Fulani Killers & Victims and Boko Haram

Ever since I arrived in Nigeria nearly three years ago, a civil war of sorts between Fulani herdsmen and the various tribes they settled among has been brewing, resulting in tit-for-tat mass murders, razing of villages and other brutalities as Fulanis kill and are killed.

Now, were the Fulanis the first to attack? Or were they the initial victims simply meting out revenge? I don't know, but the latest news report of the Nigerian army invading a Fulani village in Nasarawa state yesterday morning and killing 30 people, shooting at every Fulani in sight, was troubling (full report here).

According to the report in Premium Times newspaper, Fulani organisation Miyetti Allah confirmed that over 30 Fulani people were killed, mostly old men who were unable to run when the soldiers started firing. The group's secretary Muhammed Husseini accused the Nigerian Government of complicity in the killing and is planning to sue the government.

“I’m presently in the mortuary receiving corpses. They killed over 30 of our men for no reason. This is genocide and we will approach the International Criminal Court, ICC,” he said.

Some of the dead recovered from the invasion

The military had deployed troops to Nasarawa, Benue and Kaduna following attacks on several communities in the states by suspected Fulani herdsmen, leading to the death of scores of people.

Fulanis in rural areas of the North are often victims and perpetrators of attacks, mostly because of age-old territorial disputes and other slights they feel other tribes had perpetrated on themselves and their cattle and property. Some Fulanis are on the rampage over disputed grazing fields for their cattle, and stolen cattle, whilst the town dwellers are also aggrieved when their crops are eaten and trampled on by Fulani cattle.

Ethnic-based enmity is alive and seething in Nigeria y'all.

So the Fulanis attack, and other tribes retaliate; other tribes attack, and the Fulani retaliate. But it seems the Fulani are the ones doing more of the attacks these days. Also, various unconnected Fulani communities and attackers that may not even be Fulani across Nigeria that engage in violent disputes with their neighbours may be called 'Fulani attackers,' making the situation seem even more rife, and the Fulani even more deadly.

On-going disputes in places like Nasarawa, Zamfara and Benue State have caused many villagers to flee after alleged Fulani gunmen storm their locales at night or early in the morning, shooting and killing at random. Recently, a group of 24 Fulani men were arrested with a truckload of guns, machetes, bows and arrows and knives.

However, for decades the nomadic Fulani lived amongst other tribes in peace, inter-marrying and becoming friends. In this report of refugees fleeing from Benue to Abuja following Fulani attacks, one old man said:

"I had to pack and leave with my whole family because I saw the fighters coming in and my Fulani neighbours told me they cannot guarantee my safety if I decided to stay. I have lived there all my life and I don't have anywhere else to call home but I had to leave because the mercenaries were already forming a base there.

"We (Tiv farmers) have never fought with Fulani herders here before. Whenever there are squabbles, we the elders from both ethnic groups come together and settle amicably, so it was strange when they asked me to leave. But they insisted they don't have a problem with us, that it was their people from Benue that asked them to tell us to leave."

Things seem to be heating up.

A taxi driver, upon hearing I was from Adamawa State, beamed and told me he was also from Adamawa (but he wasn't Fulani), then after some pleasantries, he told me of a horrifying visit to the state recently. The car he was travelling in broke down, and as evening had approached before it was finally fixed, both the other passengers in the car and himself were extremely worried because it was general knowledge that the road at night was patrolled by armed robbers.

They traveled on regardless, and soon came to a road block made of sharp materials that punctured the car tires, manned by Fulani men wielding machetes. I asked if he was sure they were Fulani, and he said it was obvious, as Fulanis have a distinct look everyone is familiar with.

They were forced to alight from the car, lie on the ground on their stomachs and remain silent as the Fulani men ransacked their pockets and car and took away all the valuables: their phones, his bag, money etc. If he had tried to escape they would have been killed, as the attackers were known for chopping people up with their machetes.

He said the men also carried locally made guns and communicated by making clicking sounds to each other, and they looked as if they were 'high.' The taxi driver and the other passengers were forced to sleep in the bush until morning when they walked the rest of the way to their destinations.

Now this conversation happened some months back, and my memory can be hazy sometimes, and I've had similar conversations with a variety of people about such car-jackings, although only the taxi driver specified Fulani attackers. So I'm not sure if the following details were told to me by this taxi driver or by someone else, but is interesting to note nonetheless: one of the passengers was a female who lied to attackers that she had HIV to prevent being raped; the carjackers were wearing amulets and other charms that prevented them from being injured by bullets.

So, certain parts of Northern Nigeria aren't too safe right now, what with the sporadic yet increasingly common 'Fulani gunmen,' and Boko Haram insurgents. I'm loathe to imagine that they could be linked, especially since the attacks are similar in nature: young men (sometimes dressed in black or fatigues) with weapons surround a settlement at night and kill indiscriminately, setting fire to houses before escaping in motorcycles, trucks or on foot.

With Boko Haram, questions have been raised (by Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan even) about who pays for the sophisticated weaponry (AK47s etc) and brand new vehicles (convoys of Hilux trucks, motorcycles and vans) that aide in their terror campaigns.

Northern leaders recently alleged that helicopters have been seen repeatedly dropping weapons, food, medicine and other equipment in areas occupied by Boko Haram, implying that the militant group had wealthy financiers as well as informants in the military, police and other security agencies.

This leads on to another incident narrated to me by a taxi driver (they are excellent disseminators of information in my experience wherever I am in the world.) This one was from Borno State, and although he had the look and demeanour of a Muslim, I was surprised to learn he's a Christian. He told us his father and other family members were killed recently by Boko Haram in Borno. They surrounded his village one night and started killing people shouting 'Allahu Akbar' before fleeing in a convoy of Hilux trucks.

Then a couple of weeks later, he was supposed to pick me up the coming Monday to work (our car was at the mechanic's) but was unable to make it as he had to travel to Borno with his wife and baby girl, as his father-in-law was one of those killed by Boko Haram in this attack in the state.

It was tragically incredible to note that I knew someone who was personally affected by Boko Haram in such a chilling way, and I felt so bad for the young man, whose family had been so ravaged by the terrorists.

Abuja is still relatively safe (except for this shootout recently), but living in a country where people are regularly killed by a group from your tribe in places not too far away from you, as well as the on-going murders of innocents by state-sponsored enemies of the state is certainly unnerving.

But as Leonardo DiCaprio's character in Blood Diamonds said, "TIA. This is Africa."

