Exploring Biu’s historical and cultural renaissance
By HENRY AKUBUIRO
Dateline: Friday. 2. 15 pm. Gombe Airport, Lawanti, Gombe State, northeastern Nigeria. The temperature peaked at 42 degrees Celsius as I made my way out of the tarmac. The searing afternoon heat, compared to the Lagos weather where I was coming from, was close to hell. I gulped some chilled water to quench my thirst and prepared for the perilous journey ahead to Borno State by road.
Needless to say, Borno is the epicentre of Boko Haram insurgency, which has claimed and maimed thousands so far –a place many Nigerians dread to be, including soldiers. I had to conquer the fear of the unknown to embark on this adventure. I was venturing into a lion’s den without security protection, and chances were that I might not return, given the hoopla surrounding Boko Haram’s extremities on this axis.
Inspired by Bukar Usman’s definitive book, A History of Biu, I was visiting the emirate of Biu, the second largest in Borno, to have a first-hand experience of the ancient locale that gave rise to this amazing bestseller. Biu town, lest you forget, is accessible by road via three airports: Maiduguri in the State capital, Yola Airport in neigbouring Adamawa State, and Gombe Airport.
Flying in through the Maiduguri Airport would mean waiting till the next morning to be part of the daily convoy of travellers usually escorted to and fro Biu 7 am each day to checkmate any ambush by Boko Haram. It was a 193 kilometre drive along one of the world’s most dreaded roads. I was impatient, and decided to follow Gombe Road (126 kilometres to the heart of Biu), for I expected to hit the ground running in two and half hours.
But if wishes were horses, I would have taken a jolly ride to Biu like legendary Yamatarawala. In Biu oral tradition, Yamtarawala was a stranger who came to Biu and became the first kuthli of the town. A personage of mythic proportions with super-human qualities, Yamtarawala arrived Biu at a time of mourning of the traditional leader (Yamta) and made himself acceptable to the community, rising to become the leader of Biu, hence the saying among the people, “One Yamta has gone; another has come.”
But I had no intention to be another Yamtarawala –certainly, not in these days of dark forebodings. My ambition was just to get to Biu and return in one piece, and not be lionised with epitaphs of heroics.
My guide, Umar Mustapha Sanda, a Biu indigene, told me the journey from Gombe would take about two and half hours. “It would have been faster if the road was good,” he hinted. I was not worried, for I had seen bad roads across the length and breadth of Nigeria, having, before now, journeyed across 32 states.
The taxi’s air-conditioning system wasn’t working, and the heat was scorching. Driving through the well-tarred Gombe road, with the windows half open, hot air blazed in like a mini furnace. I gasped endlessly. But, if I had problem with the harsh Gombe weather, I had more terrible things to contend with on the Borno side of the interstate road.
The border towns of Gombe were guarded by mobile policemen. In contrast, combat-ready soldiers and armoured cars became familiar sights on the Borno side of the border, and the road became more deplorable. To pass one checkpoint mounted by soldiers, vehicles had to queue up between 30 minutes and one hour depending on the number of vehicles on queue at a particular time. The soldiers were constantly on the lookout for security threats, especially Boko Haram fighters, who could conceal themselves or mix up with innocent travellers.
The first scar of Boko Haram’s atrocities along the way was evident in a school, Gamadadi Secondary School, at Brihyel Bayo local council, Borno. The rooftops, windows and doors of the school building had been vandalized. Sometime last year, Boko Haram penetrated the town, destroying the school, which represented western education they abhorred, among other places.
About 40 kilometres into Borno State territory, the traffic began to thin. Fewer vehicles were heading towards our direction. At some points, we would drive up to 30 minutes without seeing a vehicle at our back or any coming from opposite direction. I was anxious.
Mustapha calmed my frayed nerves: “This is afternoon, and vehicles are fewer on the road by this time of the day. Those going to Biu from Abuja and other northern states will be arriving later in the evening. Also, those who have left Biu have since passed this road to farther places.”
