Kano market is famed throughout Africa. To it pilgrims of commerce come east, north and a hundred and more directions between these points of the compass. It is said to be the largest market in the world, but a man who has also been to Timbuktu tells me that it is four times the size of Kano and has four times as many people frequenting it. Kano, however, need not bury its diminished head. If there be another Richmond in the field Kano shall not feel ashamed. Various calculations have been made of the number of persons who congregate there on the busiest days of the week; 7,000, 8,000 have been figures given. I put it higher and estimate the crowds at 10,000 to 12,000 and one who probably knows Kano in this respect better than any other individual agrees with my rough-and-ready census. What African cosmopolitan crowds they are! Not merely Fulanis, Hausas and Nupés, but Turegs—who gave the French so much trouble—Ansim men, Arabs from every part of North Africa on the Mediterranean—Tripoli, Morocco and Tunis—Arabs of every degree of colour, coal black to skins as white and clear as that of an English girl. Fine-looking men most of them, and finely clothed: turbans of cambric and turbans of gold-like embroidered cloth. Vests—resembling an army officer’s mess jacket—also of embroidered cloth, the edges set with valuable lace of rare make and exquisite quality. Beneath the full robe of white, blue or other colour, trousers on which fancy work of many designs have been wrought. Each of these garments costs a matter of sovereigns. I have handled vests for which the owners paid £7 each. See these gaily-bedecked Arab magnates mounted. The native saddle with curved-up back displays the skill of yet another craftsman; saddle cloth of brilliant and varied hues—scarlet to yellow—girth straps picked out with designs woven in silver. Bridle and head-collar hidden behind tassels and hanging cords bearing more tints than the rainbow when the sun shines brilliantly after a summer shower. The running, horse-attendant completes the picture of men of affluence who omit nothing the absence of which would detract from their rank and dignity. No Zaki salute—on the knees and with head to the ground—comes from these men. Meeting you when they are mounted, they may—one in a 100—raise the right hand from the elbow—tantamount to taking off the hat in Continental Europe—or, passing you on foot, they may, in the same proportion, render a slight token of military salute. As a rule they give no sign beyond a side scrutiny, as one does at an unusual visitor from another country They convey to you that they know too much of the world to look upon you—you and each of you—as a great leader, a chief, a Zaki.