The Little Fulani Cowgirl and other Abuja stories

So I'm still living and working in Abuja, and below I've documented four unique experiences with what some might call 'the lowly' amongst us. In so doing I hope not to make the same mistake US singer Brandy did, of only documenting street kids on dirt-roads from her visit last year to Lagos, and calling it 'Beautiful Africa.' 

Although I joined others in condemning her pictures - what about the fancy hotels, boutiques and plush cars she experienced? Why only show the (overused, clichéd) poverty of Africa? - I now understand her. Coming from her world, the naked poverty in Nigeria grabbed her attention and touched her more than the wealth in the country. She's familiar with luxury hotels and tarred roads, so the unfamiliar is what stood out for her.

So in these stories, which all occurred last year, I describe my encounters with people I'm not used to, often watch from afar and who I'm not able to know very well due to our different stations in life.

The Little Fulani Cowgirl

You could just make out the top of her shaggy head amidst the wide, white flanks of the cows gathered around her. Then she comes into view: a little Fulani girl barely seven years old, with dirt-brown curly hair plaited haphazardly, and the tiny stray strands that escaped forming a fuzzy halo around her little head.

Wearing a blue, oversized T-shirt that reached down past her knees, her thin legs ended in a pair of adult slippers encasing tiny feet caked in the brown dust of the earth that she had no doubt been traversing for hours already that afternoon.

She grasped in her little hand a thin but sturdy stick that was twice her height, which she used as an aid to edge her way past the slow-footed cows and around the side of the road. Now and then she also used the stick to whack a fidgety cow to stop it from heading towards the cars that were waiting for the herd to cross, a scene which occurs periodically on this residential road.

Unafraid, accomplished and proud, the little cowgirl wore a look of experienced calm and maintained an assurance that refused to be intimidated by the animals that were bigger than her or the motorists growing impatient around her.

She wasn’t perturbed by the heat of the sun, the dusty road or the long hilly hike ahead of her, and as I looked she shouted out to the herd with a shrill, tiny voice, and the animals immediately heeded their little mistress and trooped faster past the waiting cars.
 

She manoeuvred the animals with grace under fire; they trusted her and she understood them. And as she walked behind the last cow crossing, our eyes met and she looked at me for a fraction of a second with cool, haughty eyes betraying little of the innocence no doubt still within.

Here was a little girl in charge of her family’s wealth and pride, single-handedly dealing with the hostilities of the city and the terrain, armed with only a stick and her fierce resolve. She knows the roads, the routes, the hills and the valleys, she probably also knew each cow by name.

Soon she will give up herding and settle into the sedentary life of a wife and mother, but for now it was just her and her herd against the world, roaming wild and free and fearless.

As the proud little cowgirl walked off into the distance with her troop of 15 or so cows trudging obediently behind her, I marvelled at her control and confidence.

She was born to do this.

The Barefooted Prisoner

A barefooted, small-boned man with scraggly hair, a T-shirt full of holes and a hound-dog expression walked up to us one warm weekday evening as we stood in front of a Tapas Bar near the Gudu bypass.

He came to us hesitantly, as if he was a pigeon and we were holding out bread in our palms. We tried to ignore him at first, but the weight of sorrow in his eyes and his obvious vulnerability made us forego our concern that he was a scam-artist begging for money. Like the well-dressed, middle-aged man who alighted from a Jeep and asked us for N10, 000 to pay for his daughter’s medical bills. It was only after we gave him what we could and he drove off that it dawned on us that we’d been swindled.

But this small man was different. He kept scratching himself slowly all over as he told us, in a barely-audible voice, his story. Big tears dropped from his eyes, which he wiped with his shoulder in a move that was so pitiful it was innocent.

Back in Taraba State, he said, he and a group of friends were walking through a market when there was a commotion: someone had been stabbed in a fight. He helped eight others to carry the victim to the hospital, and whilst there the victim died and despite their protests, the police arrested them for murder. They were thrown into jail and later ferried to Kuje Prison in Abuja to complete their sentence. That was nine years ago. He was just released today and wanted to return to his wife and children in Taraba but didn’t know where to go or where to start.

We stared at him in silence. Was this for real? Was this poor man’s life just taken away from him for an instinctual act of kindness?

He stared at the floor whilst we consulted amongst ourselves, now and then shooting more questions at him to ascertain the veracity of his tale. He didn’t even ask for money, he just told his story and kept quiet, waiting for us to pronounce our judgment on him from on high, just like the judge and the police declared their life-changing judgement on him all those years ago.  

He mentioned that one of the friends had died in prison; they were regularly beaten up and hardly given any food. If ever there was an example of someone whose spirit had been broken, it was him.

We pitied him and gave him some of what we had, and pointed to the direction of cars going towards the park where he can get transportation to Taraba. He took the money with both hands, offered a lengthy thanks with more tears, and walked away slowly; a dejected, confused victim of poverty.

If the rage from the injustice he’s suffered caused him to kill tomorrow, I wouldn’t blame him. The depraved amongst us are made so by others, which is why we are told not to judge, for only God knows the full story. It is a wonder more men don’t turn to violence, when such violence is visited upon them daily.

How Much is an Egg Roll?

There’s an instant pleasure one derives from biting into a warm egg roll, especially when the dark brown pastry surrounding it is both savoury and sweet and crumbles in the mouth. With this yearning in mind, I walked out of the office at lunchtime in search of the eggroll sellers, who carry their cheap but sumptuous wares on their heads to many a labourers’ delight.

It was my lucky day: A teenage girl was passing by with a lidded, translucent plastic bucket on her head. I could just about make out the eggrolls inside. As she walked on, skilfully balancing her load on a head, she didn’t even need to use a hand to hold the bucket in place, such was her hawking experience.

One arm hung playfully by her side as the other held a small plastic carrier bag hooked to her wrist, no doubt containing her takings for the day’s sales so far. She walked with an air of confident abandon: “I don’t need to go to school,” she seemed to be saying. “The sun and the breeze and the open road are my education. I know these streets like the back of my hand.” 

I made short hissing sounds to get her attention, and when she heard, she turned around and walked towards me. As she reached me, she brought down her bucket and opened it. “Good afternoon madam” she said in a sing-song voice. I greeted her and looked inside her pail. There were eggrolls alright, bigger than average and the rough unevenness of the dark-brown dough glistening with grease testified to the fact that the dough will be sufficiently crunchy. But apart from the rounded eggrolls, there were elongated dough of the same colour, moulded into fat, short tubes. 

“What are those?” I asked, pointing at one.

