I rounded the corner and there they were - a crowd of herders crouching in a circle, and a large herd of cows waiting under the trees. I approached the herders and greeted them. “Salaam Alekum.” Peace be upon you.
“Alekum asalam,” they replied. And upon you too be peace.
“Did you wake in peace?”
“Peace only.”
“How are your families?”
“Peace only.”
“You are in good health?”
“Peace only. And you?”
“Peace only.”

Having established our peace, there was an awkward silence and then one of the herders, an old man with a prayer hat and a white goatee beard, stood up slowly and said “You are lost.”
“I am not lost.”
“You are lost.”
He sat down again, and began to talk to his neighbour. I felt suddenly very lost indeed.

A younger herder smiled at me and said, “You want to follow the choggal, do you?”
“Yes,” I said, and he looked surprised. He had not expected this answer.
“Choggal hurts,” he said.
“Where?”
“Legs!” cried a few of them in unison.
“Lower back,” said another, and there were murmurs of agreement.
“There is also hunger,” said one.
“And thirst.”
“The sun hammers your head!” cried someone, and a sympathetic groan rose from the group.
“But the legs is the worst.”
“It is difficult, oh very difficult.”
“So difficult.”
“Difficult is not the word.”
“Stop,” I said, semi-seriously. “You are making me afraid.”
“Okay, choggal is not difficult,” said the young herder quickly.
“Not at all,” said another, and we all laughed.

A customs official came out of his booth, strolled over to the trees and began to count the cows.
“You are the one who preaches at the market, aren’t you?” someone said to me.
“Yes.”
“Do you have the Linjil with you?”
“Yes.” I took the gospel of Luke out of my bag and held it up. “It is in Fulfulde.”
“Read it to us. The patron has not yet arrived. Read to us while we wait.”

I crouched down on the ground and two herders crouched down in front of me. The others formed a circle around us, some of them standing stork-like on one leg, a typically Fulani posture.

I read the parable of the lost sheep. The story made them laugh (as did Jesus’ original listeners, in all probability), especially the part when the shepherd calls his friends and family together to celebrate. I asked them what they thought the story meant. One of them said, “In the name of God, we have no idea” and they all laughed again. I suggested they think about it on their way home. Then I turned back a few pages and read them the story of Jesus’ birth being announced to the shepherds.

The shepherds had just arrived in Bethlehem when the patron roared up on a big glittery motorbike, wearing a big glittery robe and turban. The herders jumped up, ran over to Glittery Robe, and surrounded him, fawning and simpering. This must be the owner of the cows, choosing some herders to accompany them down to Ouagadougou.

“Choose me, choose me!” cried the herders, milling about. I joined the throng. "Choose me, choose me!" Everyone fell silent and looked round at me.
Glittery Robe laughed. "White man, are you lost?"
"I want to follow your men."
"You are not able to do choggal."
"Let me try."
"Where is your staff?"
"I do not have one."
"I have chosen my walkers, white man. I can not pay another."
"I do not want to be paid."
"Then you are mad. Follow, if you want to - see, the men are leaving now."

It was true - already the cows were moving off, accompanied by the four chosen walkers - one up front, whistling, and three following behind calling "Oss, oss!". I trotted off to join them, and then someone called me back. It was one of the herders who had not been chosen that day. He handed me his staff and said "Allah moyyin' laawol" - May God prepare your way.

As I caught up with the walkers, I looked back for the last time, and saw the group of herders standing under the trees, laughing and waving. “A halkan de!” called one, cheerfully. You will be destroyed.

The cattle-drivers accepted my presence amongst them without conspicuous surprise.
‘I have come along to see your work,’ I said to the eldest of them as he chivvied a bull back into line with a twirl of his staff, and he nodded solemnly.
‘He says he has come along to see our work,’ he called to one of the other walkers. ‘Ayyo, timmi.’
I was going to get used to this - having every comment or question, however trivial, relayed to those who had been just out of earshot. I was also to get used to the ‘Ayyo, timmi’ (lit. ‘Yes, finished’) tag which Idrissa used to mark the end of these relays.

‘Have you ever followed a choggal before?’ asked Idrissa after a long silence.
‘Never.’
‘He says he has never followed a choggal before,’ pronounced Idrissa. ‘Ayyo, timmi.’
The others murmured non-commitally. There were four men - one up front to lead the cows, staff across his shoulders in typical Fulani fashion, three following behind to encourage the stragglers in explosive monosyllables. Hup! Oss! Tschah! Usually a call or a wave of the staff was enough to motivate the cows, but occasionally there was the sharp thwack of wood on hide.
‘Have you ever walked two hundred kilometres before?’ asked Idrissa, narrowing his eyes.
I cast my mind back. ‘No.’
The old man tutted quietly. ‘I do not believe you will arrive in Ouagadougou.’
‘I will go as far as I can.’
‘He says he will go as far as he can. Ayyo, timmi.’

