After about five minutes of silence he said "yes Mecca and beyond."
He looked out of the window,and for a moment,as if the interview gave him some unseen pain, and for a moment I studied him silently. He was indeed travel_worn : his clothes were in tatters, and it must have been weeks since his beards had seen razor. Even the small cap beneath his turban was visibly frayed.
Kofi Usman was trying to distract my attention with tales of his own misfortunes,and asked me openly what chances he had in getting a job in the mines. I told him that, that was a question for the mining Engineer and once again I faced the old man to continue our conversation.
"What did you do in Mecca?" I asked.
"I went to pay homage," he said "yes. . ."
" And beyond?"
" I was with army. Among other things I was thier doctor." he responded.
"You were and amry doctor?" I asked surprisingly.
He smiled toothlessly. "I should have said a doctor of the mind, as well as of the body; in our own little cultural way, of course."
"I understand," I said weakingly . "they came to you with their problems,both mental and physical,and you adviced them."
"A kind of medicine man," he explained.
" That passport I saw just now...."
"Oh that! I got in 1965. it's twenty years old now, isn't it? Odd ,how time flies.
"Yes," I said. He nodded."Twenty years.... But God go praised, those years were not a wasted. I nearly missed him."
"Missed him?Who?
He gave a guilty start,and glanced about him. "I beg for mercy, Mallam. I was really talking to myself. Would you like to see the passport?he asked me in a weak tune.
I was still rather puzzed as I watched him bring it out and opened it at the page containing the photograph of his in his late thirty's. There was certainly no resemblance between him and the man in the photograph.While one was Young and virile, the other was old and decrepit. I saw before me a young man in his prime, his head crowned by a gleaming white turban, his shoulders draped in a velvet gown edged with gold embroidery.
"You've changed a lot," I remarked.
"Twenty years is not a short time,"he reminded me. "But it was worth it.I did not give my life for nothing"
"Give your life, did you say? what do you mean by that sir? "My son you are too curious. First you want to see the passport; and then now you want to Know what I am talking about"
" As a student it's natural to be curious," I told him weakingly. "Spare me the pain," he begged. "My breath is poor, I cannot talk." He tooked over his shoulder,like a thirf entering a strong room,and his voice sank low."look at this," he said with a paled vioce and lifted his dirty robe.
I nearly screamed at what I saw. Beneath his robe, just under the heart, was a long,deap flesh wound it has stopped bleeding and the cloth had stuck to its corners. The old man quickly covered up the wound and smiled thinly at me.
" I can't talk much,as you can see," he panted. " it will soon be over. I also have taken some of this" he showed me a white power- "just to make quite sure. I don't know what the English called it, but, when I was in charge of the army medical supplies,they told me that- that as much as will lie on a sixpence will kill a man in about eighteen hours.
He began to cough desperately. When he had regained control of himself,I asked him: "But why all this?" "Nothing," he said, shrugging his shoulders. I just want to die."
I was at a loss to know what could justify this double attempt at suicide. He was coughing again and I looked at the passport. It discribed him as Mallam Alhaji Ibrahim Ilia,a man five feet six inches tall, with no tribal marks on his face, a man born t 1925, and traveling to mandara,Marua,and fort lamy for the purpose of trade. The passport was signed by the resident of kano, and dated May 1930.
"I can't understand the reason for your action," I ventured.
"No, you can't." was his answer.
He smiled. I wondered why I had not noticed before that I was sitting opposite a dying man; a man for no apparent reason had taken it upon himself to bring about his own death. His eyes had grown more glassy since the beginning of our conversation. He was restless,yet too weak to move about.now and again a violent cramp seized him in the arm or leg and he cried out with pain.
"You're a tough old man," I said, "You've been suffering quietly all the time, and...."
"Thoughness has its limits," he retorted. "I wish I could tell you a story... I feel you would understand."
"Don't try,if the effort is too great. But if it will help yoo...."
"it will. I must! I must! " he pleaded.
There were time when he appeared quite normal, but his pulse was very low, and his voice almost inaudible, so that often I had to guess and suggest and ingesticulate before a nod of his grey head told me that I had got his meaning right.That was how I spent the few hours left between us and Jos. Towards the end Mallam illa became very emotional and I had to remind him that the time was short, and that if he he exited himself unduly he might never complete his tale.
About twenty miles away from Jos, he closed his eyes and invited me to over the notes I made on odd bits of paper so that he might be sure I had missed nothing.
Below it is what I have recorded up to this time. The original was perhaps not as coherent as what follows, but the tales is,in essentials, what Mallam Ilia recounted to me, and I have as far as possible preserved his personal touch; for that grand old man was a great story teller, and a devout follower.