One of the most exciting parts of my childhood was accompanying my father and siblings to the farm. As we walked through the bush, the sight of winding tracks left by passing cows always thrilled us. But nothing compared to the excitement of seeing the cows themselves approaching in the distance.
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Sometimes, my parents would exchange greetings with the herdsmen. These interactions sparked a quiet curiosity in me, especially as I noticed the small rain boots worn by Fulani children. They came in bright colours—blue, green, and yellow—and I found them fascinating.
Their home and cattle ranch were located a short distance from our farm. I was always struck by the unique architectural style of their houses. There was something quietly beautiful about them—simple, yet different from what we were used to.
I remember one particular afternoon vividly. After a long day on the farm, my father discovered a rabbit hole in the nearby bush. Eager for a chance at fresh meat, he decided to dig it out. As we gathered around to watch, two Fulani men appeared. They greeted us politely and began making enquiries. My mother, who could speak a bit of Hausa, engaged them in conversation.
It turned out that one of their cows had strayed during grazing the previous day. When they returned to the ranch in the evening, they realised it was missing and began a search. A few days later, they returned to inform us that they had found the missing cow—it had fallen into a hole and injured its leg, making it unable to move.
Our interaction with the Fulani wasn’t limited to the bush. Their women were regulars at the village market, bringing fresh cow milk (locally called nono), fura, and oil to sell. In return, they purchased foodstuffs and household items. What I found especially remarkable was their willingness to trade by barter. You didn’t need money to buy nono—a handful of cassava could get you a small cup in exchange.
Beyond market days, Fulani women would go from house to house selling nunu. My family always kept cassava or yams ready for trade whenever they came around. It was an exciting routine for us children.
One of our favourite moments was when a Fulani man visited and was offered boiled yam. We would gather around, amused and amazed as he ate. There was something ceremonial in how he did it—lifting his eyes to the sky as he munched, as if savouring the yam with reverence.
Back then, the relationship between Fulani herdsmen and local villagers was mutually respectful and peaceful. It was a time of genuine community. There were no reports of farmer-herder clashes, cattle rustling, and certainly no talk of attacks. These were words we had never heard.
Those memories remain precious to me. They remind me of a time when coexistence was not just possible—it was normal.
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