Musa: An essay (or experiment) in the anthropology of the individual [1 ed.] 9783428547814, 9783428147816

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Anthropology, Existence and Individuals Volume 2

Musa An essay (or experiment) in the anthropology of the individual

By

Jan Patrick Heiss

Duncker & Humblot · Berlin

JAN PATRICK HEISS

Musa

Anthropology, Existence and Individuals Edited by Dr. Jan Patrick Heiss, Zürich Prof. Dr. Albert Piette, Paris

Volume 2

Musa An essay (or experiment) in the anthropology of the individual

By

Jan Patrick Heiss

Duncker & Humblot · Berlin

Bibliographic information of the German national library The German national library registers this publication in the German national bibliography; specified bibliographic data are retrievable on the internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

All rights reserved.

© 2015 Duncker & Humblot GmbH, Berlin Typesetting: Fotosatz Voigt, Berlin Printing: CPI buch.bücher.de, Birkach Printed in Germany

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Internet: http://www.duncker-humblot.de

Acknowledgment Many people contributed to this book. Without their support and patience I could not have written it. I am grateful for all the forms of support I have received and it is impossible to name all of those to whom I am indebted. I will just mention the most important ones. First of all, I thank Musa, his wife and children and his father. They endured my presence and let me participate in their lives. I enjoyed their hospitality and openness. Musa and his family live in Kimoram and I am also grateful to the villagers who accepted me in their midst. In Niger, some others supported me, be it by providing company, solving everyday problems, discussing my work or furthering my aims. I should mention Mahamadou Issoufou (who by chance bears the same name as the President of Niger), his wife Bandrit, Malam Magaji (who has unfortunately died in the meantime), Mahamane Laoualy Abdoulaye and Boureima Alpha Gado from the University of Niamey. The Ministère de l’enseignement secondaire, supérieur et de la Recherche scientifique authorized my research. In Nigeria, I enjoyed the hospitality and support of Olayemi Akinwumi from Keffi University, Nigeria. I also wish to acknowledge the academic support I received in Europe. Here I would like to mention Peter Finke, Mareile Flitsch, Gerd Spittler, the late Georg Elwert, Albert Piette, Mahir Saul, Thomas Hüsken, Daniela Dietz, Benedetta Rossi and Isabelle Jabiot. Generous financial contributions came from the German Research Council (DFG), the Swiss National Foundation (SNF) and the International Research Center “Work and Human Life Cycle” at Humboldt University, Berlin. The latter and the Department of Social Anthropology and Empirical Cultural Studies (ISEK) at the University of Zurich provided a stimulating environment. I also thank Celine Cullum for language corrections. Finally, my family and my friends have equally contributed through their moral support or by carrying the burden of my being away or my being absorbed by writing. I wish to thank Isabel Hübner, Frederik Hübner, Brigitte Heiss, my late father Dieter Heiss, Susanne Schnepel, Heike Hübner, Walter Kühme and Leo Koch. Jan Patrick Heiss

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

13

A. The Research Site – Kimoram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Niger: Climate, Ethnic Groups, Administrative Structures . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. The Canton de Garin Gabas, the Chef de Canton, Maire and Headmen . . III. Kimoram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

21 21 23 30

B. The Research Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Methods for the Study of Individuals: Participant Observation and Shadowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. The Theories in the Researcher’s Mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. Interaction with Field Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

45 46 49 51

C. Musa – Daily Life in Kimoram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Musa – Household and Family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. Musa’s Life History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. Daily Routine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV. People Close and Distant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

58 58 60 61 74

D. Musa – Relationships and Activities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Mariama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Having a wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Rights and duties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Power and authority . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Man and woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Intimacy and love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. The Children . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Custody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The value of children . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Providing for the children . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Interaction with the children . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. The Father . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Splitting up the household . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Power relations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. A valued relationship and mutual affection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Diverging interests and conflicts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV. Other Household Members . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

77 77 77 79 81 85 85 91 91 94 96 98 103 103 107 108 109 115

8

Contents V.

