the morning train to ibadan

8/7/2019 The Morning Train to Ibadan

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Journal of Negro Education

The Morning Train to IbadanAuthor(s): John Henrik ClarkeSource: The Journal of Negro Education, Vol. 31, No. 4 (Autumn, 1962), pp. 527-530Published by: Journal of Negro EducationStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2293978 .

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SectionF: The MorningTrainto IbadanJoHNHENRI CLARK

AssociateEditor,FreedomwaysMagazineLAGOS IS EAR frombeingmyfavoriteAfricancity. It's cosmopolitanairand theincongruousmixtureofAfricanand Europeanwaysof life leftme sing-ularlyunimpressed.In spiteof myfeel-ingsaboutit,I mustadmitLagos is notacitywithoutattractions.Lagos is a col-orfulcitywith a dual personality-onefootin the 19thcenturyand the otherone stepping,withawkwardrapidityto-ward the 20th.

I left thehotel,absurdlycalled "ThePalace,"witha feelingof reliefthatwascloselyrelatedto happiness.The Palacewas absolutelythe worsthotel that Ihave everencounteredin all ofmyyearsof travel. The spell of earlymorningwas still upon thecity and I had morethanenoughtimeat my disposal. I de-cided to walk the mile and a half tothe Lagos Train Terminus. The cabdrivers,alreadyon the streetin fullforce,offeredtheirservicesand acceptedmyrefusalwithbad humor,as thoughI was an escapingthief.The road to the Terminusstretchedthroughone of the worstslum areasthat I have everseen; crosseda longbridgeovera lagoon,intrudinguponthelandscapein the heartof the citywithtouchesof magicalbeauty.At thestationI showedmy ticketandwatchedtheexpressionon theclerk'sfaceas he weighedmy hand bag and viewedthe ticketagain, frowningin disbelief.He was surprisedto see an Americantravelingthirdclass. I have been inAfricaovertwo monthsnow, travelingin mostlyout of the way places thatnmosttouristsneversee. This is as itshould be becauseI am not a tourist.My life-longinterestin Africabroughtme heretomyancestralhometosee andtryto understand,at least part of thetemperamentand importanceof thisemergentcontinentand its peoplewho

will,no doubt,influencethe futureofmankind.In thestationtherewereseparateeat-ingfacilitiesforthirdclasstravelers.Thisduplicationmade no sense to me andseemedrathersilly. This is a newsta-tionbuiltunderBritishsupervision.Brit-ish cityplanningin Africaalwaysleaves

muchto be desired. I purchaseda cupof tea and a sweetbun beforeboardingthemorningtrainto Ibadan. Some ofthe carswere almostfull a half hourbeforethe timeof departure.I walkedthroughthe trainuntil I founda seatnear a window. Chatting Nigerianwomenwearingmulti-coloreddressesandlargebandana-likehead piecesgive thetraina circusatmosphere.Nearlyall ofthewomenhad children.Morepassen-gerswith odd-shapedluggageand somecarryingtheirbelongingsin bags andboxes soonfilledup the train. Friendsand relativesof thepassengersstoodin-side and on theplatform,givingout lastminuteinstructionsandadvice,sometimesin anxiousand serioustones,as if thepassengerswere aboutto departfor themoon. At exactlyeighto'clockthe trainstartedits journeyto Ibadan.

A beggarcame on pleadingfor thepriceof hismorningmeal. LeavZingLa-gos,we passedthroughYaba, a residen-tial suburbwhere most of the betterclass Africansand a fewEuropeanslive.Shops,theatresand small hotelswerescatteredthroughthesettlement.At Ebute Mutta,the firststop,thebeggarleftthetrainand threemoregoton. Afterone moresub-stationstopwe

wereout of Lagos. Whenwe leftthethirdstop,Mushin,thecountry-sidebe-gan to unfold. Shacks and hutspunc-tuated the blankets of green foliagestretchingbeforeus furtherthan theeyecouldsee.From my accumulatedprovisionsI

527


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528 THE JOURNALOF NEGRO EDUCATIONmadea largesardinesandwichand I wasstillin theprocessofconsumingitwhenwe reachedAgece,the fourthstop.Twoconductorsmoved rapidlyto the backof the train,talkingin excitedtones.Theywerehurryingto the firstand sec-ondclass cars wheresomekind of com-motionwas attractingthe attentionofthe peoplewaitingto board the train.I calledoutin vain to a chattingmarketwomanwho was sellingboiledguineafojwleggs,two for threepence. Thetrainpulledawayas she noticedme andtriedto reachthewindowwhereI wassitting.

