Restless days in Zaria, Kaduna, Nigeria, a sprawling crossroads town that is the first true Muslim Haussa stronghold you would encounter driving North from Lagos to Niger. Home to the largest university in the country. I was here for work and the work was constant and disconnected and lonely.
I hopped on a moto-taxi to the other side of town and the Palace of the Emir of Zazzau, the Haussa emirate that is the basis of the city-state of Zaria. The Sahel is full of such intertwining of secular government and religious power structures, which defy understanding for the outsider.
We pull up at the gate and I walk across the scorching sand to the impressive, curiously decorated building, feeling extremely foreign, watched by severe, straight-backed, shaded-eyed men and boys in sharply pressed long robes. I am led inside the gate, first to a small office with a young man who greets me warmly, and then into an inner chamber where three Ogas [elders/big men] sit. They are conducting rumbling, rambling Haussa discussions.
I am beyond myself, pulling on those dregs of improvisation and arrogant alertness that have taken us to so many places we probably never deserved to be. I explain myself as simply as I can. The clear leader, who is the public relations officer of the Emirate, translates me to the others who are local district heads, responsible for thousands of lives.
In a mixing of worlds so stunning that I want desperately to pull out my phone to record, they start talking about Babban Gona, the company for which I’m consulting, and how it has affected their communities. A little good, a little bad; some farmers have made more money, but not enough.
I offer platitudes and promise that I will pass their thoughts on to the company, trying to draw them out, to keep this incredible moment in time and space going for a little longer. These are old, powerful, thick-robed men who have seen much of life. The lines in their faces tell me that the livelihoods hanging in the balance of their leadership have not rested easy on their minds in this region at the borders of dust and conflict.
Eventually it is my time to go. I make such thanks as I can, and step out into the sharp light of the courtyard. The young man is there, and he puts me on a moto, and says goodbye.