Kin and Affines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Dangi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Abdu’s and the Imam’s kinship group . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Other kinsmen from Musa’s dangi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Affines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VI. The Village, Friends and Relations in the Wider Region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Communal prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Ceremonies on the occasion of birth, marriage and death . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Self-regulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Village assemblies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Formal organisations: cereal bank and water pump . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Self-regulation again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. School and self-regulation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8. Musa’s community work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. Friends and relations in the wider region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII. Labour Migration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Nimari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Fieldwork in Nimari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The migrant labourers’ journey to Nimari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Getting started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Daily routine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Musa in different social settings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. People close and distant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8. The villagers from Kimoram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a) The composition of the group . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . b) Rights and duties, cooperation, competition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . c) Patience and anger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d) Maula . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e) Carrying on with Kimoram . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. The bakery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10. Other relations beyond the bakery and the workplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11. Relations at the workplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12. Earning and spending money . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13. Musa’s relationship with his work and with Nimari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VIII. Religion and Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Basic tenets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Prayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Fasting during the month of Ramadan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. The religious dimension of social norms and values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Divine sanctions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

117 117 119 124 127 129 131 132 133 134 135 138 140 140 142 144 146 149 150 151 154 158 159 160 160 161 164 165 166 168 172 173 176 178 180 181 182 183 184 185

Contents 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

9

Responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Islamic learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Religious lore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qur’anic medicine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Religion, others and the self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Other religions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Spirits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Witches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Humans with extraordinary abilities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Medicine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Musa’s religious beliefs in everyday life: Certainty of religious beliefs and confidence in the future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a) Certainty of beliefs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . b) Certainty of the future: confidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

200 201 202

E. Who is Musa? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Desires . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. Social Relations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Relations within the family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Relations beyond the family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The village community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Material goods in social relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Being among others . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Conflict-avoidance and peacefulness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Patience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Reason . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Self-control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Shame-sensitivity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. ‘Love’ of others . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. Obedience towards one’s parents and elders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8. Equanimity and freedom from bad mood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. Accepting reality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10. Courage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11. Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV. Some Tentative Remarks on Reasoning and Planning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V. Mood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VI. Self-Image and Relationship with Himself . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

206 206 212 212 214 217 218 221 223 224 224 225 226 226 227 227 228 228 229 229 230 234 236

186 186 190 191 193 194 194 195 196 198

F. Actor – Person – Individual: Theoretical Aspects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238 I. Tugendhat’s Theory of the Person . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 II. Anthropological Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241

10

Contents 1. Lois Beck (1991): Nomad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Unni Wikan (1990): Managing Turbulent Hearts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. João Biehl (2005): Vita – Life in a Zone of Social Abandonment . . . . 4. Vincent Crapanzano (1980): Tuhami – Portrait of A Moroccan . . . . . . 5. Intermediate result . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Overcoming bias . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theoretical Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Gary Becker (1976): The Economic Approach to Human Behaviour . 2. Giddens (1984): The Constitution of Society . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Piette (2009): L’Acte d’Exister . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Intermediate result . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michael Jackson’s Existential Anthropology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And this Book? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

241 244 245 247 249 249 251 251 253 255 257 259 260

G. Explaining Musa’s Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. Peasant Societies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. What is a peasant? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The diversity of social forms among peasants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The ecology, society and culture of pre-statal cereal producers . . . . . . a) Mode of production . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . b) Kinship reckoning, the exchange of women and the desire for children . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . c) Authority and power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d) Commensality and adoptive practices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e) The status of women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . f) Articulation of modes of production . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . g) Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Cultural models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. The ‘death’ of the peasantry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II. Individuals in Peasant Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III. Islam in the Region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Lower and higher levels of learning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Sufi brotherhoods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Religious influence of the elite on the common believers . . . . . . . . . . . 4. The influence of religious doctrine onto Musa’s thinking and behaviour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a) The Al-Kitab ‘Ulum al-Mu’amala by Uthman dan Fodio ([n.d.] 1978) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . b) The tafsir recordings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . aa) Ontological tenets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

263 264 264 266 271 272

III.

IV. V.

273 273 274 275 275 276 278 281 284 285 286 287 288 292 295 296 298 301

Contents

IV.

bb) Religiously motivated rules for daily life practice . . . . . . . . . . cc) Behaviour towards God: fear of God and obedience towards God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . dd) Behaviour towards God: acceptance of God’s will . . . . . . . . . . ee) Behaviour towards God: acting for the sake of God . . . . . . . . . ff) Behaviour towards God: repentance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . gg) Behaviour towards God: hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hh) Behaviour towards God: gratitude towards God . . . . . . . . . . . . ii) Behaviour towards people: taking care of one’s parents and obedience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . jj) Behaviour towards people: social values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . kk) Behaviour towards oneself: self-control, reason and selftransformation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Individuals and the Interaction of Societal Fields . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