A beggarboardedthe trainat thisstop,carryinga signsayinghe was deafanddumb. He woretheattireof a Mo-hammedan-apoorlykeptMohammedan.His longwhiterobe was dirtyand tornin severalplaces. For a hat he worea red fez. He looked to be of Hausaextraction,thoughhe was muchshorterthan mostof the Hausa people thatIhave seen.At 9:15 we stoppedat Kajawya. Themarketwomenalong tlle tracksofferednothingforsale thatI had enoughnerveto eat. As thetrainwas leavingKajawyaI noticedthe "deaf and dumb" beggarstandingbythe tracks,laughingand talk-ingto a groupof similarlydressedmen.The trainmovedthrougha thickforestarea. The straycindersfromtheengine

had spoiledmy cheapbargainbasementsuit. Stillanotherbeggarcamethroughthe trainwearinga signannouncingthathe too was "deafand dumb." The so-licitingmethodsof thisbeggarweremuchmoreintriguingthan thoseof the lastone. Ile was callingattentionto hissignwith a tin rattlethatmade a sad,hauntingkindof music. He was alsomore imaginativeand more energeticthanthe last beggar. He tumed com-pletelyaroundseveraltimes,almostag-gressivein actingout his plight. Evenwithoutthis ceremonyhis mannerofdresswas colorfulenoughto gethimallthe attentionhe needed. A pang ofdepressionand disappointmenttouchedmyspiritwhenhe leftat the nextstop.

Therewas no lull in theexcitement.More thirdclasspassengerswereboard-ingthetrain. A ladycameintothecarcarryinga largestrawsleepingmat onherhead,onechildin theclothcradleonherbackanda bundlein onearm.Otherpassengerswereequallyburdened,somewerecarryingcookingfacilities.

In spiteof my fascinationfor thirdclass travel,I stillhave someprejudiceagainstit thatis beingrapidlydispelledby sceneslike this. Thirdclassaccom-modationmakesit possiblefora lot ofpeople,withverylittlemoney,and anexcessiveamountof luggage,to travelata faretheycan afford.But forthirdclassaccommodations,mostpeoplein Af-ricawhofitintothiscategorywouldnotbe able to travelby trainat all.

The ladywiththestrawsleepingmatputdownthe firstloadofherbelongingsandbroughtin a tinpan thatwas muchlargerthan mostAmericanwash tubs.Her littlegirlcameoverto me, greetedmewarmlyin theYorubalanguageandclimbedintomy lap. I answeredherwith a smile as she continuedto talk.When she finallydiscoveredthat I didnot knowher languageher small facelost someof thebrightglowof friend-shipandplainlyshoweditsbewilderment.The childwaitedwithadmirablepatiencewhilehermotherfounda place forhermanybelongingsandfoundtimeto takeher. Her motherwas noticeablypreg-nant.As the trainstartedto moveforwardthe chatterofthenewlyarrivedpassen-gers. acquaintingthemselveswith theothers,rose to crescendosof clashingsoundsand created,forme at least,astrangekindofconfusedjubilation.FromthewindowI saw thegreencountrysideunfoldingitsprimevalsplendor.Abouta halfhourlaterwe stoppedat a smallvillagesurroundedby a thickforest. Isat in thewindowspeculatingaboutthenamesof the diversespecies of treesscatteredalong the tracks. The trainstoodpanting,as ifanticipatingthejour-neythatlayahead. . . seeminglywonder-ing, as I was wondering,whythisstopwas made. We werenowherenear a


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CURRENT TRENDS AND EVENTS 529station.No onegot on or off.My Amer-icanmindexpectsa reasonforeverything.The Nigerianpassengerswere still fill-ing the carwithcriss-crossconversations.

The child of thelady with the strawmatsand all the otherbulkyparapher-naliahad fallenasleep. The trainstartedjerkily,awakeningthechildwho lookedup at her motherforone surprisedmo-mentand closed her eyes again. Stillno one, exceptme,seemedto care whythe trainhad stoppedin thefirstplace.I left my seat and walked through

the thirdclass carsuntilI reachedonemarked: CANTEEN. This was theclosestapproximationtoan Americandin-ing car I could find. A cup of tea costme threepence. The scant choice offoodwas notimpressive.I arrivedbackatmyseatas the trainwasmakinganoth-er stop,fornoreasonthatI couldunder-stand. Up aheadofus I sawa citybuilton the side of a hill. It lookedto benew. The shinytin-roofedhouseslookedas iftheyhadbeenfreshlypainted.Thecitywas Aro.

The marketwomenat this stationdidnothaveanyattractiveitemsforsale. . . mostlysugarcane and agidi. Agidiconsistsmainlyofmaize (corn) meal.Itis one of the mostimportantitemsin theWest Africandiet. My favoritemarketwomen,thefruitsellers,arriveda fewsecondsbeforethe trainpulled away.I boughta bunchof eightbananasforthreepence.

A fewmilesawayfromArowe reacheda largecitycalledAby. Somepassengersleftat Aby. For less than one minutetheaisleswereuncongested.Soon,morecolorfullydressedpeople came aboard.Somewerecarryingstrawmats. Whereare they takingthosemats? A ladypushed a large dishpanunder my seat.A childwas tiedto herbackand anotherone was growingin her abdomen. Ontheplatformnear thewindowwhere Iwas sittingan argumentwas in process.A white-robedmanwas in themiddleof a clusterof people,standingstonilysilent as theiruninhibitedwrath waspoureduponhim. All of his tormentors

weredressedin smocksof differentcol-ors. This made the completelywhiterobeof theassailedmanstandoutwithcontrastingsharpness.His facebore apeculiarlypassiveexpression.He seem-ed neitherfornor againsthis assailants.He stoodand listenedas thoughlisten-ing was a penitence,totallyunrelatedto guilt.