“Fish roll” she replied, her inanimate eyes wondering away and resting on the woman walking by.

They look interesting, I thought. “Give me one eggroll and one fish roll” I said, looking forward to biting into one of the moist flour-casing and tasting bits of fish instead of a hard-boiled egg.

The girl took out one small black carrier bag from the bag hooked unto her wrist, spread it out on her cupped hand and used it to scoop up the delicacies, wrapping the bag up around them.

“How much?” I asked.

“N200”

I looked back at the snacks in the bag. “Remove the fish one” I said. Knowing that the price of eggrolls ranged from N50 to N80 depending on where you bought them, N200 for two – one of which was a flavour unknown to me – was too much. Plus I couldn’t guarantee that these eggrolls will taste good. Looks can be deceiving. And the freshness of the products, now that it was already 2:30pm and there were only a few left in the bucket was uncertain. Wouldn’t all the oil seep down to the last remaining rolls, making them soggy from the extra grease and the accumulated heat-turned-sweat from the sun?

The doubts raised by the extra N120 was immense. Did my clothes or the fatness of my purse fool this girl into thinking it was full or money? Or did the wholesale price of flour and eggs suddenly increase in Abuja so that it translated into an extra N20 charge for an eggroll? 

But I didn’t say anything. I paid with N500, and saw that I collected all her change: eight N50 notes. I wondered where the rest of her money was. But the abundance of N50s proved to me that indeed the rolls did retail at half the price. The young swindler was smart. “Thank you ma” she said, as she heaved the bucket back unto her head.

Those three words turned my displeasure into a shrug. Back at the office, I bit into the roll. It was still fresh and uncluttered by too much grease. My N100 was well spent.

My Maiguard is Getting Married

Our maiguard has one of those faces that is neither old nor young; he could be 18, he could be 38. Small in stature and speaking a dialect of Hausa that baffled us, Aminu is a good, if absent-minded guard.

I remember when he first arrived from Zaria straight to our house; he was hunched and hesitant, with overgrown hair and a furtive, haunted look in his eyes. He used to grunt to alert you to his presence, and he had a permanent scowl on his face. But after a few months with us, he became more self-assured, got regular hair-cuts, wore the clothes we gave him with pride and stood taller. He even replaced his grunts with words; it was like seeing the blossoming of a flower. Soon he started cooking for himself and made friends with the other guards in the estate, and he smiled and laughed more. Even his brand of Hausa became more familiar to us.

Yet he remained our lowly, trust-worthy Maiguard, until he told us his intentions to return to his native Zaria to get married. I was surprised. So Aminu, this young (or old, we still couldn’t ascertain his actual age-range) man who opens and closes our gate, weeds the yard, washes the cars and does other necessary work around the house for which we paid him an agreeable amount, wanted to get married?

He said that the girl had already been chosen for him by his family; she was the sister of a girl he had been dating previously, but that girl had been given out in marriage to another man when Aminu came to Abuja, so his family had accepted her sister for him.

I remember entering his messy Maiguard house to drop something for him, and on the floor was a picture of a light-skinned young woman wrapped in a red veil from head to toe. She was lying down on her side and stared blankly at the camera. So when Aminu said he’d never met his bride-to-be but had been sent her picture, my mind recalled the girl in red.

She was rather pretty, I thought. Will she be pleased with Aminu, a diminutive man/boy with a semi-permanent scowl? He told us her bride-price was N70, 000 and he’d been saving up for months for her. I wondered if N70, 000 was considered the price for a top-drawer maiden in rural Zaria.

Last week, Aminu left to get married, I could sense his excitement as he said farewell to us. But he’ll come back soon, as his family have advised him to return to Abuja after marriage because there are no jobs in their community. But he won’t be bringing his wife with him. So after a few days in Zaria, during which time he would not only meet his bride for the first time, but would have married her, he would bid farewell to his life-partner for a few months until he returned to Zaria again. Aminu will then return to us a married man.

I wondered if, nine months later, Mrs Aminu would have a baby. Would Aminu still stay on in Abuja? Will he take on more wives? Can he look after a family on his modest Maiguard wages?

All these questions cast my Maiguard in a whole new light.

Wailing Herdsmen: A (First Ever?) Fulani Comic

Suleiman Enejo Dickson is a cartoonist and Fulani-enthusiast (who is married to a Fulani woman) and is the creator of the comic strip below. It follows the adventures of two cattle-herding Fulani brothers, their family, home and aspirations.

Here's Part One:

In Which I Wade into the Nigerian Anti-Gay Law Debate

Nigeria has made herself the enemy of the West by banning same-sex marriage, same-sex unions and same-sex associations, with law-breakers facing 14 years in jail.

CNN (International) - Nigeria's premier news channel broadcasting on every, and I mean every, flat screen TV in every bank, shop, office and public area in Abuja 24/7- is particularly pissed about it.

I noticed how much CNN had been pushing the pro-gay agenda prior to this law. One report I remember was when famously gay singer Elton John and famously gay tennis star Billie Jean King spoke to Christianne Amanpour about the recent brouhaha over Russia's anti-gay stance during the Winter Olympics this year.

Will there ever by a Gay Marriage in Nigeria?

And of course CNN's Anderson Cooper and Don Lemon are gay (and Becky Anderson maybe? I always though she was gay. I like to think my gay-dar is strong.) I'm pretty sure they and probably the gay/lesbian CNN producers make sure to highlight injustices against homosexuals around the world and promote gay rights advances wherever it occurs.

Western movies, TV shows and music have also being promoting homosexuality as a 'normal thing,' with gay dads and their adopted daughter on comedy Modern Family and almost every other student coming out as gay in high school musical comedy Glee.

So when Nigeria's President Goodluck Jonathan came riding rough-shod over the Western media’s delicately-handled ‘Operation re-educate the world about homosexuality’ PR exercise, by passing the 'anti-gay' bill into law earlier this month, the West was livid. They threatened to withhold their aid, spoke strongly against the law calling it a violation of human rights, and Canada even cancelled Jonathan's visit to the country in protest.

CNN led the charge against Nigeria. I'm sure the channel is aware of its huge following here as the most watched and most trusted news station in the country, way ahead of the supposed national news channel NTA, which nobody watches, including me, because the picture quality and sound harkens back to the 1970s and the content is drab and mostly government-sponsored.

Nigerians also invest a huge amount to advertise on CNN International. You would think it was a national station the way Nigerian-sponsored adverts for mobile phone networks like Glo, MTN and Etisalat ,and random door and furniture stores advertise heavily on the station, and I hear these ads are not cheap. The CNN (International ) we watch here is also shown in the UK and other English-speaking African countries (America has its own version), but 50% of the adverts are Nigerian.