11 301 302 303 303 304 304 305 305 306 307 309

H. Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325

Introduction Society and culture are the main subjects of anthropology. It is a truism that the study of society and culture presupposes the existence of socially embedded and historically shaped individuals. Socially embedded and historically shaped individuals exist, relate to each other and build up society through their actions and interactions. Yet, as society and culture are in the centre of anthropology’s interest, its focus of attention shifts away from these individuals, whose existence it presupposes. The anthropologist’s attention instead turns to social practices, societal mechanisms, or commonly held beliefs, for instance. There is no reason to object to this. Yet, this shifting of attention leaves a void, precisely where the individual is. The individual ought to become, so I argue in this book, a subject of investigation in anthropology. Anthropology seems to be unaccustomed to thinking about the individual. When anthropologists hear about the study of individuals in anthropology, they often think of a biographical approach (e. g. Shostak 1982, van Onselen 1996), which focuses on an individual’s life-history rather than the individual itself. They think of ethno-psychological approaches which discover unconscious elements in individuals (e. g. Crapanzano 1980). Or they think of approaches where individuals serve to exemplify the impact of societal processes (e. g. Biehl 2005). All these approaches are valuable and important, but they do not replace the need to study individuals as such. Anthropology does not select a person in the field, try to empirically research their life, describe it, analyse it in theoretical terms and, as far as possible, explain it. However, this is the main objective pursued in this book. The field subject who becomes a theme in this book is Musa1, a Hausa peasant from Niger. As the study of individuals is not a well-established theme in anthropology, I was not able to draw on any previous examples and needed to somehow grapple with the subject myself. I drew inspiration from anthropologists who had placed a special focus on individuals in their monographs and from writers who established theories about individuals. Arguments against my study Whenever I explained my research, listeners were divided in two categories. They were either interested and supportive or rather critical, if not hostile. I 1

The names of people and places are anonymised in order to protect their identities.

14

Introduction

learned to take it as a sign of having chosen a good theme that the number of those who were simply disinterested was small. Before introducing the reader to the structure of the book and explaining where I think the benefit of my study lies, I will discuss the arguments brought forth against my study. This appears to be necessary in order to convince those readers who take a rather sceptical stance towards it. Argument 1: Some people argued that I speak about a fair number of authors, but not about the essential ones for my theme. I would miss out Marcel Mauss, Brian Morris, Marylin Strathern, i. e. the writers who are important in the anthropology of the person. However, the anthropology of the person is about the self, i. e. self-images and the way in which actors relate to themselves. It is not about the individual and its “real life”. Individuals have self-images and it is important to familiarise oneself with these if one wishes to understand them, even though their lives cannot and must not be reduced to their self-images. Argument 2: Some people criticised me for using the Western notion of the individual. This argument implies that there is a single notion of the individual in the West. I don’t think this is true. Instead, we rather have a diversity of ideas about the individual in the West. For some people, the individual is conceived to be forging his or her own destiny and as being largely in control of the circumstances of their life; others stress the dependency of man on its environment. Moreover, it is far from certain that one and the same person always uses the same notion of the individual. The same person might conceive of himself differently in different situations (cf. Hollan 1992); nothing forces man not to be selfcontradictory over time. Hence, anthropologists are not able to draw on a single Western notion of the individual. Neither does it help to draw on non-Western notions of the individual, as they would probably have the same limitations, although it would be intriguing to write a monograph on an individual from the perspective of a Tallensi (if one was able to do so) who would attribute the vicissitudes of a person’s life to spiritual agencies (cf. Fortes 1983). After all, Western notions of the individual presumably are not that fundamentally different from non-Western notions. LiPuma (1998) and Spiro (1993: 143–5) have shown this for Western and non-Western notions of the self. Given the diversity of models which define the self or – mutatis mutandis – the individual, there appears to be only one way out of this impasse. We have to focus on that notion of the individual that is the most convincing and encompassing and to try to develop it further by comparing it to other notions of the individual and by applying it to the empirical world. We can expect to find such a notion among those offered by Western science, as it has assiduously pursued the process of developing a notion of the individual for a long time (see chapter F.). Argument 3: Some people argued that I cannot plausibly contend that the individual I am writing about is representative of his society or status group. I cannot, therefore, produce generalisations about society. However, as I do not intend

