Ade Ẹlẹghọnla
Ade Ẹlẹghọnla
The exact age at which I became a shepherd boy is still unknown to me. I just remember being very young. I think my father may have instructed me earlier in my life to join the cattle-rearing team to care for his numerous herds. It must have been around the time Bọda Lawrence, of blessed memory, started primary school. I have made some calculations to estimate my approximate age when I started the job. I know that Bọda Lawrence completed his primary education in 1961, the same year I began mine. I was probably about 11 or 12 years old at that time, which was when children of my age were finishing theirs. Assuming he completed his primary education in the traditional seven years, he must have started around 1955. This would suggest that I became a shepherd boy around 1955. If I was born in 1949/50, I might have been around 5 or 6 years old when I started the job. By today’s standards, that would be classified as child abuse. However, it was part of growing up in the village. I enjoyed the job and did it with passion.
My father had a herd of about 250 cattle, housed in a shed about half a mile from our home in a place called Agbaloke. He employed the Fulanis to look after them. Initially, the responsibility was given to a village man named Ojo, who was assisted by a younger man, Jide—who later became the band leader for Prophet Ọlọrungbọn, founder of the Christ Apostolic Church in Ogidi.
When things fell apart with them, my father had to employ a professional cattle herder. The Nomad Fulanis from Northern Nigeria were the natural choice. They were known for their ability to travel far and wide with their cattle, roaming forests, hills, and valleys to find the best pastures. Cow milk was their main livelihood, and my father also paid them stipends for their upkeep. They would milk the cows early in the morning before releasing them for grazing. The milking was done by female Fulanis. The milk was processed in various ways depending on preference. Some people liked it fresh, while others preferred it cooked with a white liquid squeezed from a tree leaf called ‘bomubomu’ (botanical name Calotropis procera.) Adding this liquid to the boiling milk would make it lumpy and tasty.
A painting of Fulani wives and children with pots of wara (cow milk) on their heads going to the market
There were also other local dairy products made from cow milk that were popular among the villagers. I enjoyed drinking fresh milk, especially when I did the milking myself. I used a locally made filter to remove any dirt and flies floating on the milk. Sometimes, I would ask the Fulani wife to help warm the milk before drinking it, though warming it would change its taste.
The first of the Fulani herders I worked with was nicknamed ‘Badubadu’, likely due to his physique and mannerisms. He lived with his wife close to the cattle. Every morning, I would wake up as early as 5 am and walk to the shed, about a quarter of a mile from our compound, to help with milking and preparing the cattle for grazing. Before releasing them into the forest, I would take stock of the cows, counting them to ensure they were all present and checking each for signs of illness. I would inspect their mouths, feet, and bodies for injuries. If I noticed anything unusual, I would alert the Fulanis, who would examine the cow more closely. If there was concern about a cow's health, I was asked to keep a closer watch on it throughout the day.
If an illness did not improve after a couple of days, we would isolate the affected cow to prevent contamination. If necessary, I would inform my father, who would decide whether to slaughter the cow before it died. Once all the checks were done and the cows were fit for the day's journey, we would release them and follow them through the wilderness, ensuring they were well-fed and cared for.
I would typically lead the herd with a stick on my shoulder, calling each cow by name. I knew all their names and could tell when they were hungry, thirsty, or uncomfortable. I could even predict their reactions to tsetse flies and other environmental factors. There were some particularly stubborn cows, like Ọgẹlẹsẹ and Angolo. Angolo, a beautiful cow with black and white skin and long curved horns, was especially aggressive. One day, while cleaning up after Angolo, it kicked me, causing me to fall and scream. The Fulani quickly came to my rescue, beating the cow with a stick. That was the first and last time Angolo displayed aggression towards any member of the crew. I learned to predict each cow's behaviour and manage their needs effectively.
From morning until evening, I led the cows through various terrains, including mountains, riversides, and open fields, sometimes clashing with local farmers whose crops the cattle damaged. I had to ensure the cattle avoided valuable crops and walked barefooted for miles, without pants or calico.
I recall an incident where I stepped on a snake. I killed it, and it provided a good meal for the day. Encountering snakes was common. I always carried my rod on my shoulder. At midday, we would make a fire for roasting yam, cocoyam, or cassava, sometimes bringing gari with us. We would set up near a river or lake, providing drinking water for ourselves and the cattle.
I had traps for catching bush rats and grass cutters. In the morning, I would check my traps, feeling disappointed if none had caught anything. Catching grass cutters was more challenging than catching bush rats. Some days I would catch two or three bush rats, but only a few grass cutters throughout my time as a shepherd. I also used a catapult to catch birds and squirrels and occasionally climbed mountains and hills to hunt for toads and small water mammals. I would leave the cows in the fields and explore caves for animals living on the hills and mountaintops. Crickets and grasshoppers, which made tasty roasted snacks, were also targets.
White cattle egrets were common companions of our cows. They followed the cattle as they grazed, feeding on lice and other insects stirred up by the cows, which benefited both the egrets and the cattle.
I grew up known in the community as a cattle herder and was nicknamed Ade Ẹlẹghọnla.
Women would come in the morning to collect cow dung for various uses, including plastering walls and fertiliser. Some also requested cow urine for medicinal purposes, and the horns, tails, and skins of dead cows had various uses, including as decoration and symbols of power. Every part of the cow had a purpose from birth until death.
The birth of a new calf was a delicate but exciting moment. A mark would be made on the calf for identification, and it would be named. The death of a cow, especially if familiar, was an emotional occasion. I once wept over the sudden death of a cow I liked, which examination suggested might have been bitten by a poisonous snake. We had no scientific way to determine the cause of death. Though sad, such deaths provided food for the family. Sometimes, my father would order a sick cow to be slaughtered if survival seemed unlikely. We would remove the leather, expose the skin, and dissect the internal organs for immediate consumption. The elders would then decide how to divide the meat.
My father was not the only cattle owner in Ogidi. The Olupẹka family in Ileteju, also had herds, but their cattle were smaller and leaner than ours. They were also looked after by the Fulani. I had attended their marriage ceremonies, which I found distressing. Young men would lash each other with horse whips in a display of strength, a ritual I was relieved not to have to undergo during my own marriage ceremony.
Cattle rearing was a seven-day-a-week job with no time for Christian Sundays or Muslim Fridays. It was something I did from morning until evening with enthusiasm. It was my way of serving my father and gave me little contact with other family members. My interactions were mostly with the cows, over which I had complete control. I could prevent them from going anywhere and maintain order. Angry cows would often run wild when encountering tsetse flies, causing damage to crops, which sometimes led to complaints to my father.
Communicating with the cows was a skill I had to develop over time. I learned to understand each cow's behaviour and needs. Recognising signs of illness, hunger, thirst, or pregnancy was crucial. I had favourite cows that gave me less trouble, and I built a close relationship with them. Leaving them when I started primary school in January 1961 was emotionally challenging.
Even now, when I return home, some people still call me Ade Ẹlẹghọnla, meaning Ade the cattle owner. I am not offended; that was the name I grew up with and the profession I practiced as a child.
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