THE RUSTLER

There was a cornfield at the back of our house in Jos, owned by a neighbour. It was well tended and had the promise of a healthy yield. Then one late morning when I happened to be at home, I heard a sound akin to the one shears make when they come in contact with a bush, followed by the shrilly voice of my neighbour. I went outside to see what was causing the ruckus and saw her swearing at a herdsman for allowing his cows to have a free run at her corns. When she finished berating him, the man impassively called to his cows and they departed. The scene repeated itself several times over and continued until my family moved away from Jos.

Some years later, during my youth service in Igbanke, Edo state, I came upon a similar scene while taking a walk. A farmer stood yelling at a herdsman who had allowed his cows to have a go at his tall corns. The herdsman stepped up to the farmer and yelled back at him. The cattle continued with their battering. The farmer fumed. Herdsman remained impassive. Cows kept munching. I seethed silently.

What I saw was pure unadulterated evil, for the residents of Igbanke were majorly farmers, and their land rewarded their hard work with healthy crops. But, here was this man; pus, blighting someone’s hard earned yield and caring less about it. His cows had more rights over the corns than the farmer. I like the Fulani. I enjoyed their fura da nunu, danbu, and kindirim. I admired their colourful and eccentric attires and bohemian lifestyle. I viewed them through a romantic lens until that incident at Igbanke.

Back to Jos and in the present, herdsmen and farmers are having a bloodbath. The sign had been there, we looked away. We can no longer look away, it has hit the fan now and we all are spattered with the mess. To put an end to the vicious cycle, I believe herdsmen and cattle should be herded together and kept behind four walls, be it a ranch or a reservation. Neither will suit them, but they need to get with the times. Fortunately, we have the right man for the job occupying Aso Villa. The perfect poster child for what could become of a hemmed in nomad.

WINGS

WINGS.

We had been travelling for hours. She was doing between 100 and 120. The journey had been smooth and quite interesting. It had been pure joy just taking in the plains and hills; being able to see through trees to the hills, having left the dense foliage of the Southwest where we began our journey behind. The sun was at its peak, glaring down at the asphalt-covered roads as the car ate up the miles.

Then we hit the long stretch of road between Okene and Lokoja. No curves.  No bends. The more miles you devoured, the more you see taunting you. There was a certain vehicle ahead of us, which was moving at a regular speed. She was chafing.  It wasn’t living up to its potential and she felt held back. Then she lost her patience. She stepped on the gas and moved up to overtake it. The road was single carriage and the thought of expanding it had not yet been conceived. When she decided she’d had enough there was a 14-wheeler coming down the other lane. Her mind, however, was made up. She faced the oncoming vehicle and flashed her lights. I could hear the truck’s horn blaring. The driver of the truck flashed his own lights in warning.

I caught the eyes of the driver of the vehicle we were overtaking as she drew level with him. They were incredulous. She hit 140. She made it. We made it by a hair’s breadth. My spirit came back from where it had fled.

She gave the truck driver thumbs up as she returned to her lane. Apparently, he’d stepped on the brake at the last minute, or something. I exhaled and she chuckled. My siblings were silent in the back seat. What we'd witnessed was better lived. She didn’t look back. She kept flying. She never went less than 120, eating up the miles and dusting other cars. It was as if that feat freed her, gave her wings to fly and boy, did she fly.  She was the only female driver on the road as far as I could tell. Whenever we got to any checkpoint, the men, with a hail and how do you do waved her on.

Finally, we got to our destination. The FCT, with its expanse of roads and no congestion, and She started doing 80 until we reached home.

There were several trips like that. Sometimes ours would be the lone car on the road for some distance in the dead of the night, like 1 a.m. she at the wheels, me beside her and my younger ones sleeping at the back. Travelling across the length of the country with her, revealed the woman she was to me. She was not one to be contained. She needed to fly. And, found her wings. I can’t imagine how her life would have turned out if her wings had been clipped. Vesuvius would have been child’s play to her eruption.

© Olamide O. Longe.