Introduction

15

to make generalisations about a society, I do not need to make sure that I study an individual who is representative of a society or status group. At the same time, I do not consider the production of general statements the only meaningful aim of science. I would even go so far as to contend that some developments in society or history can only be understood if we pay attention to individuals who are not fully representative of society at large, but nevertheless influential. To take a well-known example, it is an open question whether fascism in Germany would have taken the same trajectory without Hitler. Yet we cannot safely surmise that Hitler’s extraordinary capacities to conceal his self and to manipulate others did not play an essential role in taking over political control in Germany and triggering a catastrophe that affected the entire world. Even though Hitler cannot be said to be representative of his entire status-group, we cannot and should still not ignore him when attempting to explain fascism in Germany. As a corollary of that, those anthropologists who expect anthropology books to portray the society and culture of a certain region will naturally be disappointed by this book, yet they would be measuring it against inappropriate criteria. Argument 4: Some people argued that studying individuals is the equivalent of perceiving individuals as monads, without windows to their outer world. I would, according to the proponents of this argument, consider individuals as producing actions autonomously and independently from society. This argument has an inherent flaw in the fact that the notion of the individual does not imply its non-relatedness to other members of society, the denial of processes of socialization or the irrelevance of history to what an individual thinks, feels or does. Neither does it imply that different individuals do not share common beliefs or do not engage in common practices. The argument is all the more astonishing, since the anthropologists themselves, in the very moment that they are putting forth this argument, conceive of themselves as individuals, with identifiable minds and bodies, carriers of agency that are embedded in social and historical processes. Hence, using the notion ‘the individual’ does not imply that one endorses the view that an individual can escape from the social and cultural forces acting upon him. However, at the same time, we do not have sufficient evidence to support the view that everything is indeed socially and culturally determined. The fields of sociology, history and psychology have not yielded theories that enable us to reliably anticipate people’s inner states or actions; they have just increased the probability of our anticipations. The question of whether man disposes of agency irrespective of the social and cultural context he is in remains, at the very least, an open question. Argument 5: Some have argued that such a study offers nothing new. Every anthropologist, so they say, knows that there are indeed individuals, but anthropologists just write as if there weren’t any individuals and if they were all so-

16

Introduction

cially determined. This argument implies that we should not write about things we know but do not speak about. I think the reverse is true. I think it is good to write about things we know and to enhance our understanding of these. The structure of the book and its relevance This having been said, I should now introduce the reader to the structure of the book and specify what the relevance of this study is. To my mind, the structure of the book is best explained by referring to the fact that the study is some kind of experiment. In the beginning, I was determined to write an ethnographic account of an African peasant’s life and to explain the features of his life, but I did not yet know what the value of this would be with respect to anthropology and wanted to explore it a bit further. An account of Musa’s life thus forms the essence of the book. Chapters A. and B. contextualize my account of Musa’s life. Chapter A. introduces the reader to the research site, while chapter B. gives an account of the methods used. In chapters C. and D., I provide the reader with the above-mentioned account of Musa’s life, and I sum up what I consider to be the most perspicuous features of his life in chapter E. These chapters are descriptive and this is intentional. Three points should be mentioned in this context: Firstly, in giving an account of Musa’s life, I have paid a lot of attention to details which might appear superfluous from the perspective of other anthropological interests. However, I do contend that real life often consists of such details. Secondly, although descriptive, I do of course draw on a variety of ideas from theoretical authors. I make use, for instance, of the notions of roles and statuses and I pay attention to the fact that power is inherent to any social interaction (Giddens 1986, Popitz 1992). Tugendhat’s (2006) view of the individual often provided a point of reference for my research, etc. These authors and theoretical ideas partly influence the description of Musa’s life, so to speak, but I refrain from repeatedly and tediously referring to them whenever they might have done that. Thirdly, Musa is a Hausa peasant. However, the use of ethnic terms often creates the impression that we are dealing with largely homogenous entities. This might be the case elsewhere, but Hausaland reveals a large variety of social forms. We are not in a position to authoritatively ascertain which social forms exist in the entire Hausaland and which are of a more regional scope. Spittler (1978: 45) makes this point, as do Haour and Rossi (2010: 4–5): “Hausa-speaking society is characterised by important differences across regions, and it includes groups with separate lifestyles and traditions. This internal heterogeneity, well attested through history, has led to descriptions of ‘Hausaness’ as a phenomenon looser than ethnicity. [. . .], it has also proven difficult to identify a unified Hausa social and political structure.”

