Fulani Herdsmen and The Lady in Red Skirt: A Short Story

When the Holy Bible was handed me to swear by it, although I would have preferred to swear by Sagbona or Ayelala or Asanda because the Christian God, unlike the African God, is too quiet and merciful - not-a-wait-and-get-God, I held my breath. The Christian God very rarely strikes liars; and this perhaps is the reason why corrupt politicians hardly die in office these days.

Facing the slender, stern-looking clerk who stood before me, I raised my right hand high in the thick, suffocating air of the courtroom and placed my left hand, the bible held in firm clasp, on my pulsating chest and then I repeated the following words after him.

"I, Gandhi Green, the son of S. J Green, do solemnly swear to tell this noble court the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the whole truth. So help me God. Amen."

The oath sworn, my breath released, and then I started: My Lord, although the media and the spokespersons of the broom and of the umbrella have given different accounts of this story, each party twisting the truth like the neck of a tap to soothe or incite the public, I shall now give this noble court an unbiased, eyewitness account of what is now known in the whole of Afikpo, and indeed Igboland, as the story of the Fulani Herdsmen and the Lady in Red Skirt.

My Lord, the tides of fate is strong and mighty. It sweeps man directionlessly, often against his wish, on the vast ocean of life. It was the tide of fate, my Lord, through the NYSC, that swept my Yoruba feet some years ago across the Niger, to Igboland. It is on this strange ground that I became eligible to give this testimony before you.

Ah, my Lord, the Igbos are a great people. They have great cities and their hands are not weak in tilling the red earth left behind by their ancestors. They are not slothful in business, proud possessors of pretty ladies, too, and many big bars where bottles of brukutu and Isi Ewu pepper soup are mouthwateringly served to those who can pay. And permit me to say, Your Lordship, that my service year was full of awe and splendor, awe and splendor from the many parties I attended.

The people of Afikpo have the custom of celebrating weddings towards the December and the January of every year. During this period indigenes gather from far and near like ants near a cube of sugar to celebrate the marriage of their loved ones. Whether these marriages are endogamous or exogamous do not matter, My Lord, the celebrations are usually matchless, marked by plenty fufu and vegetable soup with goat meat and untainted palmwine.

The story which was told in Achebe's Things Fall Apart (Chapter Five) of a certain wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side could not see what was happening on the other, and it was not until late evening that one of them saw for the first time his in-law who had arrived during the course of the meal and had fallen to on the opposite side. It was only then that they exchanged greetings and shook hands over what was left of the food, is very true. As a matter of fact the testimony I now give before this noble court took place in one of those wedding ceremonies where Pounded Yam and Goat meat were ridiculed.

One Saturday afternoon, the party virus planted in my Yoruba blood led my feet to a colourful wedding ceremony which I learnt afterwards was between the daughter of a former Minister and the nephew of a former Governor of Enugu State. My Lord, I cannot tell the colour of dress the groom and his bride put on during the matrimonial rites conducted in the big Anglican church near the market place. But, My Lord, I was at the wedding reception which took place on the open field of St. Augustine Missionary School, where two parallel queues of white canopies faced each other like two wrestlers ready for a fight.

At the far end of the two long queues was a magnificently built canopy standing on sprawling yards of red carpet with two high, golden chairs, the bride and the groom sitting on each, smiling. The local band played eagerly and, from the table I sat which was shared by a lady in red skirt, I laughed wildly at the neck of the trumpeter which kept contrasting rhythmically like the throat of a python swallowing a goat.

When the black-and-white-wearing waiters came to our table, I ordered four wraps of fufu each as large as the head of that lawyer sitting over there....

"Objection My Lord"
"Objection overruled, go on Gandhi Green."

Yes My Lord. I also ordered for some goat meat pepper soup tinged with the local leaf Yorubas call Efirin. The lady in red skirt, which I had never met until that day and would never meet, ordered a plate jollof rice and chicken and a bottle of soft drink. The orders arrived concomitantly and the waiter, who had just noticed the NYSC cap on my sloppy head said "Copa Shun Kedu?". I smiled and he walked away.

As I settled to eat, My Lord, I noticed for the first time that herds of cattle under the command of some Fulani herdsmen were gazing far far away, about 1500 metres away. At once my heart trembled, trembled for no apparent reason. So I pounced on the wraps of fufu, my eyes colliding with the eyes of the fair lady in red skirt across the table. And then My Lord it happened, it happened so fast.

Raising my head, a lump of fufu trapped in my throat, I saw a hefty white cow with a cleft horn charging madly towards the canopy under which I sat. Ah, raw fear flowed through my veins and I sprang to my feet at once, esteeming my life above the delicious meal on my table. My NYSC cap fell into the dish of vegetable soup before me but I didn't mind. I ran. But the lady in red skirt was not lucky, for her Chi was sound asleep. Before she could stand to her feet, the charging cow, full of vigour and madness, buried its cleft horn into the face of the lady in red skirt and stood over her.

The awful cry of Chineke Chineke Chineke filled the air as everyone scampered to safety. The beast kept kicking the lady in red skirt, who was too hurt and frightened to cry, and everyone kept shouting Chineke Chineke Chineke as if Chineke was the lady's name. A tall, handsome-looking herdsman who wielded an AK 47 and a rod soon arrived. The herdsman brandished his rod and the seemingly mad cow fell to command and returned to join the herd. He looked at the lady in red skirt, now covered with dust and blood, shook his head and walked away. The lady in red skirt slept in the mortuary that night.

Afikpo boiled like yam that evening. The youths carried matchets and decided to march to the settlement of the Fulani herdsman to slaughter them but an old man cleverly advised them to be calm, that the Fulani herdsman have AK 47. The old man said, "my children let Chineke fight your fight. Let Chineke judge your disputes. I saw the war and would rather kill himself than see another war. Now go home to your wives and mothers."

The next day a Fulani Emir issued a statement saying that no Fulani herdsman could be blamed for the death of the lady in red skirt in Afikpo because the lady ought to have known that cows charge when they see anything red. And the Igbo community became more furious, wondering the height of Fulani hegemony.

However, about a week later the Igbo community became very happy when a major newspaper reported that the deceased lady in red skirt was Aisat Musa, a Fulani corps member posted to Ebonyi State two months earlier. This was when the lady in red skirt became a human being, for the Sultan condemned the first statement issued by the Emir for being insensitive and called for the probe of the death of the lady in red skirt. "The cow and the owner of the cow must be punished and the family of Aisa Musa must be compensated," the Sultan said.

This is my testimony, My Lord, can I get off this goddamned dock now?

Ademule David is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets.

Source: http://facebook.com/thesocialmicroscope

A nice piece and use of words

Cool story

PWEETYWIZZY:
A nice piece and use of words

Thanks friend.

Nyc story