Plus almost every other personality on the channel's African Voices is Nigerian. Talk about dominance!

So CNN used its popularity in the country to make a point and ran extended news features decrying Nigeria's latest law, with breathlessly apoplectic journalists reporting from Lagos on the various gay-rights abuses they'd heard about. Christianne Amanpour even interviewed Bisi Alimi, the first man to come out on national TV in Nigeria, following which he had to seek asylum in Britain. He spoke passionately and eloquently on the issue; if I was gay I would have been so proud of him as the spokesman for Nigerian gays.

Bisi Alimi, Nigeria's first man to declare himself gay on TV, on CNN a few days ago

As the debates rage on, if you’re in Nigeria you’re in one of these four camps: 

1. Gays and Gay-lovers: Yes! At last, the gays and lesbians have a voice! Roll on happy gay marriages across the nation and civil rights for gay people everywhere! Today debates, tomorrow full acceptance, maybe even a gay President!

2. The Homophobic Majority: God bless Jonathan for putting those nasty gays in their place! If I catch any of those dirty men ehn, I will...Hmm. Imagine leaving the luscious beauty of a woman and handling the nether regions of my fellow man? Tufiakwa! Abeg, if they even dare to protest I will be the first in line to beat those men-chasers. Imagine!

3. The Ignorant Minority: Wait, there are gay people in Nigeria? Since when? I thought it was only a white man’s disease. Wonders shall never end...

4. The Casual Observers: Wow, all this talk about gayness. I don’t really care if they want to bum each other, that’s their prerogative. They want to marry too? Umm, OK, but just NIMBY (Not in my back yard) please.

The emerging voices of Group 1 loudly drowned out by the distaste of Group 2 has taken over the airwaves, with nary a voice from Group 4 even acknowledged.

Group 3 were previously in the dark about matters of same-sex relationships thanks to the culture of ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ prevalent in Nigeria, and only came across images of homosexuality on Western TV, hence its association with white people. (Which is naive of course, because there have always been homosexuals all across Nigeria - I hear the North plays a major role in this scene too - and it's an open secret that some top politicians are men who like to sleep with other men for homosexual/political/spiritual/financial reasons *cough cough*)

I am firmly in Group 4, whereby I am distinctly nonchalant about the whole discussion. As a non-homosexual with no ties to homosexuals and a balanced view of the Bible, I am blasé about the issue.

I’ve had friends that were gay, and I've read testimonials written by secretly gay Christians who are completely tortured by their desire for the same sex and have prayed, fasted and had counselling to dispel it, some even married and had children, but still they can’t shake it off. If they could take a pill and become heterosexual tomorrow, they would do it in an instant. They often question God in tears asking him why He would inflict them with such a reprehensible affliction.

So I’m sympathetic to their plight, and the desire for those who are happy to be gay to live without discrimination. But I'm concerned about their growing confidence and demand for not only acceptance, but full immersion into the mainstream and for their lifestyle to be accepted as alternative rather than deviant.
Lawmakers used the law to say: “No thanks. The West can legalise homosexuality and go to hell in a hand-basket if it wants, but as for we Nigerians and our country, we will serve the Lord (and punish those homos with their anal activities).”


Africans in general are vehemently anti-gay. It's in their blood. The African man that is pro-gay has either spent some time abroad, is well-read and well-versed in Western culture, or is gay himself (much to his own initial horror and shame probably.) But there are also men who tick all three boxes but who remain outwardly homophobic and inwardly tormented.


Then there are small pockets of Nigerian intellectuals and free-thinkers who argue for the rights of homosexuals in their small enclaves of enlightenment. They have been vocal on Twitter and I've also conversed with a few. They are the well-read, often (but not always) foreign-educated young idealists who are embarrassed by the hate spewed against homosexuals by their fellow countrymen, and often regard such homophobes as inadequately-educated religious zealots.

But Jesus never said a thing about homosexuals. Not one thing. He spoke against greed, pride, the love of money and adultery (all of which occur in spades in Nigeria and around the world), but not a jot about gays, which leads me to believe that in heaven's assessment of sin, homosexuality is not number one. Besides, it was pride that got Satan thrown out of heaven, not homosexuality.

But I do believe that being gay is an unnatural aspect of humanity; a glitch in the matrix, a defect in nature. I compared being born gay to being born without an arm once, and somebody took offence. All humans need eyes and all men and women were given sex organs that compliment each other to enable procreation and pleasure; some are born without eyes, and some are born gay.

To put it in another (more crude) way, if all was well with homosexuality sexually-speaking, why would gay men still need 'a hole' and lesbians an 'artificial penis' to satisfy? The normal way works best after all right?

Though some that are born gay (there are children as young as nine who tell their parents they're gay, and gay adults say they've been aware of their sexual orientation for as long as they can remember), but others become gay following homosexual abuse by the same sex in their childhood. I also believe there is a spirit of homosexuality that can rest on some families, i.e. the issue of the man who has three daughters and two of them are lesbians. I was like, wow, in one family? That's got to be a spiritual thing.

So I have a little understanding of the plight of gay people but a distaste for their demands. They are not normal in the full sense of the word, and no I would not want my child to be gay, simply because I wish for my children success, marriage, family and normalcy. And I want grandchildren the old-fashioned way. I don't want my child to be different all their lives or to be ashamed to face God because they feel innately inadequate.

What I don't have is hate for gay people. Why should I hate them simply because they are gay? I've known some lovely gay people, and they are often highly intelligent and hugely hilarious. What they do in their house is their business, but I don't want them to push their agenda or force me to accept their lifestyle as good and pleasing, because I believe it's still wrong to mate with your fellow sex. It's not normal. But if you're gay, it's absolutely fine with me. 

A gay acquaintance and I once quite happily co-existed in a plain of mutual unspoken disapproval about something hugely important to us: he disapproved of my faith, and I of his homosexuality. As long as we didn't go there we got on just fine. I would, for instance, watch a Gay Rights march with some interest, but not join in or cheer. But if one of the marchers got hurt in any ensuing violence, I would call for help and tend to them. I don't support what they do but I support their right to live, work and be.

And I believe there are Nigerians out there who are also viewing these hot debates with a pinch of salt. The world will not end if gays got married, but we don’t want to see them canoodling in the back-row at the cinemas either. The law has come, good, if it is repealed tomorrow, fine.