There were ninety-six cows in the herd, most of them belonging to the rich Fulani man in the glittery robe who I had met that morning. His name, I now learned, was Munnyal - patience. He would not be needing as much patience as the herders in his employ; after all, he was already on his way to Ouagadougou on his glittery motorbike and would be there by nightfall. We, on the other hand, would be sleeping that night at Gachinde, a Fulani settlement twenty-five kilometres south-east of Djibo. We would have covered an eighth of the way.

At eleven o’clock we were already suffering.
‘The sun is bitter today,’ said Diallo.
‘Yes, hot season is certainly here now,’ said Boureima.
I had known it would be hot, but had not counted on the debilitating culmulative effect of a whole day of being bludgeoned by the sun. By midday I had finished all four litres of water I had brought with me.
“Is there a pump ahead?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“He says Is there a pump ahead,” said Idrissa. “Ayyo, timmi,” he added, and it was no longer an endearing idiosyncrasy.

Towards two o’clock we passed by a tiny Fulani settlement, a cluster of small domes made from millet-stalk mats. Diallo and Boureima went over to the one of the domes and returned with two millet dumplings (nyiiri), shared them out between us as we walked. I felt absurdly grateful as I crammed my fistful of dry millet into my mouth, but my mouth was so dry I had great difficulty swallowing it. I walked the next mile or so with my cheeks bulging comically - the desert equivalent of that hideous party game Chubby Bunnies.

Malle Balleewe, a speckled black and white cow, kept veering off to the right of the herd, and it fell to me to rein her in every time. Idrissa told me that she had only one eye and was afraid of being butted by the other cows if she walked with them. As an outsider here also, I felt a particular empathy with Malle. I talked kindly to her and whacked her with my stick as gently as possible.

At three o’clock we came to a pump and a Mossi woman filled up my water-bottle for me. The spout of the pump gushed clear, cool water into the bottle and I gushed at my benefactor every sahelian blessing I knew: May God reward. May God protect. May God give peace. May God write blessings. May God grant us to drink the water of aljanna. I noticed I had interrupted the woman in the act of watering her goat, so I blessed the goat, too. My goodwill knew no bounds. In retrospect, I think I went too far.

The sun was lower in the sky now, but it had taken its toll on all of us.
‘See that,’ said Diallo, pointing at Wuune, a pretty beige-coloured cow stumbling along at the back of the herd. ‘She is crying.’
I assumed Diallo was talking metaphorically, until I saw the tears with my own eyes. The weeping cow was a curiously heart-wrenching sight.
‘She has been on the go for three days. Came to Djibo all the way from Diinanguru in Mali. No rest for three days and not much grass.’
‘Are we nearly there?’ I asked, voicing the question I imagined was uppermost in Wuune’s mind.
‘Not far now,’ sang Diallo, and because I knew no better I believed him.
‘We will sleep tonight,’ said Idrissa, smiling up at me. ‘There is an enclosure of thorns at Gachinde - we will put the cows in there until morning.’
‘Will there be an enclosure for the cows every night?’ I ask.
Idrissa chuckled. ‘He says Will there be an enclosure for the cows every night! Ayyo, timmi.’
A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.

We arrived at Gachinde at last and Diallo milked the cows. At six o’clock the herders unrolled their rice-sacks towards the east and prayed, and then we ate nyiiri and milk from a common bowl. We ate in silence for a few minutes and then I said, 'How many cows did you milk tonight, Diallo?'
At this the herders fell about laughing, and it was a moment before I realized what was so funny. If you make a comment like that whilst eating, it shows that you were so hungry your brain had stopped working - only now that you have food inside you have you begun to recall events from earlier in the day. This social gaffe is known simply as foonga, and is a source of great amusement to Fulani men.

I made up for my outrageous foonga by making some coffee in a tin and serving it up to my new friends. I had brought some vitamin tablets with me so I shared these out as well. Then I lay down on the ground to sleep.

As I was dropping off to sleep I heard an unfamiliar voice call ‘Salaam Alekum’ - peace be upon you.
‘Is he drunk?’ asked the newcomer, after rattling through the requisite greetings, and I wondered who he was talking about.
‘No, I do not think so.’
‘Why is he not sleeping on a mat?’
‘Perhaps he has not brought a mat.’
‘I feel sorry for him.’
‘Yes, he will be destroyed.’
‘Quiet, he is not asleep. He is pretending.’

