By Maryam Altine Baba
Chapter Fourteen
The air was joyful, filled with the festive mood. Little children ran up and about in order to keep the tempo higher. The Leng Dori festival had almost commenced. Being largely an agrarian community, it was the most anticipated event of the year.
The Leng Dori was considered the climax of all the year’s activities. People from various villages all converge in one square to celebrate the harvests and give thanks to the Almighty for witnessing the New Year. It was a festival celebrated even if lesser harvests were reaped.
Food was expected from every household. Every family member within the community took part and played their delegated role.
The men provided the grains, the children fetched water and fire woods, while the women were tasked with the meal preparations to feed the horde of visitors from other communities who’d come to celebrate with them.
For the past week they’d pounded and grounded the sorghum to powder mainly to prepare tuwon dawa, a classic favorite. Their ancestors were hunters and the meats of hippopotamuses, elephants, bush bucks, antelopes were highly favored. But in this era of ban from hunting by the government in order to preserve government games reserve, a large number of goats, chickens and ducks were slaughtered instead.
Sea of people adorned in the traditional regalia made the festival more profound. Men dressed in warrior attires to depict the army within the community. Others dressed as hunters, masquerades.
Traditional music blasted the air, men, women formed groups and took to the dancing square, singing and dancing to traditional songs that have been sung since time immemorial.
The chief priest later made an appearance as he danced and maneuvered through the crowd, leaving them awed in his wake. He was a symbol of unity, a unifying factor between the traditional gods and the ordinary man. Though the advent of religions has relegated this particular practice, it was still done for the sake of preserving the identity of the celebrations.
After much dancing and merry making, the chief of the community graced the occasion with his colorful appearance mounted on a horseback. The entire crowd cheered on as he made his grand entrance in his usual unique style. There were several assistants that walked beside him on foot, chanting all sorts of praises at him.
His traditional music players played the only music that was related to royalty. The lyrics were particular to him. His achievements and character were mentioned. Some of the oldies danced as the musicians called out his line of genealogy with a sense of nostalgia, taking time to recount each chief right from the first to lead the nation.
Then the ceremony commenced officially. The leader gave an astounding speech about how good the past year had been and had implored on all the people to plough more farms as the government had promised that new road projects would be executed in the area, giving them more access to the cities.
The chairman of the local authority who came on special invitation mounted the podium and gave his speech on behalf of the government. He’d announced that the government had promised to sponsor ten youths from within the communities that would study agriculture and horticulture at various levels of higher institutions of learning.
There were thunderous applauses, almost deafening. The crowd had cheered on with excitement. It was the first time they had achieved such a feat. This sponsorship would go a long way in boosting agricultural activities within the communities.
After that, it was entertainment time. Traditional music played again. Groups of people danced to particular tunes, hunters danced to the burtu music, the army to the war songs while each masquerade danced to his style and functions.
Then the farmers took over the floor and rocked it. Each farmer presented his harvests for the year. As predicted, groundnuts and beans were on the high side. The sorghum was still at the farms. Those who still had sorghum from last season were considered the aces and hailed as they stepped in to the dance floor. The Sarkin Noma’s position was still reasserted during that occasion. Everyone knew Malam Shehu would be unopposed.
By mid- afternoon, mounts of Tuwon Dawa peaking from large dishes were served with the pots of sumptuous bitter gourd soup locally known as Guna. Each pot of soup had a generous spread of fried clarified butter and the aroma was simply mouth-watering. The soup is considered high quality when the manshanu or clarified butter drips from one’s arm as he consumed the tuwo.
The Chief Priest danced on the floor, chanting and singing praises of their ancestors, thanking them for the year’s harvests. He starts by drinking the kunun zaki, but previously, it was locally brewed beer. He then took a morsel of the Tuwon dawa, dipped it in to the soup and offered it to the gods, after which he ate, signaling the commencement of the eating processions.
The elders were first to start, followed by the high chiefs, gallant warriors, the youth and then women and children. The servings of tuwo and drinks were none stop, the meal was in abundance.
