You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You count your fingers on both hands and exhale. Repeat. Slowly you feel the tension flow down like a languid river, tingling at your fingertips and then up, up away. For a little over a fortnight, when all that remained of the campfire are glowing embers, you sit here alone with your memories; your dreams; your visions. The rat-a-ta-ta of someone’s AK-47, probably Danlami, fades away into the night. He does this to frighten wild beasts lurking in the darkness or so he says. You don’t believe him though, he is probably just trigger happy.
When you open your eyes again you are 14. Kakanni’s voice drifts to you and wraps you in a selfish embrace. Sometimes it’s choking, threating to suck the wind out of your belly, other times it soothes like the intermittent breeze from Lake Chad on those warm May nights. Ever since Mama passed away seven seasons ago or thereabouts, when birthing Husseina and Hassana, Kakanni had taken care of you and your sisters. Baba, Ahmed and Nura travelled for miles in search of lush grass for the herd to graze on. Kakanni told the same stories every other night, whether in the mud house or open grounds, beneath the cloudless skies. She told you stories of warriors and jinns and water deities.
However when she told the story of the history of the land most of the children scampered away uninterested while others were lulled to sleep counting stars. You and Khadijah always listened with rapt attention, enchanted by the rasp in her voice as she rambled about a time when she was a little girl just like the twins. She told you of a time when the waters of the Chad stretched unending, teasing your eyes to squint just a little further. She stretched her hands far apart to express just how wide the lake was. The excitement in her voice grew as she remembered how they swam and washed along the banks of the lake. And fish, they caught them with their bare hands! She told you of the elephants and hippopotamus and crocodiles too that would all bask side by side at the lake.
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You and Khadijah exchanged conspiratorial looks and muffled laughter as you tried to imagine Kakanni as a little girl, tossing pebbles into the water and trying to catch slippery fishes. Your fingers brushed and you quickly pulled away.
“So what happened Kakanni, where did all the water go to?” Khadija asked
She sighs and closes her eyes. The wrinkles around her eyes are more visible. “It started with the rains. They did not come when they were supposed to. And when they did, it was only a drizzle followed by many hot days. And so we all relied on the lake. The herdsmen brought their cattle here, the farmers drew from it for their maize and wheat. We took and took without thinking of how to give back. We simply hoped that the rains will come again. But they never did and so as I grew bigger, the lake grew smaller.”
“That’s when the fights started toh?” You said with an air of intelligence. You could feel Khadija’s gaze of admiration on you.
She adjusted her wrapper. “Yes. That was when the tensions began. It first started among families who lay claim over parts of the lake that were yet to dry up; then between farmers and herdsmen and the fishermen too who wanted the other two to stop diverting water resources to their farms and cattle; this soon expanded into community against community. At the very centre of this struggle was water. Ruwa. Once a free gift from God, now rarer than precious stones.”
You remember the last clash that had occurred a few months ago over a felled drum of water. The fishermen returned with no catch for the third day in a row. Less catch for them meant less to sell and less to sell would leave wives and children hungry. In anger one of the fishermen, sour-faced Yisa, had angrily kicked a drum of water tipping over the contents unto the thirsty earth. The unfortunate drum belonged to a farmer but fortunately, due to the intervention of community elders, all that transpired was a few raised voices, bruised egos and a ripped blouse.
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But these days it seems that people are too hungry, too parched to stir trouble. Even the plants seem to face downwards more than towards the unrelenting sunshine. Everyone seems to have gone away in search of green lands and water bodies. Pleasant acquaintances that you said sannu when dawn broke and boys that you sat on mud fences eating donkwa with, all gone. You can hear a distant echo of their laughter. Danlami pokes you, breaking the reverie.
“Aboki, how are you?” He asks as he takes a seat beside on a fallen log.
“I am fine.” You reply as he rummages through his pocket and reaches for what you know is a cigarette. He lights and offers you a puff. You decline.
“I’m just wondering if my family is okay. If they are still looking for me or if they think I am dead.”
You have not told him or anyone how you became one of the most wanted band of rebels in the region. Today was your second year here, living among the Gmelina trees; hiding in the shadows and pillaging villages for food and supply. People called you thieves and rapists and liars because they did not understand your story, your journey. You were not like the others. You only took enough to eat. You never hurt people, especially the women and little children. And when you shed blood it was to protect yourself.
“I have not had any family for a long time my friend. These forests and the brothers are all I can remember. When I did not have a Baba or Mama, they were here for me.” Danlami says with an unusually heavy voice.
He grew up somewhere further down south where the trees blossomed most of the year and the earth was always moist. He told you of the patterns that had been established over years gone by, a time to plant and a time to harvest. Communities also knew that the herdsmen and their cattle with swishing tails and flies would visit for a few moons to graze and then wander off. But as the patterns changed, the herdsmen arrived earlier and left later. And as the dry weather lingered a little longer and rains arrived earlier, they refused to go away.
The clashes began when the cattle went beyond open land into farms. Crops were damaged, cattle slaughtered and people hacked. Danlami’s mother had gone to her farm one day to pluck some herbs to soothe his fever. He did not know what had happened to her only that she did not return when she was supposed to. Dusk. Dawn. Noon. Dusk again. This was when he stumbled to the farm in search of her. He never continued his story beyond this point. You imagined how it ended.
“We buried the remains of her body. But the battle was far from over. The villagers decided to fight. This only led to torched homes and people with nowhere to sleep. I managed to escape to the forests and met the band. They became my brothers and I gave my life in return. It has been good. Walahi, I am not proud of all the things I have done but I get by and pray Allah forgives me.”
Your story mirrors his but unlike him you belonged with the herdsmen. When you were finally of age, Baba allowed you to join your older brothers to lead the cattle to grasslands. You crossed stretches of green underneath azure skies wherever your feet led. Your fair skin bronzed underneath the sunshine; your limbs grew strong. You learnt about various types of plants, the ones that itched the skin and others with healing abilities.
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But your cattle wandered to hostile lands. Most times people welcomed you as you passed by. Sometimes they waved, other times they nodded in subtle acknowledgement. But these people seemed different, embittered perhaps by herdsmen who had come before you. It all happened in the moment it takes to sneeze but the aftermath left you scarred for many, many years. The cattle scuttled away and as for your brothers, you never knew what became of them. You had run without looking back. Until you found your way back to the same forests you had lived in since then.
“I too came here because I had nowhere to go. I hoped I would find refuge here and someone who could direct me back to my people, if they are still there…”
It hurts too much to go on. Danlami seems to understand. He reaches over and squeezes your shoulder. He can’t see you smile back at him as the last of the ember glows have been snuffed out. The moon is hidden behind the trees.
When you dream this night it will be very much the same. You will dream of campfires and Kakanni’s stories; Khadija’s warm gaze and wide open spaces. Tonight all the stars will be hidden beneath indigo clouds.
Maybe the rains will come in the morning.