It was cold at night. I slept fretfully on the bare earth, curled up tightly underneath a blanket. Towards midnight I woke to see three of my companions crouching around the fire, but by their silhouettes I could not make out who was who.

‘You could not sleep either?’ said one.
‘How can a man sleep when he has drunk coffee as strong as that?’ came the reply.
‘And been fed pills the like of which he has never swallowed in his life,’ said another.
The men relapsed into moody silence.
‘The night is cold,’ someone said.
‘Yes, hot season is certainly not here yet.’
‘Tomorrow we go to Ferginde.’
‘If God wills it.’
‘Ayyo, timmi.’

The cold night air and hard ground did not make for a good sleep. I woke to see Diallo prostrating himself towards the east, the curve of his back outlined against the rising sun.

‘Allah Akbar,’ God is great, he declared, and stood up. ‘La illa ilaha Alla’ There is only one God. I had noticed yesterday that this young man from Mali was the most devout of the group. Idrissa and Boureima had said their futuro evening prayers on arrival at Gachinde, but Diallo had performed the prayers on route as well: sallifana prayers at 2.00 and laasara prayers at 4.00. He had lost at least half a mile each time but had run in the suffocating heat to catch up with the group again.

We drank more coffee for breakfast, and ate some of the nyiiri from last night, now cold and crusty. Boureima and Diallo counted the cows and drove them out of their enclosure. We set off. Another choggal group was leaving Gachinde at the same time, heading for Ouagadougou also. One of those men must have been the voice I had heard last night.

‘How are your legs?’ asked Idrissa.
‘The right one is fine,’ I said.
‘And the left one?’
‘Cramp.’
Idrissa laughed. ‘Ayyo, timmi. Your right leg is a Pullo (Fulani) leg, and the other a Tuubaaku (white man) leg.’
‘We worked hard yesterday,’ I said.
‘We did not work. We only played yesterday. After Kongoosi perhaps you will see work.’
Kongoosi was still three days away.

We arrived mid-morning at a village called Nogo. I filled up my empty water bottle and bought an empty rice sack to use as a bed that night. I also bought some Bruce Willis Glucose Biscuits (made in Thailand) and some bread. My Tuubaaku leg was cramping badly, so I hopped around discretely behind a large bull to stretch it out. Idrissa appeared suddenly at my side and made me jump.
‘Peace, I hope?’ he said.
‘Peace only,’ I said and patted the bull. It turned and snorted at me, and I jumped again.

As we left Nogo, we passed an old woman carrying a calabash of milk on her head. I stopped her and asked for some, and was then embarrassed not to have any small coins to pay for it. Boureima came up and gave the woman 100 francs.
‘What is his name?’ she asked him.
‘Sambo,’ said Boureima, grinning widely.
‘Sambo is doing choggal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sambo reewan de,’ she said, and stalked off. I was used by now to being told I would not survive the journey, but this particular way of expressing it was obscene. I stared after her in disbelief.

By ten-thirty, I realised I was actually afraid of the approach of midday. The Tuaregs used to bury their enemies in the desert up to their necks so that the sun would kill them, and I imagine their victims felt rather uneasy at around ten-thirty too. That was a consoling thought. My plight was clearly not as bad as that - at least I would be on the move while the sun killed me.

Perhaps it wasn’t the Tuaregs.

I survived the hours between eleven and four by praying in tongues under my breath and doing maths in my head. It was incredibly hot and we did not talk much to each other. The middle of the day is a lonely time for herders.

At four o’clock the sun suddenly seemed to turn itself down a notch and Idrissa called to me, ‘Do you eat monkey bread?’
‘I don‘t know,’ I called back.
‘He says he does not know if he eats monkey bread. Ayyo, timmi. Come and see, then.’
Monkey bread is the fruit of the baobab tree, an easily recognisable sahelian tree with a huge trunk and short, stubby branches. Right at the top of the tree were two round fruits slightly smaller than coconuts. Idrissa took aim and lobbed his staff far up into the tree top. Some time later it came clattering down; one of the fruits fell alongside it with a thud and split open neatly.
‘Now you try,’ he said.
It was a long time before we rejoined the herd.

Ferginde is a Mossi village, well used to playing host to choggal-ers, but not to Tuubaakus; its inhabitants did not conceal their surprise at seeing a white man limp in behind the herd that day. Moree is the language of the the Mossi, but to my shame the only words I know in Moree are Lafi (Peace) and Barke (Thank you). Quite a crowd gathered to look at me, so I thanked them a lot and wished them peace repeatedly. They will remember me as a very grateful pacifist; I will remember them as having very wide eyes.