Introduction

17

To determine what might be “Hausa” and what is not is also difficult, as Hausa culture partakes in the culture of the wider region. Cohen (1967), for instance, contends that there is a large uniformity among the cultures of the Sahel. I thus refrain from determining which features of Musa’s life are shared by which regional populations. I therefore try to build up my description of Musa’s life “bottom-up” and not to take for granted that those structures other authors have identified elsewhere in Hausaland exist in the region Musa is living in, too – a region, which has hardly been covered by other anthropologists in any case. When I speak about “Hausa” in a general sense, I refer to institutions which I simply consider or assume to be wide-spread in Hausaland. When I saw parallels to what other anthropologists found in other parts of Hausaland, I provided some cross-references for the reader who might be interested in the social and cultures structures of Hausaland. As noted above, I did not want to just describe an African peasant’s life, but also to explain it. Chapter H. serves this purpose. Here, I try to explain, as far as possible, the features of Musa’s life which I summed up in chapter E. by relating them to the social structures of peasant societies (H. I.) and to the local variety of Islam (H. III.). Yet, I also tried to explore what the contribution of a study which focuses on an individual’s life might be for other fields of interest in anthropology. In chapter F., I thus turn to the notion of the individual. The notion itself is of pivotal importance for the project and needs to be discussed. In the process of discussing it, I also endeavour to develop some moderate implications of this study for the notion of the individual, as it might be used in anthropology (see F. V.). At the same time, I try to convince the reader that an explicit discussion and controlled use of the notion of the individual is of more general interest to anthropology. I thus hope to be able to show in chapter F. (see F. II. 6.) that a lack of explicit reflection on the notion of the individual often brings about a misrepresentation of some state of affairs in anthropological studies and that an explicit reflection on the notion would help to prevent anthropologists from producing such biased accounts. Moreover, my explanation of some features of Musa’s life by relating them to the literature on peasant societies and to the regional variety of Islam in chapter H. has implications for two fields of interest in anthropology. I thus make the point that peasants in peasant studies appear as schematized beings, deprived of their ability to pursue individual projects in their lives (see H. II.). Finally, I would like to defend the study of individuals in yet another respect. If we try to construe generalised statements about a society, we need to work with a wide variety of people. As a corollary of that, we cannot study them very closely. However, if we study individuals, we can spend more time on them. We can unfold their being, show their complexity and intricateness to an extent a study striving to make generalisations cannot. This has repercussions for the field of anthropol-

18

Introduction

ogy. A study of individuals, as I argue in chapter H. IV., allows us to take a close look at the nodal points at which different spheres of life come together and exert their influence on one another. I try to show this with respect to the question of how far religion exerts an influence on Musa’s value-orientation and behaviour. As shown in chapters H. I. and H. III., social structure and religion can both serve to explain Musa’s value-orientation. I argue, however, that the religious factors are largely void of explanatory power and rather serve to ‘colour’ a value-orientation that can better be explained by means of socio-structural arguments. In sum, I thus hope to have shown that the study of individuals is a topic for anthropology which deserves to be investigated further. At the same time, I do not contend that I have exhaustively explored the relevance of the study of individuals. As always, it is only the concerted effort of many people that produces good results. What I present here, should thus rather be understood as a contribution towards this research topic and a cautious exploration of the subject.2 Actor, person, individual, self Before coming to chapter A, some clarification is needed with respect to some of the terms used. In common usage, the notions “individual”, “person” and “actor” refer to human beings, each in a specific sense and each of which trigger off a variety of associations. Before going on, I would thus like to clarify how I use these terms in this book. The least controversial term is probably that of the human being. By this I am referring to a member of a certain animal species at any stage of its development. When a human being is born, however, we do not refer to him or her as an actor, because they still lack the ability to act; they do not yet have the conscious intention nor have they acquired the skills to pursue their intention. When we speak of an actor, we refer to a human being who has the ability to act purposefully. The notion of the actor also implies the ability to act in a responsible manner. The mere ability to carry out actions instrumentally does not suffice to make someone an ‘actor’.3 When speaking about an actor, we are interested in a human being only to the extent to which he acts. We do not care about those aspects of

2 I should mention, here, the work of Albert Piette (2009, 2011, 2015) who pursues a similar idea, although from a slightly different angle. I discuss his work in chapter F. 3 “Handeln, zielgerichtete menschliche Tätigkeit. Unter Handlungen versteht man Ereignisse, die von Personen wissentlich, willentlich und zielgerichtet ausgelöst werden, . . . Handeln liegt also nur vor, wenn jemand weiß, was er tut, und wenn er sich für die betreffende Handlungsoption entschieden hat. Einem Handeln muss ein Prozess des Überlegens vorhergegangen sein (. . .), in dem jemand Handlungsalternativen nach ihren Vor- und Nachteilen abgewogen hat. Der ausgeführten Handlung muss der Akteur frei zugestimmt haben, woraus sich seine Verantwortlichkeit für das Handeln ergibt.” (https://uzh.brockhaus-wissensservice.com/brockhaus/handeln).

