I worked for a year on a project with Babban Gona, a business aiming to help smallholder farmers in Northern Nigeria grow more maize and make more money. Our job was to run an impact evaluation (to measure the business’s effect on farmers’ lives, and thus influence funding) and a process evaluation (to recommend improvements that could increase the positive effect on farmers’ lives) for the Babban Gona program.
We conducted a two-week “scoping trip” to Nigeria to learn about Babban Gona and draw up some initial documents that would support both of these evaluations down the road. It turned out to be two of the best weeks I’ve had on the job; learning and moving a lot, working with impressive people at Babban Gona.
Two moments stand out. The first was at a collection center, when a farmer had brought in his rice harvest and tried to submit it to Babban Gona to pay off his debt and receive payment. He had a truck and several friends helping. The key to storing rice in this context is to make sure it’s dry enough that it won’t rot in the bags, so the Babban Gona staff member running the collect point opened a bag and tested the moisture content. The rice turned out to be too wet. The farmers, with no emotion or ceremony, started ripping open his bags and spreading the rice out on tarps on the ground. A season’s worth of work, blocked from an immediate financial return by a small miscalculation on the farmer’s part. The farmer would still eventually get paid, but his reaction was much more stoic than mine would have been.
The second moment is the conversation pictured here. We had met with a Babban Gona regional lead, who told us that he would bring us to various local offices and villages to interview staff and client farmers. We rolled up to a village center and saw a few dozen people waiting around a central tree. My colleague and I stood on the side as Haussa conversations commenced, and I wondered which one in the crowd was the Babban Gona farmer that we would interview.
My colleague realized that we were there to interview all of them; and gave me the responsibility to do so. A few minutes later, I was speaking to a group of farmers. I had not prepared for a group discussion and had no idea what to say, so I dredged up whatever impression I had of the fundamental principles of human courtesy, and dove into a long greeting exchange, helped by the charismatic regional lead as translator. With the greetings finished without disaster, I launched into a few questions about their experience with Babban Gona. Many farmers had genuinely benefited from their involvement with the business. The exchange was a great piece of luck that taught me a lot more about the program and context than weeks in Lagos could have.
The answers to one question will always stand out in my memory. I asked the farmers what they would do with additional money, if Babban Gona did manage to raise their incomes. There were a lot of laughs, some pointing. One guy said he would put his kids through school, which I admittedly wanted to hear. Some wanted to go on the Hajj to Mecca. But the answer that seemed to motivate people the most- the one that got the laughs and head-nods- was that many farmers wanted to get a second or third wife.
After the inevitable and comprehensive round of selfies, I left the village in a reflective mood. I wondered about whether and how we can really work across cultural differences, and how Babban Gona’s funders in the UK would feel about hearing that answer.