘Masa, dis man your cook ’e tell me Masa want some man for carry book to Eshobi,’ said the youth aggrievedly.
‘Ah! You be Eshobi man?’ I asked, light dawning.
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Phillip,’ I said, ‘you are a congenital idiot.’
‘Yes, sah,’ agreed Phillip, pleased with this unsolicited testimonial.
‘Why you never tell me dis be Eshobi man?’
‘Wah!’ gasped Phillip, shocked to the depths of his sergeant-major’s soul, ‘but I done tell Masa dis be man.’
Giving Phillip up as a bad job I turned back to the youth.
‘Listen, my friend, you savvay for Eshobi one man dey de call Elias?’
‘Yes, sah, I savvay um.’
‘All right. Now you go tell Elias dat I done come for Cameroon again for catch beef, eh? You go tell um I want um work hunter man again for me, eh? So you go tell um he go come for Mamfe for talk with me. You go tell um, say, dis Masa ’e live for U.A.C. Masa’s house, you hear?’
‘I hear, sah.’
‘Right, so you go walk quick-quick to Eshobi and tell Elias, eh? I go dash you dis cigarette so you get happy when you walk for bush.’
He received the packet of cigarettes in his cupped hands, ducked his head and beamed at me.
‘Tank you, Masa,’ he said.
‘All right … go for Eshobi now. Walka good.’
‘Tank you, Masa,’ he repeated, and stuffing the packet into the pocket of his unorthodox shirt he trotted off down the drive.
Twenty-four hours later Elias arrived. He had been one of my permanent hunters when I had been in Eshobi, so I was delighted to see his fat, waddling form coming down the drive towards me, his Pithecanthropic features split into a wide grin of glad recognition. Our greetings over, he solemnly handed me a dozen eggs carefully wrapped in banana leaves, and I reciprocated with a carton of cigarettes and a hunting knife I had brought out from England for that purpose. Then we got down to the serious business of talking about beef. First he told me about all the beef he had hunted and captured in my eight years’ absence, and how my various hunter friends had got on. Old N’ago had been killed by a bush-cow; Andraia had been bitten in the foot by a water beef; Samuel’s gun had exploded and blown a large portion of his arm away (a good joke, this), while just recently John had killed the biggest bush-pig they had ever seen, and sold the meat for over two pounds. Then, quite suddenly, Elias said something that riveted my attention.
‘Masa remember dat bird Masa like too much?’ he inquired in his husky voice.
‘Which bird, Elias?’
‘Dat bird ’e no get bere-bere for ’e head. Last time Masa live for Mamfe I done bring um two picken dis bird.’
‘Dat bird who make his house with potta-potta? Dat one who get red for his head?’ I asked excitedly.
‘Yes, na dis one,’ he agreed.
‘Well, what about it?’ I said.
‘When I hear Masa done come back for Cameroons I done go for bush for look dis bird,’ Elias explained. ‘I remember dat Masa ’e like dis bird too much. I look um, look um for bush for two, three days.’