Recently I had dinner with a group of ex-pats and other returnees to Nigeria, and one of the women, upon hearing I was Fulani, asked me if the Fulani men she's seen dressed flamboyantly in tight, colourful tops and trousers, with their thin waists, long hair, pretty eyes enhanced with eyeliner and delicate ways are gay. I remember asking the same question myself when I came across a group of similarly-dandified Fulani young men. I am told they're not gay, they just like to dress that way. Fine. Odd, but fine.

They are also not, as far as I know, yan daudus, which are effeminate men from the North who dress like women and are mostly gay. No, this class of Fulani men just like to dress prettily, that's all.

So as a card-carrying member of the Casual Observers Group, I declare that nobody should be lynched or beaten or insulted or discriminated against for being gay, but homosexuals should also temper their demand for acceptance with sensitivity: not everyone likes what you do, so if you must, do it quietly and don’t make a scene.

That is all.

No Validations from Fulanis Required

When I first started this blog, I posted one of my blog posts on Nairaland, a popular website where Nigerians everywhere come together to discuss both serious and fun subjects relating to their country.

It was on that site that I enjoyed the acerbic Nigerian humour and saw that no matter where they were in the world, family, marriage, money, religion, patriotism, education and tribe remained important for Nigerians. Nairaland was my online entry into Nigeria before I physically arrived, and I landed at Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe airport equipped with knowledge about my countrymen.

I learnt a lot from the Nigerians on that site, but one interaction with a Fulani man in particular influenced my view about Fulanis and myself.

I’d posted a link to my blog and in response, the Fulani man proceeded to dismantle all I held sacred about my Fulaniness, calling me a fake, a fraud and a fool and regarding my religion as the greatest and most distasteful barrier towards my acceptance into Fulani-land. He stated that a Yoruba Muslim was more of a kin to him than me, a Fulani Christian, and other unpleasant things. What he said and what I felt gave birth to the post ‘You are a Fake Fulani.’

I started this blog to provide a Fulani voice in the plethora of Southern Nigerian voices online, and part of me also wanted to call attention to Fulanis out there and say: “Hey! Here I am! See, I’m just like you! Kind of anyway. So, what’s up? Let’s hang out.” I wasn’t in need of affirmation but I wanted to be welcomed, as if from a long journey away, and for them to say “Hey, sister! Welcome. Sit down, have some Fura da Nono. You look so much like our cousin Halima...” and other forms of easy acceptance. For them to say “We know you’re not quite ‘it’ but it’s OK. Fulanis of all kinds are welcome here.”

But that was before the Expert Fulani’s comments on Nairaland. It hurt. And it also made me stop requiring acceptance. I became Fulani all by myself: a rare, unique offshoot not seeking reintegration but just flourishing where I am.

Other Fulanis were happy that I was out there blogging, and I’ve since received a ton of kind words, with many Fulanis from around Africa happy to converse with kin online, a place where Fulanis rarely entered (or if they did, they were male or communicated in French or Arabic).

I’ve become pen-pals with some and even met a couple off-line. They’ve added immensely to my knowledge of myself and Fulanis (thank you all so much). Some have tried to convert me too, and my reticence in broaching the subject of religion with Fulani Muslims remains. I always feel like they feel I’ve done something terrible in becoming a Christian, and the issue is often so raw and immense and bigger than me that I avoid it altogether. Mostly Fulanis I meet online understand that I don’t need their approval, I’m just happy for their presence and acknowledgment and knowledge.

The funny thing is that my Fulani identity was rarely brought to the fore prior to my blogging. In England, being Black, being female, being a Christian, being British, being a journalist, being from South London and being Nigerian were all far more active parts of my being than being Fulani. That aspect of my identity was relegated to the background and only emerged as an act of will on my part, when I realised that I came from a little-known (in the West at least) yet highly admired people that were known as much for their beauty as their remoteness.

The exoticism of it all, and the pride in being able to claim as mine this almost mythical tribe of nomads – who settled in various African countries and had a distinct look that harkened to a history of migration from outside sub-Saharan Africa – was fascinatingly wonderful. Now I understood why I didn’t look like or behave like the usual Nigerians and why I took to Britishness better than others: there are aspects of Fulani culture, like the reserve and the modesty, that compliment British middle-class culture.

My family spoke little of our heritage. My father was no longer alive and his side of the family was largely unknown to me, and my mother was immersed in her Britishness and wasn’t given to talk of ‘the old country’ except to criticise it. My siblings didn’t care and we didn’t live among other Fulanis, so I got information about Fulaniness from an aunt and her husband, and at the time I was also dating a Nigerian with a Fulani mother so I got to know about various aspects of my culture. But there were also traces of my culture that was inherently known to me, I don’t exactly know how, and the more I read and heard the more I knew that I knew it. Like hearing the whispers of past generations or imbibing the instincts and culture that swirled around you invisibly, or receiving knowledge passed down through your blood and DNA.

I always knew I was Fulani, but I didn’t care until months before I started this blog.  

So to have someone shatter this new mirror I was now looking at myself through was not nice, but because being knowingly Fulani was a recent addition to my already robust identity, it wasn’t so bad. I’m pretty solid in my internal sense of self to not need external validation.

So I got over it, and over the years of blogging my Fulani identity evolved: at first it was a thirst for knowledge, then I married a man also of Fulani heritage who opened my eyes even more to Fulaniness so that it became a familiar enough reality to put to one side, like a new present at Christmas you receive and explore with a hot desire that cools by Boxing Day.

Then a recent comment on the ‘You’re a Fake Fulani’ post by Raji Bello brought back memories of the earlier rejection, only this time my reaction was anger, not hurt. He  said that I was of Fulani origin but I was not Fulani, and my claims to being Fulani were weak. I was like, wait, do you presume to think that I need your permission to be who I am? Later I realised that he didn’t mean any harm, and the truth was that ‘authentic’ Fulanis will always raise their eyebrows and say ‘Hmmmm’ when they hear my story.

Then a follow-up comment on the same post by Aliyu Wali, which spoke about the difference between how I saw myself and how Fulanis see me, brought it all home: I will never be Fulani in the full sense of the word.

Now on the one hand it’s sad, but on the other hand, it doesn’t matter at all. Mostly because such intense discussions of my Fulani identity only occur online; I haven’t surrounded myself with full-blooded Fulanis in the real world (besides, rejection in person would be harder to take), and everybody else in Nigeria sees my Britishness more than anything else. But even if I got their acceptance, what then? It wouldn’t make me taller or wealthier.