The road looked not only isolated but also bewitched. Perhaps the appalling state of this road was only comparable to Jebba Road in Kwara State linking up Mokwa in Niger State. This road seemed to represent the dead end of civilisation. I wasn’t amused. The difference was that, while Jebba route was a busy one, this route was isolated. At a point, I was scared Boko Haram fighters might pop up from nowhere and kidnap us. Mind you, Chibok girls were still missing (the second anniversary of their abduction was marked two days before), and it wasn’t my wish to be counted among the missing. My fate could even be worse because of my Christian faith.
This part of Nigeria falls under the Sudan Sahara belt where trees are scanty and rocky terrains abound. The rainy season was yet to begin, and everywhere looked bleak with drying or dried rivers, dead grasses and scotched earth. Large swathes of land lay bare like a bald-headed grandpa. There was no sense of euphoria in the meanwhile.
We tortuously passed through Deba, Wuyo, Gaidam and Kwaya towns enroute Biu. The roadside communities were sparsely populated. Notwithstanding, famished cows and goats were seen every now and then walking listlessly by the roadsides, combing for elusive grasses. Minutes went by, morphing into hours, and the driver bumped into every pothole as though a stop would spell disaster.
Wearied by countless gallops, I heaved a sigh of relief as we inched closer to Biu town. Hilly escarpments popped from Biu from 10 kilometres away. At Tum community on the outskirts, about 7 kilometres to Biu, the scenery became almost paradisiacal from a distance. The hills looked like an artificial creation so much so I asked my guide, “Who built this?” To which he replied, “God.” You can’t get a better artist than God!
Biu is a town on a plateau, rising more than 765 metres above sea level in southern Borno. Its roots date back to 1535, and it has played a premier role since the British colonialists established Biu Division in 1918. Oral tradition had it that, in recommending the hilly location to cite the capital, the ancient local hunters considered safety, suitability for agricultural produce and ease of access to water.
Surprisingly, the weather began to get cooler as the journey wore out. I began feeling a cool breeze. Indeed, Biu’s temperature was somehow different from the hot, humid and semi-arid of much of the northeast zone.
Entering Biu town was as difficult as going to heaven. Different security checks were mounted by the Civilian Joint Task Force and the Nigeria Army protecting the town from the dreaded Boko Haram. I was impressed. The fact that there were security checkpoints here and there meant deterrence to insurgents and perhaps a guarantee of my safety, too. Outside Borno State, everybody thought bombs were exploding every other minute everywhere.
No thanks to potholes-ridden, bumpy road and rampant security checks, a journey of 2 and half hours eventually took 4 hours. Nevertheless, I thanked God for making it to Biu, but I wasn’t sure what to expect. Night came suddenly, and morning peeped through the sky to announce its presence in our midst.
Saturday began on a busy note. I had many historical sites and tourist attractions to visit, and my guides (Midala Umar has now joined) feared it would be an uphill task visiting all the places I requested to see. To the hill we went, hence.
Our first port of call was the amazing Tilla Hill, a major tourist site. Before now, I had seen a picture of the hill on the cover page of Bukar Usman’s A History of Biu, said to be the highest point of elevation in Biu town, standing at 883.92 feet above sea level.
Behind it was the Tilla Lake, a rectangular water basin under a deep crater. Together with my guides, we climbed down the steep edges down hill and felt the sensation of the cold water between our fingers. I saw a solitary kid fisherman fishing with improvised boat made with two 25-litre rubber gallons, lying on his belly, as he paddled with his hands. About 10 metres away, I saw a group of two kids on a canoe moving placidly across the lake searching for fishes to catch.
At the left side of the lake, a number of chalets sprouted up. Still under construction, they will serve as a getaway ambience for tourists to enjoy the wonder of nature. Until then, the fishermen of Tilla will continue their routine escapades with tilapia and cat fishes.
