A Christian in Gusau by Pelu Awofeso

You would think I had just said that I was going to hang myself. “Well, just be careful,” he cautioned. “The place is volatile and I am forever scared of those people.” Ironically, my friend is a Muslim but the southwestern stock.

“As soon as you get there, look for where to buy their cap and garments. At least, try to look something like them.” If a Muslim could say this, what justification did I have not to take his advice? Never once in the past did I have reservations about the Hausa or Fulani peoples or developed cold feet about visiting northern Nigeria. As a matter of fact, I have traveled up there more times than I have to any of the other parts. It’s always been a beautiful experience and the memories have been ever priceless.

Sensing the old man’s concern, I wished I had not bought the bus ticket earlier. But, there is an event coming up that I can’t miss – the 200th Anniversary of the Sokoto Caliphate. “Okay. I’ll do exactly as you’ve said,” I assured him, as I slung the black bag on my shoulder and stepped out of the house.

It’s almost impossible to experience the anxiety a traveller feels if you’ve never grabbed a bag and stepped out of familiar frontiers. For the very first time, I could imagine what it must be like for a European or American entering Nigeria - or any country with a surfeit of negative PR - for the very first time. The fear factor can be quite a weight. And this is what, I think, lopsided reportage of events and situations can do to a society, no matter how pleasant it may be. Nigeria is on the receiving end and so is India. So are Europe and the United States, whether or not you agree.

The journey from Lagos to Jos was surprisingly flawless. It ended on the stroke of 12 hours, with three stopovers to allow passengers eat and for the driver to top up the diesel. I expected that the second leg - going through Zaria, Funtua, Gusau and then to Sokoto - will last eight to nine hours. Moving between locations is great by plane but the most rewarding is by land, especially if it is a daytime trip. The roadside view can be fascinating.

But, a scarcity of passengers meant I had to while away six hours around the bus terminal. When we eventually set out at 3 pm (instead of 9 am). There were nine of us in the Peugeot wagon and I was the only southerner. The men wore just the kind of clothes my neighbour had suggested.

“These guys can tell for sure that I am not one of them,” I thought. “What if the worst happens?” I won over the unease and inner prompting to disembark. “God help me.”

Six hours on, and very dark outside, the driver stopped the car, stepped out and began to fiddle with the car’s left full light. “I can’t go beyond here. It’s late and risky. The road from here on is bad,” he explained apologetically. “We have to pass the night here at the park and continue tomorrow.”

“Where is this?” I wanted to know.

“Ah, ah, this is Gusau now,” the oldest amongst us, a graying, huge man answered in a tone that sounded to me like, “You ought to know, young man”. Having been journeying for the past 20 hours, I was too numb to think clearly. I couldn’t even tell to which state in particular the name Gusau belonged. One of them helped me out.

“We’re in Zamfara.”

As much as I appreciated the driver’s argument, I wished I could get out of there right then. Zamfara of all places! My God! I might as well be facing Iraqi militants. As it was there could be no way out. I walked out of the bus station and asked the first fellow I met on my way to show me to a hotel. “A good and affordable one,” I stressed.

“Alright, let’s go. There’s one nearby,” he said. We crossed the major road, and I put the first question across. “Is everything we get to hear about this place really true?” In the last couple of weeks the media had been awash with stories of men found guilty of various offences and whose arms had been chopped off. Women reportedly convicted of adultery were sentenced to death by stoning. And Christians in particular were apprehensive.

“My brother, I have lived here for eight years and not once have I seen anyone draw blood. Everything is just blown out of proportion by people who don’t understand. This is where Sharia Law was first introduced, I agree, but there have never been problems here - not like what happens in either Kano or Kaduna anyway.”

The next morning, I checked out of Gusau Hotel feeling well rested. It was a pleasant enough weather at 6.30 in the morning. Somewhere on my way to the motor park policemen gathered to buy a breakfast of pap and bean cake. Left and right, there were signs that this was an Islamic city. Every ten feet or so there is an Arabic inscription. The median, the billboards and the public sculptures carry them boldly. I wondered what they could mean. Red Cross is here replaced by Red Crescent; and on the top of one building I read: “Zamfara State Moon-Sighting Committee”.

Then I spotted a church. I thought Christians couldn’t even breathe around here?

“No, it’s not as tough as that,” said Ezekiel, who has lived here for five months. “They hardly impose the Sharia on non-indigenes or non-Muslims. This place is as free as any other city can be.” But, he pointed out that women were banned from riding on bikes. “There’s an embargo on that. And, whether in the cabs or buses, the women can’t sit next to the men. When things come to a head, however, the odds are in favour of the fairer sex.”

Any attractions here that a tourist might hope to see? “None that I know of,” Philip, his companion answered. “We live outside the capital, somewhere close to the border with Niger republic. So, we wouldn’t really know.”