I’m loved by God and wonderful people, that’s what matters. I’m just happy to have people reading and learning and enjoying my blog and engaging with me, and I’m even happier to discuss these things with other Fulanis, because I’d never heard their opinions on anything before.

So today, one part of my Fulaniness is an unquenchable glow within, and the other part is fragments I’ve gathered and stuck together. It’s incomplete and crooked and fragile and not as whole as other people’s, but I cherish it and I wear it on my lapel along with the other badges of my identity. The Fulani badge is one of the smallest but often shines the brightest, and sometimes I even forget it’s there, hidden amongst the more robust identities. But when I remember, I touch it and smile.

My Updated View of Fulanis Since Being in Nigeria

I had my predictions, presumptions and presuppositions about Fulani people before I came to Nigeria. Now that I’m here, I’m still looking from the outside in, like a long lost daughter peering through the window at her family eating dinner inside; they unaware of her desire to join them, she not knowing if entering their world would be a good idea. Would they let her in? Or shoo her away because despite her affiliation, she is forever changed?

But there are a few things I thought about Fulanis whilst in England that now I’m in Abuja I see was wrong or not quite the whole story:

WOMEN’S EDUCATION

Pre-Nigeria: I thought that very few Fulani women were educated up to Masters Level, educated abroad, had PhDs or held any high offices in business or other reputable professions.

Post-Nigeria: I’ve seen, met and read about many educated, professional Fulani women; from psychiatrists to editors and most things in between and  with international qualifications, mainly from Arab (majority-Islamic) countries. But these women are the fortunate ones that were born into the upper and political classes.

There are also many local schools specialising in the education of Nomadic Fulani children in Northern Nigeria. From what I saw, all were in deplorable conditions and lacked adequate furnishings or school materials, and the little Fulani children where crowded into tiny rooms. Also, the families of many nomadic Fulani girls refuse to send them to school or allow them to progress past secondary education.

 A (dilapidated) nomadic school in Northern Nigeria

I read a lot of Nigerian newspapers and watch a lot of Nigerian news, and noticed that the Fulani men featured wrote and spoke at a standard far above the average Nigerian (I hope you won’t mistake this for ethnic bias!), and I can say this with authority being a sub-editor for a newspaper here, that the general writing standard in Nigeria, even for editors is shockingly poor, except for the very few bright sparks and many of those were Fulanis.

RESPECT FOR CHRISTIANITY

Pre-Nigeria: Fulanis are fiercely Islamic and disliked Christians, Fulani Christians and converts.

Post-Nigeria: Its true that most Fulanis are devoutly Muslim, but the fact that they originally adhered to traditional religions was noticeable because of the ways a few local Fulani men dressed (in tight, effeminate clothing) unlike other muslims.

Another surprising thing is hearing from the mouths of a couple of high-profile Fulanis about their admiration for the Bible, Jesus and Mary. It seemed that the older and more educated some of them became, the more they were able to appreciate the wisdom in the Bible without allowing it to conflict with their Muslim faith. I dare say that some upper-class Fulanis even admire Christianity and would have explored the faith at a deeper level if not for the societal taboos inherent in questioning Islam and looking too closely at Christianity.

CHILD HERDERS

Pre-Nigeria: Fulani cow herders were almost always grown men.

Post-Nigeria: Fulani herders are usually young children and teenagers and even young girls too grazed cows.

TRIBAL FIGHTING

Pre-Nigeria: The Fulanis were guarded, shy and soft-spoken people who herded mostly in isolation from other tribes

Post-Nigeria: There have been many reports since I’ve been in Nigeria of Fulani herdsmen clashing with neighbouring tribes because of grazing grounds issues. Recently in Benue State, some Idoma youths killed five Fulani men and their cows because the cattle were destroying their crops.  Similar clashes occurred in Jos but this time the Fulanis were the agitators. This unrest between Fulanis and neighbouring tribes was something I was unaware of before I came to Nigeria.

The remains of a Fulani settlement after the Benue State clash

UNCONVENTIONAL FULANIS

Pre-Nigeria: Fulanis were strictly muslim and reserved and avoided scandal or mixing with other tribes.

Post-Nigeria: I should have known that that was a naive view to have. I’ve since been regaled by stories of unusual (to me) Fulani behaviour including the brilliant Fulani university lecturer in his 60s who had never been married and never wanted to marry. Although he was generous, renovating an entire wing of the university with his own money, he stated that he was more successful because he was single. 

Or stories of young Fulani men in Anambra State that hung out in bars, drank beer and spoke pidgin English and Igbo with the best of them. Imagine! And of Fulani women who were less than virtuous and did secret, nefarious deeds behind closed doors, both in Nigeria and in places like Dubai. That one tripped me the most. I always thought our women were bastions of morality (in Nigeria anyway, as I'm aware of ‘loose’ Fulani women in Francophone West African countries).

The moral of the story is that no matter how many books or documentaries you hear about a place, people or thing and how much you think you know, nothing beats first-hand information or seeing the thing for yourself. 

The Olympics and The Bragging Games

So the biggest event to ever happen in my dear city of London is the Olympics, and I miss it completely. OK not completely, I got to watch the whole thing on TV.

I was impressed with the legends that Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and Mo Farrah, welled up with emotion singing the British national anthem at the medal ceremonies, was disappointed with the weird and lackluster opening ceremony (the best bit was the Queen jumping out of the helicopter) kinda liked the closing ceremony, especially the Spice Girls and Oasis singing Wonderwall; and disappointed that the small African country of Gabon won a silver medal, and even Afghanistan won something yet Nigeria came home with nothing.

Anthony Obame from Gabon won a Silver medal in Taekwondo

My family were on holiday away from England during much of August so I decided to postpone my visit home until later in the year, but I still went through a mini depression wishing I was back in London to experience everything live. Many people I knew had tickets to the games or were volunteers and others told me about the electric atmosphere that was charged all around the city, and I was kicking myself that I wasn't there. 

Now I’m planning to be in Rio in four years for the 2016 Olympics. But seeing that seven years ago, when London first won the bid to host the games, I’d planned that by 2012 I’d be married with five kids, be the editor of my own lifestyle magazine, own a house in South London and watch all the track and field events live with my family, I now know that things don’t always happen as planned. I would never have imagined I’d be living and working in Abuja with new and wonderful friends and family in 2012. It’s amazing how plans and desires can change.