I craved to visit a museum, but I was told there was none. It was predominantly an Islamic society, where museums were hardly encouraged. In the absence of a museum, I decided to visit a different kind of museum –Biu dam. Construction of Biu dam, I was to learn, was began in 1979 to assist in irrigation. 37 years later, the dam was yet to be completed. Its control centre looked more like a museum monument than an agriculture-friendly contraption.
The next visit –to the ancient village of Viukuthla –made us look almost like rudderless wanderlusts. Thrice, we missed our way until we got going. There was no tarred road leading to the village, and the terrain was hilly and mountainous. Chips of rocks either crudely broken or being broken by locals for commercial purposes were heaped by the twisting road path.
As we ventured deeper, the road became irregular contours. With rocks everywhere, the weather became hotter. The down chorus of birds on isolated tree tops sounded like requiem and crickets took up the refrain to create a mystical experience. For more than 30 minutes, we saw nobody on the way, no vehicles or occupants to exchange banters, and no stray animal frolicking about. It was a desolate landscape where the hand of the clock momentarily seemed to be turned back.
Once again, the forgotten fear of Boko Haram returned. The group has been reported severally to have attacked locals in isolated farms and settlements. What if they appeared and kidnapped us? Everybody knew the unhappy ending of the Chibok tale. I began to imagine what the front headlines of newspapers could be the next day: “The Sun arts editor kidnapped by Boko Haram”. But I had come a long way (from the southwestern end to the northeastern end of the country), and there was no need playing the fainthearted. “Guys, are you sure we haven’t missed our way?” I sought clarification from my calm guides, for there was no sign of life on the horizon.
I was reassured we were on the right track. But the more we drove down the rocky road, the more despondency hung in the air. As the Volkswagen Golf sedan approached a valley, we eventually saw the first sign of life. Three kids, aged between 3 and 7, emerged from a lonely hut and, with a frisson of delight, ran towards our car. It seemed they hadn’t seen a four-wheel drive for ages.
“Who are they?” I asked my guides, who told me they were Fulani kids, and their nomadic parents had gone out grazing with their cows. A small hut, it stood not more than four feet tall in the middle of nowhere. The kids stood under a lusterless tree less than 5 metres from where we would negotiate a bend, pranced about, prattled and waved us goodbye as the sedan moved onwards to a tougher terrain.
A little later, we saw a boy, probably 10 years old, riding a bicycle with an empty rubber basket strung to its back. For I didn’t see anybody on the way we were coming from, I was wondering where his destination was. Is he a spirit? I mused silently. The desolate landscape gave me a muted response. 10 minutes later, the Volkswagen Golf laboured to a stop. It couldn’t continue any longer, because bigger stones were impeding its movement.
“I am afraid, we have to continue the journey on foot,” said one of my guides. “The village isn’t far away,” he added. Under the afternoon heat, with sweats shooting out of our skin pores like a waterfall, we continued the grim journey, plodding on stones. Shriveled leaves and withered stems saluted the tepid air. The trek lasted about three kilometres before a little village on a hilltop popped into view, with a mix of mud houses, thatch and zinc roofs dominating the skyline.
On getting closer, we saw a group of women and half clothed children fetching water from a borehole, the only one of its kind available. They momentarily stopped and looked askance at us. “Ina kwana,” they returned our greetings in Hausa as we continued our journey to the entrance of the village.
Panting and wearied from unexpected endurance trek, I sat down on a massive stone in the centre of the small village. We were here to visit the ancient Viukuthla village, a place where dead emirs from Biu are always buried. An important landmark in the Biu history, the village also is the cradle of Biu civilisation. My guides demanded to see the gatekeeper and, soon, a tall, dark, frail looking old man emerged, and exchanged pleasantries. His name is Mohammed Yamta.
His forefathers started life here before migrating to other locations before most of them stayed permanently at the present location in Biu town, unlike his family. He has been consigned by fate to remain as a custodian of tradition. When he dies, he will hand over the role of caretaker to one of his sons.
“We can’t go inside,” he warned as we requested to enter the burial ground. “The place is full of bees. Whenever an emir is to be buried, the locals come with a native doctor who will drive the bees away with incantation. So, we can only look from outside.” When I asked why the presence of the bees, he told me they had always been there before he was born. I concluded perhaps the bees were mystery guards who shouldn’t be toyed with.