Everyseat in the car was occupiednow. Marketwomeninvadedthetrainalongwiththe new passengers.Move-mentin theaislesbecamea problem-aratherhecticone. The local argumentoutsideof the traincontinued,heatedandconfusing.The ladywiththelargepots and pans preparedsomefood forherchild. The childwasbeautiful.Tome she seemedover-dressed.I couldbeabsolutelywrongbecauseI am not surewhatbeingoverdressedconsistsofin thisoranyotherpartofAfrica.

As thetrainstartedits forwardthrustthe argumenton the platformendedabruptly.The white-robedman gotin-to the thirdclass car behindus. Thegroupof men wearingthemulti-coloredsmockswhohad beenaddressinghiminheatedtones,were lookingtowardthetrainnow. Theirfacesuniformlyshoweda flushofsatisfaction,as iftheyhadwonsomekindofvictory.Probably,justbe-ingheardwas all theywantedorneeded.

The ladywiththemanypotsandpanshad onefullof agidiwrappedin bananaleaves. She took one ball of agidi fromthe pan and gave it to the child, whomade no attemptto eat it. She heldthe food in her hand and watched meas thoughI was likely to take it fromher. A groupof men carryingbriefcasesand flauntingairs of officialdomwalkedthroughthe train.

At the next stop some of the passen-gerswith the strawmats left. A newpassenger came into the car carryingwhat seemed to be a largecat fish. Oneof the"deafand dumb" beggarsendedhistour at this station and was met byfriends. He tookoffhis sign and stoodby the tracks, laughing and talking asotherfriendscame up to greethim. Here-


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530 THE JOURNALOF NEGRO EDUCATIONafterit is goingto be difficultforme tobelievethatanybodyin Nigera is reallydeafand dumb.

The littlegirlseatedoppositeme tookoffher headpiece,unfoldedit, coveredherselfand went to sleep. The trainmovedthrougha valley. Atanotherstopa stoutNigerianwomanboardedthe traincarryinga largebasketof barkand some-earthenwarepotsand dishes. She leanedout of thewindowand gave instructionsto threepeople standingoutsideas wegotunderwayagain. The stationwasonlya largeplatformwithno cover. Asmallherdofgoatswas grazingnearthetracks. They lookedup for a momentas theheavystrainingnoiseof theenginewas becomingincongruousin the midstof thispastoralscene. The newpassen-ger founda seat,made a newfriendorrediscoveredan old one.

The littlegirlwhohad beensleepingunderherheadpiecegot up and openedone of the potsof food. She prepareda mealforherself,usingbananaleavesfora plate. Her mothergaveheroneglanceof approvaland continueda conversa-tion with anotherpassengeracrosstheaisle. At 12:40 thetrainmadeanotherone of itsunscheduledstops. We wereneara villageof smallfarms. Finallythetrainresumeditsjourney,jarringthelittlegirl'sfoodin its banana-leafplate.The manwiththebigcatfishhad hunghis propertyabovehis seat. No one,exceptme,botheredtostareat thissight.The trainmovedovera longstretchofstraighttrack. Forthefirsttimeit reach-ed a speedthatmighthavebeen thirty-fivemilesan hour.

The littlegirlfinishedhermeal,threwthe banana-leafplateoutof thewindowand rediscoveredmy presence. For amomentI thoughtshe was going to

stareme throughmyseat. She was nothostile. She was intenselycurious. Ithinkshe had realizedthatI was, atleast,not a localAfricanand therewassomethingoutof the ordinaryaboutmypresencein a thirdclasscaronthemorn-ing trainto Ibadan.

We reached a village of red clayhouseswithtinroofs.A trainto Lagos,fullofpassengers,waswaitingon thesidetracks. I sawa fewdropsofrain. Therainmadememoreconsciousof wantingand needinga bath. The cindersfromthe engine,flyingintotheopenwindow,had ruinedby cheap suit. I mustre-mindmyselfto neveragainweara lightcoloredbargainbasementsuit on an Af-ricantrain.

Anotherstopwas madeat 2:05 P.M.The stoutwomanwith the basketofbarkand theearthenwarepotsanddishesgot off,while handingher belongingsadroitlyand continuinga conversationwithher friends.Fifteenminuteslater,the trainwas pullingintoIbadan. Theconductorwalked throughthe cars,an-nouncing:"Ibadan! We arenowin Iba-dan!"'

The man with the large cat fishbrushedagainstme on his way to thedoor. The conductorcontinuedto giveout his needlessmessageuntil he cameto me. His observationof mewas slowand thorough."American?"he asked."Yes.""Everbeen in Ibadanbefore?"His expressionbecamea mixtureofprideand condescension.His nextmes-sagewas alsoneedless."You are now in the largest city inWestAfrica,"he said.

the morning train to ibadan

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