   

Speaking of new friends, I’ve been in Nigeria long enough now to note one major difference between how Nigerians interact compared with the British: Bragging. Whether insidious, implied or obvious, when a group of people come together in Nigeria they jostle for position; who has foreign education, who lives in or visited (or their mother/brother/uncle lives in or visited) the UK or US, who has the most expensive designer thing from abroad etc.

Now, my British friends and I would find such ‘showing off’ distasteful. The British way is to be modest and mention your achievements when necessary. I once worked in an office in London with PhD Doctors and reputable engineers, and I had no idea until I was privy to their employment records, and found out that at least five of my co-workers had many published books to their name and were somewhat celebrated in their fields. I mentioned this to them and one blushed, and I jokingly insisted on calling another one ‘Dr’ and he laughingly declined, telling me not to be so silly.

But in Nigeria, such men and women would insist on everyone addressing them as Dr so and so and would find every opportunity to ‘casually’ mention their doctorate or study abroad, and would believe they were better than their non-lettered colleagues.

I have models, editors, chattered accountants, film makers and well-traveled people amongst my group of friends, but we wouldn't dream of recounting our every accomplishment when we got together. But not so in Nigeria. Here people find reasons to continuously mention their foreign experiences, the purchase of their 'authenticly foreign' weave/iPad/washing machine/designer bag.

Not everyone does it, but too many do. I find it all unnecessary and uncouth. But I guess it’s different for me: where visiting London is considered something to shout about for them, I grew up there. Where buying a washing machine is impressive here, such appliances are standard installations in houses where I come from. And where buying a bag imported from Italy is noteworthy here, my friends and I go to Italy to buy such bags.

So I find myself retreating from such conversations. I don’t want ladies to compete with me in a game I have no intention of playing, and even if I were to play, would win anyway. And many times people lie to make their lives seem more fabulicious than it really is. It’s silly, exhausting and sad. And I find that when I casually mention something about my life in England, to them it’s like I've upped the ante and they feel challenged to offer their own fantastic story.

My friend in Ghana (we left England together at the same time) also reports of such ‘Bragging Games’ among Ghana’s high-flying young people, where some girls falsify their accents in comical ways to prove they’ve lived abroad; one girl always managed to work in stories about her time studying for her Masters in Atlanta into every conversation, and one guy spent 10 minutes displaying his various mobile phones and recounting how much each cost.  

It’s slightly worrying really. Here we are, my friend and I, trying to embrace our Africanness, recapture the culture we’d lost or forgotten and play down our ‘otherness’ in the motherland, whilst our African peers are busy trying to prove their Westernness by feverishly attaining the trappings of Western culture that we think little of in order to gain respect.

Sometimes, if you can’t beat them you join them. But not me. My inherent Fulani-shyness and adopted British reserve merge together to prevent me from all the braggadacious displays of Western-originated wealth or education, or revel in the celebrity this brings. I was never into all those status symbols and expensive fashions whilst in England anyway, and I’m not about to enter that world now.

Sure I speak of my experiences, but only when asked or when it’s genuinely relevant. To do otherwise would be vulgar.

My Sad Thoughts After Fulani Gunmen Kill Hundreds

Being a member of a people, and having your identity linked to a tribe is fantastic when all is well and you are a source of curiosity and a fountain of knowledge and insight to many worldwide, as has been my experience as a rare Fulani blogger.

It is wonderful when I receive compliments, when others tell of their fine memories and experiences of my people, and when Fulanis from all around Africa contact me in a show of kinship. I am pleased when people tell me that I am the first Fulani person they have had a conversation with and that they find us fascinating. I am happy when some say that after meeting me, they are convinced that the saying that all my people's women are beautiful is true, and I am thrilled when women remark on how lovely and soft my natural hair is due to my Fulani genes.

I gladly lap up these compliments and hold my head up high, feeling privileged to be part of such a unique heritage.

So what am I to do, when news reports emerged last weekend that 100 Fulani gunmen dressed in army camouflage and bullet-proof vests descended on a number of neighbouring villages in Jos, Nigeria to massacre the unsuspecting inhabitants at dawn in co-ordinated attacks that killed hundreds?

The suspected herdsmen burnt down many houses, and in one Pastor's residence 50 corpses burnt beyond recognition were found as the victims had gathered there to hide from the invading herdsmen, who then surrounded the house and set it on fire, with some gunmen standing at the door shooting down those who tried to escape.

Then, during the mass funeral of some of the victims attended by lots of people including senators, the gunmen returned and opened fire on the mourners, killing two of the senators and many others. Everyone fled, leaving over 100 corpses unburied.

Mass burials following the gun attacks in Jos

What am I to do with the outrage, shame, anger, disbelief, pain and embarrassment I feel upon hearing these reports? Whether the perpetrators where Fulani or not, it is still widely believed, reported and repeated - by all Nigerians from Politicians making heartfelt speeches in the National Assembly of outrage imploring the President to do something about these terrorists, to street traders that shake their heads in disgust - that they were.

Even at my office, discussions inevitably turned to these atrocities and my colleagues voiced their anger and despair at the callousness of the 'Fulani Gunmen' crimes. And much to my horror (although I expected it) now and again someone would turn to me and say "Well, what do you think of your people now?" or "My dear, these are your people o!" or "Do you know why they did this?"

My answer was always "I really don't know what to say. I'm trying to keep a low profile." To which someone scoffed, stating "You keeping a low profile about your Fulaniness is like a homosexual wearing tight, loud clothing trying to keep a low profile at an anti-gay rally."

I got the point. Although no hate was directed at me, my link with the current enemy of the nation was obvious. I kept my head down and felt hot throughout the heated debate that day. I kept praying for the discussion to be over already and hoped that no one would say something along the lines of "All Fulanis are wicked!" or "I hate Fulanis." Thankfully no one did.

At another discussion of the killings with some friends, there were comments thrown around like "these Fulanis are so dangerous" and "Can you believe they can do such a thing? Over what, cows?" I just kept quiet.

Although I wouldn't call what I feel shame, it was certainly embarrassment and sadness. Fulani herdsmen have been known in the past for acts of violence against town-dwellers whose land their cattle grazed on. It was said that the herders allowed their cows to trample on and devour other people's land and crops and got into fierce arguments when challenged. It was also said that if you mistakenly kill one of their cows they would exact terrible revenge on you, and often tried to claim land that wasn't theirs.

But now the Fulanis will be known  for something exceptionally worse: mass murder. Some even call the coordinated attacks in Jos genocide, as it affected villages inhabited by a particular tribe.

Whoa.