Hence, we stepped into the burial ground with trepidation. Surprisingly, we were not attacked by any bee. The gatekeeper explained, “The bees have gone to work, but could return any time.” The burial ground had different segments divided by circles of stones, including the place where the corpse of an emir was kept for a while before being buried and the place where those accompanying the corpse would be seated.
My guides and the gatekeeper offered prayers in front of a thatch enclosure where 5 emirs were buried. The burial site had the highest number of lush trees in the entire village. They provided a shade, and their leaves swayed languorously. I was told 27 emirs had been buried so far, and the site had been in existence for more than 500 years.
Mission accomplished, we trudged back to where we parked our car. It was time to relish some kunu drink under a baobab tree. My guides had brought with them a flask full of kunu (made of rice, pap and guinea corn). “It tastes good,” I admitted after taking a swig. It was a first-time experience. Afterwards, the Volkwagen Golf hit the road. Refreshed by the kunu, the fear of Boko Haram melted away as we journeyed back to Biu town, leaving behind an idyllic countryside –a haven of peace untainted by modern bastardies. To you, theirs might be a humdrum existence.
Biu has a colonial past. The British colonial masters came in 1918 and remained five decades after. Thus, I visited the lodge of the District Officer last occupied by J.G. Davies. The last renovation was done in 1958, 11 years before the building was vacated in 1969; but the building looked more modern than some of those surrounding it. Not far away was the District Office itself. The building has remained intact like that of the District Officer’s lodge.
From there, we went to Maiduguri-Biu Road to visit the first missionary school in Biu. Located at Waka-Biu, the missionary school was built shortly after the Whiteman came to Biu. Its founding principal was Ivan L. Eikenberry, who later handed over to Clarence Heckmann. Since then, it has metamorphosed from Advanced Teachers Training College to the College of Education.
No doubt, Biu’s early contact with the western world has enhanced its pedigree and that of its indigenes. The town boasts of a number of prominent, educated Nigerians who have made significant impacts on not only Borno State but also Nigeria in general.
We rode back to town and visited the emir’s palace. The emir, Alhaji Umar Mustapha Aliyu, was out of town, and could not grant me an interview as scheduled earlier. But, what I missed in not meeting the emir, I gained in exploring Biu further. In front of the emir’s palace was an ancient tree called Isa, which I was told had been in existence for ages. This type of tree is seen in many places in Biu.
Midala told me its significance: “This is the tree of life. In the ancient time, if the Biu people wanted to leave a location, they would bring along a branch cut off from the tree. If they planted it, and it grew, they would know the place is good for habitation and agriculture.”
Not far away, about 50 minutes on the entrance to the emir’s palace, I saw the Wu Waterfall. No longer a source of drinking water, because of sewage thrown by people, however, in the olden days, it was a mystery waterfall where royal snakes emerged from its base to visit the emir’s palace. I also visited another significant tree called Kir Minta where the footmarks of legendary Yamtarawala’s horse were still visible.
Longevity runs through Biu men and women. Alhaji Mohammed Usman, 85, told me the average age for most people in Biu was between 80 and 90. “It has to do with the nature of the food, vegetables and fruits we eat,” he said. “It makes us healthy.”
Life in Biu has gone on peacefully, regardless of the terror campaign of Boko Haram in the state. Considered a safe haven of a sort, Biu vanguard youths, together with soldiers from the Nigerian Army, repelled a serious attack by Boko Haram early last year, killing hundreds of the insurgents, who have since kept away from the town.
A lucent moon appeared at night, and the day died a graceful death. On Sunday morning, I left Biu by road to catch an afternoon flight at Gombe Airport to Abuja, enroute Lagos. As I looked back at the disappearing sight of the enchanting Biu plateau, I now understood why the legendary Yamtarawala stayed behind to hog the limelight –its exotic appeal beggared description.