The Fulani Herdsmen

At day, the land is breath taking, like a scuba diver and his oxygen tank.
The trees sway in the direction of the wind, leaves dropping, as though it were human sweat.

Obugwu contemplates the reason for the scorching sun. He agrees it is punishment for the kiss he plastered on Oyife's cheek.

He can remember it now. It felt so good, it had to be sin. God was angry, thus the sun burning his back or why else did it have no effect on papa?

A rabbit hurriedly scampers past Obugwu's foot, missing Papa by inches, Papa's head is half buried below. His hoe working a trench.

The tall grasses shyly sway to a distant tune. Then came the "thud thud " of heavy footfalls, unlike the pattern of any man.

Obugwu saw the cows, some fifty feet ahead, moving about the cassava farm, headed in their direction, he stops tilling the soil.

The cows pause, chewing at cassava leaves in their path, led by two men. Gun slung to their backs and a stick, one had a bow and sheathed arrows, both dressed like gypsies.

Papa unsheathes his machete. The coldness in his eyes, Obugwu had never seen, he had heard stories. And now the whites gave way for red streaks.

Papa brandished his machete, dangerously waving it in the air, his face replaced by a mask of fury. He demanded that they leave.

The darker of the two men made to move, thought better of it, and instead made click clock sounds with his tongue.

To which the cows reluctantly obey, retreating down the path they had come, cassava leaves in mouth.

That night, Papa could not sleep, he wore a worried expression, his face sullen. The cows had trampled on the crops, the cocoa beans west of Chief Ogebe's farm.

The chief's rice plantation was not spared. Other farmers had similar tales. Something had to be done, the grazing cattles were becoming a menace.

Outside, the stars burned with a dull glow, almost mockingly. You could see the trees and neighbouring houses blocks away. Their shadows thin and long, sprouting with backs bent from age, expectant of a mystery the night held.

The owl took its spot atop the coconut tree, crying at the fate that befell the villagers.

The faceless men creep through the long grass, as though setting an ambush. They shuffled down in a noiseless file, spread out, fanning the houses, guns pointed, only farther than the tip of their noses.

In unison, the shots rent the air, like a time keeper's bell, breaking the quiet of the night. Sporadic, aimed strategically at the windows.

Cries, shouts, erupt. Rising like a swimmer, head above water for breath. From all ends of the village, the screams could be heard. On the walls, shadows danced and weaved.

A father jumps from the bed, machete in hand, but what's a machete to the brutal feel of cold bullets.

The slugs lodged in their temples like patrons at the village inns.

The shrieking cries of a baby pierce the thickness of the night, wailing and clawing at its mother's motionless body. Obugwu sat transfixed, his arms hugging his knees.

Papa was a warrior till the end. He cut down three faceless men, before he was silenced by five bullets, two dagger stabs to the back.

Death had found his way to the village, leaving blood trails, passing his sentence at every door. The women were not spared.

The owl looked on as they crept through the long grass, the faceless men. The same way they had come, whispering shadows blending with the foggy light.

At dawn, a baby called for its mother but she was not there to answer.

_{The Fulani #herdsmen or #fulani pastoralists are nomadic or semi nomadic Fulani herders whose primary occupation is raising livestock. Pure Fulani pastoralist engages in random movement of cattle while the semi-nomadic makes transhumance migration and return to their camps or homes. The Fulani herdsmen are largely located in the Sahel and semi arid parts of West Africa .}

Original poetry by @fego