Sokoto is so far from Punjab, and yet it brings back little memories of that land. Like Punjab it is 1,000 miles from the sea. The Niger river swamps and the lush Lagos forests lie far to the south. Here we are, just on the edge of the Sahal, that dry land of stunted bushes and fierce dusty winds that sweep in from the world's greatest desert, the Sahara, just to the north. Twice the size of Punjab with one-third its population, it is a land of laterite tablelands, sweeping down into the valleys of the Sokoto and Rima rivers. The rainfall is about the same; the temperatures are a bit lower. Like Punjab, it has its share of dusty winds from the vast desert nearby. Known as the Harmattan, it sweeps in from the north, bringing a winter coolth from November to February and leaving a white film of powder everywhere. The crops are those of the dry lands of Hissar and Bhatinda. It reminds me so much of Mahindergarh where I served as S.D.M. long ago. If you climb a little hill (and hills exist here too) you see a dry land dotted with trees falling away to the far horizon.
It is a land of Islam and horsemen. The open grasslands are ideal for it. Sometimes I think the two have an intimate historical connection. Did not the horse sweep this faith across Africa and into Spain? It brought it here too in the 11th century. Sokoto is one of the historic kingdoms of the period, and the Sultanate continues. Sultan Abubakkar is a revered figure in all Nigeria and beyond. The north is dotted with “amirs” linked to him. As in Punjab, there was a time when they would muster thousands of horsemen at the Sultan's command. The tradition continues. Going to lunch with a rich Alhaji, I found a lovely white stallion in his courtyard. Did he ride, I asked. He laughed. “No, no, I am now a businessman and too lazy. But I must have a horse ready in case the Sultan commands.” The young Governor of the State, Shehu Kangiva, had a string of polo ponies and died at Kaduna in a polo accident. He had been to India to play at Jaipur. I was reading the memoirs of a British civil servant the other day and he recounted how the “amirs” would rather surrender the jewellery of their wives, or even the wives themselves, but not a favoured horse! It brought back memories of our own most famous monarch.
Mohammed Ali said black is beautiful. You do not realise it fully till you come to Africa. Nothing can be fully appreciated except in its own natural setting. The bearded, beturbaned Sikh is a curious creature to many in far off lands. So is the African seen in Europe or India. Not so here, in the north of Nigeria. They are the tallest men I have seen anywhere, maybe matched only by the famous Masai of Kenya. Most Sikhs could not match them. Beautifully slim, they have a graceful regal bearing. The riga, a long colourful gown gives them a Roman senatorial look. At Kano airport I saw a group seeing off a Governor. They might have been Caesar and his Generals. The Fulanis, who have an Arab connection, have the straight hair and hawk-like features of that race. The Tuareg, another northern intrusion, are even more dramatic with their all-black or all-blue dresses, and black turbans draped across their Roman noses. A long straight sword completes the fearful visage. I heard of an Indian who, landing at Kano, went out for a little walk in the evening. Coming face to face with these dacoit-like men, he ran back to the hotel and locked himself in a blue funk. A Sikh friend from the World Bank suggested that they might have a Nihang connection. Anyway I wish I had brought a good Sikh sword along. I would have felt more a match for them.
The turban is a natural dress here. They wear the most fabulous colours and patterns. Tucked across the nose, it keeps the desert dust out. So I feel at home with mine, and merge into the scene. I am alhaji too (to the shopkeepers and beggars at least); it is a polite form of address meant to inflate a sagging ego. Islam brought a civilization with tremendous depth and width to this land. They have a grace and courtesy which disarms completely. No matter whom you meet or where you go, the opening remark is invariably, "You are welcome." Wouldn't it be nice if we Indians learnt it? The faith in religion is deep and abiding at 2 p.m. the secretary, clerks, peons, the whole lot, will take their mats down to the compound and all pray together. A driver will stop the car on the road to do so. One can see a young man – not just the old – praying all by himself. The egalitarianism of Islam is very visible, and one finds little of the caste and class hierarchies of India.
If I was somebody, I would make Hema Malini or Amitabh Bachhan High Commissioner to Nigeria which is crazy about Indian films and music. The first music that we encountered was the haunting melodies of Lata, wafted across from the cook's cassette recorder in the guest house. It made us homesick. In the market, carried by a cyclist across the bar, over the national radio, everywhere, Indian film music floats across. Tapes can be bought at every corner. One day a Sikh teacher found a chap playing, of all things, the "Asa Di Waar!" The tape had somehow found its way here. Do you know what you are playing, he asked. No massa, but it makes me feel very peaceful, the boy replied. Children in schools sing snatches of Indian songs without, of course, knowing the language. Indian films attract large audiences, and every Alhaji worth his salt imports video tapes of the latest from London.
On an evening walk we ran into a group of children, friendly and keen to talk. They had seen "Silsila" and knew about Rekha, Hema and the lot. Sad to say, and an indication of his falling fortune, they had not heard of Rajesh Khanna. Did we know Amitabh, they asked. I could not let myself down. He is my friend, I replied. They were round eyed, as only African children can be. Could I get him over to their school? Sure, I said. Now I am committed. Once a Sikh went to a cinema house to see "Roti Kapra Aur Makan", which has a Sikh character. When the show was over he was cheered by an admiring crowd. They thought he was the same man. Dara Singh came once and fought at Kano. He won but lost his following. They expect a wrestler to be plenty fat! He did not measure up to their specifications. Indian intellectuals, who snigger at the Bombay film industry, should remember the money and goodwill it earns us. I wish somebody would send the stars across once in a while, even if they have to be paid in black.
October-November were festival season in Sokoto. First came Bakrid, the major festival. Four days off and "Barkah di Sallah" was the greeting. Then came Divali, essentially an exercise in nostalgia and homesickness for the Indians. Everyone made powder milk gulab jamuns and put out candles. No "patakhas", for none can be had here. Of course one boy coming back from India somewhat foolishly smuggled some across. He was the envy of all children. Guru Nanak Dev's "janamdin" was appropriately celebrated with paath and langar. Though we are only about ten families, a committee already exists. While there is much democratic argument, there has not been any fighting. This worries me a bit, for to me it denotes a lack of vitality and "josh". Canada requires the presence of a star A good celebration in Southall or maybe a holy man from home or a political heavyweight. Alas, we cannot afford either yet, for we are unable to collect the price of a Mercedes. We had to make do with little contributions by the sangat. An art teacher turned out to be the tukbandi champion.
As in Punjab, we have our little crimes, theft and robbery, but no violence. There is the usual criticism of the police. Some time back an Indian had a theft. He reported to the thana. Not much progress was made though he made many visits. Harassed, the thanedar asked him, "Where were you when the theft took place?" I had gone out", the man answered. "What about your wife?" "She went with me." "Well, then you got what you deserve," said the daroga. "Why do you not have a second wife to watch your house when you take the first one out?"
To come back to Punjab and Sokoto, as I type I look out on a veritable forest of neem trees. They were brought from India by the British and have been highly successful in creating wind belts against the desert. This is, in fact, a city of neem trees. The kikar also is common here. Nothing reminds me of home more than these two old friends from Punjab.
This is an unpublished article.
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