I remember the river in my village. It was on the outskirts of the village, behind stretches of thick bushes beyond which lied no man’s house.

Our house was among the last leading out the village. From our house, you meet a shrine belonging to one uncle, and from the shrine was one old man’s home that housed lots of cattle. He was chief herdsman of his own cattle. After his house, the rest of the houses that followed belonged to some fulani, foreigners who lived among us.

We heard of their ritual fights in which the loser lost his current wife to the winner, but we never attended any to witness for ourselves. The endurance those fights required, we attributed to charms. For these were endurance that was beyond humans.

It was from the fulani we bought fresh cow milk either for our porridge or to feed puppies. One of those favorite porridges was dried millet, pounded and boiled.

It wasn’t easy visiting the fulani to buy something because of the flies that invaded where they lived. But to them, the flies were just a normal part of living like the air they breathed.

The men were mostly barefooted roaming in bushes without fear of snakes. They seem to have charms against every evil. They were also barechested. The only thing they wore was something around their buttocks and genitals, more like a boxer made of cloth, and sometimes they wore a hat. One thing they never roamed without was their goads. It was the signature of every fulani man that lived in my community.

Their wives, however, were very different. They were always neatly and decently dressed. Very beautiful women.

My parents could say one or two in their language and cobbled together a few words to purchase ‘waagashi’ and some local drinks from them.

We the children in the village knew a few words the fulani used among themselves but we did not know what it meant so we gave the expressions our own interpretations, something we giggled and laugh about during our spare times.

I remember tricks we played on cows and bulls as the fulani drove them pass us. We would pick a long stick and tickle the cow or bull by inserting it between its hind legs, a little close to the anal area, stroking gently. The animal would stop moving, to enjoy the pleasurable stroking. This gave us a chance to either climb the animal or unpluck tick from their skin.

Ticks on cows were usually bigger than those on dogs. We roasted and ate them.

Interesting the things we did in our childhood.

We used to roam hunting with caterpults for lizards to stone to death and roast them for supper.

The  river in my village is an embodiment of fond memories.

Because it was far away from our homes, we rarely went there. And each time we did, we never forget the activities that took place there.

One day, our parents had traveled and we took our things there to wash them and dry on the river banks. I took few things because I felt lazy washing so many dirty clothes of mine. My cousin took almost all his clothes.

When we trekked through the bushes and finally made it to the river, we bumped into another cousin, a lady older than us, who offered to wash our clothes for us while we played and swam in the river, setting traps for fish using worms hooked on fishing rods. Imagine our excitement when we made a big catch. I felt sad I didn’t bring many of my dirty clothes.

I noticed when we swam for long in the river, after stepping out, my legs felt heavier than usual. Soon, I would learn that it was a normal sensation.

After the fun day at the village river, we returned home, with fresh fish and fruits gathered in the wild.

It’s been many years since I visited my village. And I think by now the village river would have dried up thanks to climate change.

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