Everyone looked for his or her eating groups and just dived in to the sumptuous meal. The dishes were surrounded in tens, twenties and even fifties. It depended on how large the dish was.
The musicians kept the grounds alive with continued music. It was going to remain so for the next three days. Even at night, the people danced under the moonlight and make merry.
Hauwa’u was amongst those that served the dishes, but strictly forbidden to take any food or drink at the square. She did that at home with the rest of her siblings. Some of their female relatives stayed with them till after the festival.
As she passed by a group of young men gulping down the coolly dangarfa flavored infused kunun zaki, she couldn’t help but noticed how Uzairu sat in the group of his fellow diners, like royalty. She wasn’t surprised. Words had it that he had the highest harvests amongst the youth that year.
He was better dressed than most youth on that day. He wore the babban riga of an ash-colored shadda material with a white damanga cap to complete his look. He smelled nice too. And he focused his attention on her!
As she felt his eyes, she felt her feet intertwined and almost tripped and fell to the ground. Except that she was stopped just in time by two strong hands and a sturdy body. His white jamfa told her who he was, for she had noticed how close up to her through the festival he had been.
When she looked in to his dark eyes, his expression was that of concern and worry. It then softened as she smiled to show him she was alright. His handsome face lit up, almost a sharp contrast to Imran, his elder brother. No surprise, Habib owes his good looks to his father.
As she straightened herself, grateful to him for saving her from the embarrassment of falling flat on her face, she quickly jerked herself away. The last thing she wanted was drawing unnecessary attention. Plus, she didn’t want any more family strife. They have more than enough on their plates as things were.
“You should be careful when walking, blind legs.” Habib had teased, with a smirk on his face.
She smiled in spite of herself. Habib had always teased her about how she’d always fall constantly at the slightest imbalance. And because she always looked straight ahead when walking, she kicked any object that was on the way. Hence Habib’s nicknamed her blind legs.
Those were the days when things had not escalated to their present state, when things weren’t this bad between their families. Now, they just avoided each other like the plague despite them having the same bloodline.
She’d almost entered her father’s zaure when she heard a whooshing sound. A little girl had almost bumped in to her, holding a black polythene bag with her right hand.
“Easy Furera.” Hauwa tried to steady her while smiling. The girl had admirable spirits. She was always sprinting, jumping like a gazelle.
“Sorry Adda Hauwa, I was trying to catch up with you.”
Hauwa’u was surprised, “Why? Are you hungry?”
Furera shook her head and handed the polythene bag to her before bolting and shouting at the same time, “It’s for you.”
Hauwa’s question fell on the girl’s retreating form, “From who?”
She gave up getting any answers and opened the bag. There were two beautifully colored ankara materials. Then she looked again through the opening of their zaure to see if there was anyone that had anything to do with the mysterious gift. There was no one. So, she walked in to the house, more confused and intrigued.
“Have you eaten something Jidda?” Kaltume, one of her father’s many adopted relatives asked her as she walked in to the courtyard. “You should get yourself some food to eat, you know. You need your energy if you want to join the dance squad later.”
Hauwa simply smiled. She had no intentions of joining any dance group. She’d never danced in her life and didn’t intend to start that day. But she wasn’t going to mention it to her or anyone for that matter. Not performing the ritual dance was a sign of ill-luck on a girl’s part. She would lose a chance of getting a decent suitor or a marriage proposal.
Ten minutes later, Hauwa was grateful for the confines of their mother’s room, away from the noise. Not that she didn’t appreciate all the company, but she craved for an alone time so she could rest.
She also needed to assess her gift and the admirer that had sent it to her. It was the second time she had received such a mysterious gift and had hidden them well. She had no intentions of using any part of them until she found her admirer.
As she wondered who he could be, she wasn’t sure if she was going to accept him or if she would simply give him the rejection boot.
That night, she’d tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. She found herself wishing that the mysterious man was out in the open, and that she got to know who he was!