The milking did not go well that night. Both of the milk-cows in the herd fiercely resisted attempts to milk them. Diallo held the calabash and edged as close as he could to Terkaaye’s udders; Boureima had the dangerous job of holding her horns while she bucked angrily. They eventually gave up, dodged away from the cow, and sat down by the fire with a syncronised sigh. Idrissa was angry.
‘What are you doing?’ he said.
‘She is dry,’ said Boureima.
‘She is not dry. Try again.’
‘She will kill us,’ said Diallo.
‘You two do not like milk,’ said Idrissa. For a Fulani, this was a crushing retort. The younger men glowered, and then got up and milked the cows.

The cows were not in an enclosure of thorns that night, so we surrounded them ourselves. Idrissa and I lay down to the west, Diallo to the east, Boureima south and Macha north. I slept soundly, and did not even hear the others get up at midnight and take the cows to pasture. (When cows get hungry they move off of their own accord, so it is up to the herders to pre-empt them.) When they returned full of grass, the cows were still restless. Their homes were to the north and they wanted to return. Occasionally one of them would sidle away from the herd, hoping her bid for freedom would evade the humans’ watchful eyes.

When the sun rose, the cows were all present and correct, but the herders had hardly slept at all. Idrissa was sitting up, staring in front of him with bloodshot eyes.
‘Diallo!’ he called. ‘Boureima! We will need milk.’
Diallo and Boureima were awake but they did not reply.
‘Macha, wake up!’ Idrissa was on his feet now. ‘What, are you dead? Wake up!’
I got up and built up the fire for coffee, feeling bad that only I had slept that night.

We set off and walked the ten kilometres to Bourzanga, a small town right by the road. I filled up my water bottle from the pump, and then went to the market-place with Macha. We bought some roast goat-meat from a butcher, and ate it as we walked along.
‘Are you tired yet?’ I asked Macha.
He was quiet for a long time and then shrugged. ‘A man can not say that he is tired,' he said.

We caught the others up at Bourzanga lake, where they were watering the cows. There was an old man by the lake who was introduced to me as Muusa. He was the kalfaado in this town, the one who was sometimes entrusted with cows that were too sick or tired to continue with the choggal. Today there were no cows to be given to Muusa, and he seemed disappointed.

The stretch that followed, though, was hard for the animals. The four hours in the middle of the day brought a vast plain of gravel, hell for the hooved, and their progress was slow and painful. The unhappy cows limped and stumbled southwards, and we trudged behind them. ‘This is nothing,’ commented Idrissa. ‘After Kongoosi there is a whole day’s gravel. You have to pity them, don’t you?’

Towards three o’clock we reached grassland again, and the hungry cows slowed down and began to eat as they walked. The herders would walk to overtake the animals and then sit down in the shade and wait for them to catch up. Idrissa cut me a longer staff from a nearby tree, so that I could use it as a walking stick.
‘What kind of tree is this?’ he said.
‘Gurmoohi.’
‘He thinks it is gurmoohi! Ayyo, timmi.’
‘What is it then?’ I said.
‘Neldi. And what about that one?’
‘Eedi?’
‘Ayyo, timmi.’

When we moved on, I left my water bottle behind, and did not realise for some minutes. I went back for it, hoping no one had noticed my mistake.

When I caught up with my companions again, they were sitting in a circle under a thorn tree. They were teasing Diallo for being from a different Fulani ‘line’ to them.
‘If only you were a Dikko like us,’ Idrissa was saying, ‘you would eat a little and walk fast. But you Diallos eat a lot and walk slowly. Why is that?’
‘Tuubaaku,’ said Boureima, as I approached and sat down, ‘do you want to buy this Diallo from us?’
‘My wealth is not sufficient to buy this Diallo,’ I replied. They laughed, and Diallo looked pleased.

The cows were overtaking us, so we got up and moved on.
‘Don’t forget your water,’ said Boureima over his shoulder, and cawed with laughter.

Diallo came up beside me and said, ‘Why do you not stop to pray at four o’clock?’
‘I talk to God as I walk along,’ I said, and he shook his head disbelievingly.

As the sun set, Idrissa called over to me, ‘Sambo! Come here. We will run ahead to Wousse and place our order for nyiiri.’
We did not literally run but we walked very fast indeed, and soon I was lagging behind.
‘You go on ahead,’ I said, ‘and I’ll come later.’
‘No, we will go together. You said you wanted to see our work, so see it. Just walk faster.’
Some minutes later, Idrissa chortled and said, ‘When we get there we can entrust you to the local kalfaado. He will take care of you for a few days.’
I laughed. ‘He’ll give me enough grass and water, will he?’
‘Ayyo timmi. And sell you for a good price.’

