Different

Each time you read or hear stories of gruesome killings by bandits suspected to be Fulani herdsmen in eastern Nigeria, especially in Enugu, that calm, gangly Fulani man creeps into your memory. You no longer remember his name, but for the sake of this story, you chose to address him as Abdul.

During your school days at Enugu State University of Science and Technology, you lived in Umueze-Awkunanaw, just a stone’s throw from the university premises, not very far from that small, not-flowing-steady stream you’d always cross and proceed to the school’s Faculty of Natural Sciences. Your landlady who, together with her family, was evacuated home from Jos during the religious crisis of 2000 that claimed all she’d acquired in the north—including her two houses—was producing and supplying palm oil to retailers coming to Umueze from far and near. With her thick Hausa accent (this, of course, didn’t limit her from flowing in her own Nkanu dialect), she was personably jovial, which could be the major reason many people, especially the northerners living in the village and its environs, had always paid her a visit. It was in one of those visits that you came to know Abdul, a Fulani herdsman. You’ve always remembered him.

At Umueze, through the apian way that cut across the shrine of Nvene the dibịa, Abdul would always walk to your residence on Sundays, after mass, his slippers making a tapam-tapam sound. As if he knew how eager you were to learn Hausa, as if he was aware you’d lived in Kaduna for one year and six months, Abdul would say, “Sanu,” as he walked past you to meet your landlady under the shady ube tree, where they would sit and talk and laugh in Hausa. You’d always loved the calm, friendliness of their voices as they exchanged words in Hausa. You wished you could also flow like them.

Occasionally, on those visits, Abdul would assist your landlady in sorting akwụ—palm fruits. Oftentimes, she would hurry to her kitchen and come out with a plate of abacha and akịdị. Abdul would smile, say, “Nagode,” in a smooth voice and begin to enjoy his delicious meal. Many a time, when he was set to go, your landlady would hurry to the kitchen and scoop many cups of garri into a plastic bag and say, “Gashi.” Surprised, Abdul would say, “Haba, Hajiya,” and thank her immensely.

Behind—not very far from the ube tree where Abdul and your landlady always sat—your landlord, a podgy, hilarious man, would sit in his armchair, watching, giggling, nodding in agreement as they conversed in a cosy manner. Sometimes, he would chip in one or two words in their conversation, his Igbo accent overshadowing his ‘shabby’ flow in Hausa, unlike his wife. Some other times, he would decide to be completely mute. You couldn’t exactly tell what was actually going on in his mind at those moments, but you believed he never suspected any fowl play between Abdul and his wife, unlike some jealous men do when they see their wives having a long, friendly talk with other men.

Did your landlady—a hardworking, virtuous woman—even have time for such a dirty game? Did she even have enough time for herself, let alone think of other ‘irrelevant’ things? Her able-bodied, handsome husband was ever there for her, after all.

On each of his visits, Abdul always came along with a white can of fresh nunu—raw cow milk extracted from the breasts of his cows. He would drop it on a pavement, very close to the spot where your landlord’s armchair was permanently positioned. One Sunday evening, after Abdul had left, your landlady called on you and your roommate, Ifeanyi, and asked if you’d like to take some nunu. Your roommate said, “No,” his face’ changed, as though he had stepped on a heap on shit. Ifeanyi had not tasted the raw cow milk before. But you went inside your room and brought a plastic jug. Your landlady filled it with the nunu. Then, she gave you some fura and taught you how to mix it for an enticingly delightful taste.

One Saturday afternoon, in a harmattan season, when you and your housemate, Chidume, together with about four other female undergraduates living close to your apartment, went to Umueze bush to pluck some icheku, you saw Abdul and his fellow herders tending to their grazing cattle in the bush. They didn’t wield any gun as the disguised herdsmen of these days allegedly do. You only saw sticks held in their hands, sticks with which they tended to their mass of cattle. When you greeted, “Yaya aiki?” Abdul smiled and replied, “Lafiya,” exposing his kola nut-stained teeth.

Each time you saw Abdul in your residence, you’d always remember that breathtaking story your sister, Jully, told you about their kindhearted Hausa Muslim landlord in Kaduna; of how she, as well as other tenants of her residence, escaped death during the religious crisis of 2000 that claimed thousands of lives and properties. According to her, almost all the Igbo Christians in their neighborhood were killed by Hausa/Fulani Muslims during the religious crisis. The killers, Sister Jully said, were going from house to house very early in the morning, forcing all the Christians out of their apartments, slaughtering them like chickens. Stories also have it that many evil Muslim landlords were the ones leading the bandits to their houses to massacre their Christian tenants. But your sister said their landlord was different; he didn’t let his tenants get killed by the barbaric Hausa/Fulani Muslims.

According to Sister Jully, on sensing that his fellow armed Muslim brothers were about marching to his house to drag his Christian tenants out and get them all killed, he hurried home and harbored them in his inner room, where no one had access to. When he saw the armed killers trooping to his compound from afar, he hurried to his gate and waylaid them, convincing them that all his Christian tenants had all departed. But when the heartless killers turned back to proceed to another Christian-filled compound, the landlord quickly hurried to the secluded room, dressed them all in Hausa attire—the females wearing long hijabs and the males dressed in kaftans—and conveyed them to the nearest barracks for safety.

With yours mind’s eyes, you saw Sister Jully’s landlord in Abdul. What a different man! However, it’s quite undisputable that in the past few years, shocking killings by terrorists believed to be herdsmen have continued to be the talk of the day. Their barbaric attack on the people of Nimbo community in Enugu state still horrifies you. But each time people tell you that every herdsman is barbaric, you’ve always believed there are many exceptions. Abdul is a good example of such. Yes, the innocent Abdul, as well as a good number of others, exists. And it’s no wrong if their stories are told.

A few months ago, when the news about the herdsmen attack on the people of Nkanu in Enugu was reported, Abdul crept into your mind. When a catholic priest, Reverend Fr. Paul Offu, was reportedly shut by armed men suspected to be Fulani herdsmen on Ihe-Agbudu road, in Awgu, Enugu State, you reasoned if Abdul had a hand in the clergyman’s gruesome murder; or if he knew anyone among the cohorts responsible for the ‘sacrilegious’ assassination.

Is Abdul now among the terrorists who disguise themselves as herdsmen, killing innocent people? No, you believe he still remains whom he used to be—a good man, not a killer Fulani herdsman. He’s just different.

Photo Credit: Nigerian Tribune.