The Fulani Gunmen were eventually linked to Boko Haram, the Islamic sect that had been terrorising much of Northern Nigeria. However, some say that the gunmen, and indeed many Boko Haram members, are not Nigerians at all but men from Niger and other surrounding African countries who were recruited into Boko Haram.

I don't know.

All I know is that if it indeed was Fulani men that did this, then they have no only sullied the reputation of a whole tribe but also added to the current instability and fear that others have of Nigeria. They are helping to make our country a no-go area and are making one of the more beautiful parts of Nigeria - Jos- a nightmare for its inhabitants, who now have to endure crippling curfews, blocked roads and military check-points everywhere. They have also created a whole load of widows and orphans.

Following these recent atrocities, I'm tempted to keep a low-profile. I never went around boasting about my heritage in the first place, but until all this blows over, I will no longer be so happy to say that I am Fulani.

My Fulani Experience In Nigeria So Far...

In England, people usually got my ethnicity wrong, were surprised when I told them the truth and I had to tell the story of my background so many times. But in Nigeria...it’s the exact same story!

The only difference is that here people sometimes guess I am Fulani thanks to their familiarity with my people and my resemblance to my kin. But the wonder still persist. Here are the top four questions I get asked the most, in no particular order:

“Are you Nigerian?”

“Which state are you from?”

“Is that a Fulani name?” (It’s not)
"Do you speak Fulfude?" (Sadly, I don't)

So even in my own country, I remain a source of fascination regarding my origin. I thought I’d fit right in, no questions needed to be asked, my membership to my tribe would be obvious and my sense of belonging would be complete. Nope.

But a good thing is that, like I said, people are obviously more familiar with Fulanis in Nigeria than in England. Many Southerners, upon finding out which town/village I come from, tell me stories of their experiences with the town either through doing their NYSC Youth Service there or through business, and tell me how nice the place is. I then tell them I've never been there but would love to go. I've also met non-Fulanis from my state which was interesting.

People also have their own stereotypes and notions of us. I’ve been told by various people that Fulanis are:

1. Very intelligent, especially when educated

2. Never forgive

3. Calm, gentle and polite

4. Shy

5. Are loyal friends

6. Are disliked by some Southerners for their violence
7. Are beautiful and graceful
8. Are a mystery

I’ve met many more Fulanis in the few months I’ve been in Abuja than I did in all my life in the UK, and they fall into three categories:

Older Rich Fulanis: Who are often very nice, informative and interested in my upbringing and background, although I do feel odd and almost apologetic about my appearance when I'm with them, in that they're used to Fulani women covered up from head to toe, and here I am in a suit/jeans/dress.

Young Fulani Ladies and Gentlemen: I've met them at parties, weddings and through friends. The wealthy Muslims are very nice, but stick together and I don't really fit in there with them. The few Christians I've met (who are often bi-ethnic: one parent Fulani and the other from another tribe) are more open, but I normally hang out with Northern, Hausa speaking Christians from a variety of tribes I'd never heard of before coming to Abuja. 

Poor Fulanis: Usually herding cattle numbering from 10 cows to 200. Sometimes the cattle would walk leisurely across the road and delay cars. I see them as I drive past and I've noticed that 80% of the time, the herders are kids no more than 16 years old, both male and female. (Below are pictures of some Fulanis living near my area, taken by a photography colleague)

A Family of Fulani women and children

 A Fulani-designed Calabash

 

 A little boy outside his hut

I once saw a little Fulani girl-herder, no more than 5 years old. She had an ashy face, over-sized slippers on her tiny feet and her clothes hung off her. She was confidently beating the cow closest to her with a long stick so it would move faster. I stared at her from the car window and she looked back at me with both the innocence of a child and the confidence of a skilled herder.

I kick myself every time I think about her for not taking a picture, but then again, somehow I'm glad I didn't because that would be rude, an invasion of her privacy. I would feel like a voyeuristic Westerner, there to gawp at and flash a camera at the poor child as she went about her business, so that she would become a commodity for others to stare at and pity. But for economics and the grace of God, that little girl could have been me.

I've also seen Fulani teenage girls; long, slender and graceful, carrying a tray of some local food or other on their heads for sale. I've also seen the men going about their business. I often make the mistake of confusing Kanuri people for Fulanis because they look very similar in appearance.

Kanuri Women

I also once saw a strange sight: two tall, slender Fulani men wearing tight, colourful, too-short trousers, colourful tops and what seemed like make-up on their faces. Their hair was long and plaited and they stood at the side of the road, totally oblivious and unself-conscious about their vibrant appearance. I was shocked! I was then told that that's how some young Fulani men dress. Hmmm....

I've never wished I spoke Fulfude more than I do now I'm in Abuja. Because here Hausa is no longer a novelty as literally everybody in Abuja speaks it, even the Yorubas and Ibos. They speak it better than me  because it's the lingua-franca here, just like Yoruba is the lingua-franca in Lagos. Of course the non-native Hausas speak it with a heavy accent, but they're fluent nonetheless. So to speak Fulfude would not only be a source of pride, but give me an edge over the Hausa speakers. 

I blame my parents. My paternal grandmother only spoke Fulfude, not even Hausa, but we didn't visit her enough and she's long gone, and my parents' generation mostly speak Hausa.

So here I am, a non-Fulfude speaking Fulani who's never been to her town or village. I must be the least Fulani Fulani in the history of Fulanidom.

I recently heard a great speech from a Nigerian elder statesman Alhaji Maitama Sule, who is a former politician revered for his inspirational oratory, eloquence and wisdom. He encouraged Nigerian politicians to become more like the Fulani herdsman, imploring them to adopt many of the characteristics of the herder. He then explained how each herder knew each of their cows by name, and when each cow is called by its name, it separates itself from the others and dutifully walks towards the herder. The cows also understand and obey instructions in Fulfude.

The herdsman sleeps out in the open with the cows, eats when they eat and rests when they rest, and if a cow is in danger, he risks his life to ensure their safety. His purpose in life is to ensure his cattle's well-being and because he would lay down his life for them, they follow him wherever he goes because they trust him and know he has their best interests at heart.

Alhaji Sule also said that in the holy books, all the great leaders and prophets were herdsmen.

The strength of the bond between the herder and his cattle was eye-opening for me, and I gained a higher level of respect for him. The cows are not just their livelihood and symbol of wealth, but also their responsibility and almost like their children.

Alhaji Sule's desire for Nigerian politicians to emulate the lowly Fulani herdsman as the epitome of servant-leadership was a vivid and compelling argument.

I was proud.