I did not sleep well at Wousse. My sides and ribs were already bruised from three nights lying on the hard ground, and it was difficult to get comfortable now. But discomfort, I reminded myself, is intrinsic to choggal. I remembered the herders at Djibo, and their grim prophecy: You will be destroyed. It had not happened yet. I would walk another day, and that should bring me to Kongoosi - half way to Ouagadougou.

When we set off I walked ahead of the cows on my own. My legs were hurting, so I wanted to keep in front rather than lag behind. I sang worship songs in English and Fulfulde, admiring the greenness of the countryside. This was such a contrast to the semi-desert around Djibo and even to the stony wastleland we had crossed the previous day. This then was where Sahel merged with Savannah; we were making progress.

At around midday we were met by a young Fulani woman with a child at her breast and two large calabashes on her head.
‘Peace be upon you,’ said Idrissa. ‘Do you have chobbal?’
The woman clicked deep in her throat, which meant yes. She put the calabashes down on the ground and tied her child to her back, where it cried briefly and fell asleep.
‘You are new,’ said Boureima accusingly.
The woman clicked again, and took a ball of the chobbal - a white dumpling of cooked millet and herbs. She placed it into a calabash of fresh milk and began to knead it with quick, dextrous fingers.
‘Where is the other girl?’ said Boureima.
She nodded almost imperceptibly east. ‘She is at home.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Aisha.’
Idrissa scowled at his nephew and gestured for him to be quiet. He turned to the young woman and said, ‘Hurry up, Aisha, we need to get going.’

Some time later I was walking with Idrissa when a man on a motorbike pulled up alongside us.
‘Dikko Muhammad,’ whispered Idrissa to me, ‘Fulani chief of this area.’
‘Salaam alekum,’ said the man, loosening his turban slightly to uncover his mouth.
‘Alekum asalaam,’ we replied in unison.
‘Diallo Alfa has lost five of his bulls,’ said the man, and briefly described the missing animals. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘No - but we will send word if we do.’
Dikko Muhammad turned to me and his eyes twinkled.
‘So, Tubaaku - you have become a Fulani, have you?’
‘Even if a piece of wood lies in the water a long time,’ I replied, using a Fulfulde proverb, ‘it will never become a crocodile.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘But you are a friend of the Fulani,’ he said.
‘I am.’
‘Then you are my friend, too,’ he said. ‘Salaam alekum.’
The chief kicked the starter on his bike and sped off up the road.

We took a long detour to the lake to water the cows, and took the opportunity to wash there. The water was filthy but cool, and it felt refreshing.
‘Diallo says you pray as you walk along,’ said Idrissa.
‘That is right.’
‘We stop to pray,’ he said, ‘when we can.’
‘What do you pray?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What do you say to God?’
‘We say Allah Akbar, and - other things.’
‘Do you know what Iisaa Al Masiihu said about prayer?’
‘No.’
Malle had veered off far to the right of the herd, as was her habit, and Idrissa headed off to bring her back. ‘Tell me in Djibo,’ he said, and threw his staff at the errant cow.

By four o’clock, my legs were hurting too much to continue. There were only six kilometres to go to Kongoosi, but it was six kilometres too far. I was disappointed because I had wanted to get at least half way.

‘I have to go to the road,’ I said to Macha.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘you are coming to Kongoosi with us.’
‘Wanaa mi yidaa, mi waawaa,’ I told him - it is not that I don’t want to, it is that I can’t.
‘Okay,’ he said, and called over to the others, ‘Sammbo says he is leaving us.’
‘Sammbo says he is leaving us,’ echoed Idrissa. ‘Ayyo, timmi. Sammbo has worked hard.’
‘Sammbo is tired,’ said Diallo and Boureima sympathetically.
We all shook hands and I gave Idrissa the tin of coffee.
‘Ayyo timmi,’ he said. ‘We shan’t ever sleep again.’
‘See you in Ouagadougou,’ I said.
‘See you in Ouagadougou.’

I could see the road far away to the east, and set off towards it.

Epilogue:

I met up with Idrissa and company five days later on their triumphal entry to the cattle market in Ouagadougou, and we travelled back to Djibo together in a grain-lorry. I have stayed in touch with them all since, and visited Idrissa and Boureima in Jawjaw several times. I consider them my closest Fulani friends here.