Introduction

19

him that are irrelevant to his acting, for instance, an upcoming thought that just passes by and makes no difference to what the actor is doing. The notion of a person refers to the same entity we have referred to as the ‘actor’, namely, a human being at a stage of his development that implies his ability to act and his ability to take responsibility for his actions.4 When we speak about a human being as a person, however, we shift our focus and think of the human being in terms of their relation to others and as a bearer of rights, duties and social roles.5 These aspects of a human being are, however, also necessarily implied by the notion of the actor. Both notions, that of an actor and that of a person, thus seem to imply each other. When we speak of an individual, we are again referring to a human being at a stage of his development which implies his ability to act, his ability to be responsible and his ability to play different roles, but we also seem to imply that there is something unique to him.6 We might thus also like to refer to his autonomy. The notion of an actor stresses action-related features, notably the actor’s ability to purposefully carry out actions and to be responsible. The notion of the person emphasizes certain social aspects. The notion of an individual hints at uniqueness and at a person’s ability to determine their own actions independently from what others think or say. The notions thus seem to have much ground in common and even to imply each other and so I often use these terms interchangeably in the course of the study. What this book is about, then, is one human being to whom we might (most) conveniently refer to as an actor, a person or an individual. None of these notions should be mixed up with the notion of the ‘self ’, however. Spiro (1993: 117) distinguishes between “the individual’s conception of his self (the self-representation)” and “the cultural conception of the person”. The self would thus denote either a representation which an individual has of himself or a representation which an individual has of what constitutes a person. In both cases, the term ‘self ’ denotes elements from an individual’s or a society’s stock of knowledge. 4 “Person [. . .], Zu Bestimmungsmomenten des Begriffs Person zählen u. a. die Einheit des Ich (strukturelle Einheit des Erlebens, Handelns und Sagens); Bewusstsein und mit diesem die Fähigkeit zur Erkenntnis und Selbsterkenntnis; die Möglichkeit der Verfügung über sich selbst und die Dinge und zum vorausschauend verantwortlichen und zwecksetzenden Handeln, das sich in relativer Unabhängigkeit von der Kausalität des Physischen nach dem Prinzip der Freiheit vollzieht (. . .); die Fähigkeit, anderen den Status des Personseins zuzusprechen und sie kommunikativ als Person anzuerkennen (Interpersonalität)” (https://uzh.brockhaus-wissensservice.com/brockhaus/person-philo sophie). 5 This concept . . . is given in our language, in the word person. [. . .] It’s legal sense, in particular, bears on our problem. Jurists mean by a ‘person’ (. . .) a ‘human being with recognized rights and duties’. (Nadel 1951: 92). 6 “Individu|um [. . .] im engeren Sinn der Einzelmensch (quantitativ besonders im Unterschied zur Gesellschaft; qualitativ seine Einmaligkeit und Besonderheit kennzeichnend)” (https://uzh.brockhaus-wissensservice.com/brockhaus/individuum).

20

Introduction

My interest in Musa also parts with an idea of the actor as it is modelled by the different varieties of Rational Choice Theories (cf. Becker 1976). These approaches favour a parsimonious model of the actor, which comprises only those features that are relevant for the explanation of specific actions, for instance, bargaining on the market, and for the explanation of the accumulated effects of these actions (cf. Schimank 2011: 24). My interest in Musa is of a wider scope. I want to know what his life consists of, not only what parts of his life are relevant to produce certain actions or effects. At the same time, it might be interesting to note that these parsimonious models have been subject to constant criticism (Bourdieu 1977, Hirshman 1985) and have continuously been redefined to encompass an ever wider range of phenomena (cf. Finke et alia, unpublished manuscript), thus coming ever closer to an all-encompassing theory of the actor perceived as an individual. It might also be useful to point out that I am not concerned with the question of individuality. I do not try to show that Musa is an individual in the sense that he is unique and different from everyone else. To prove such a statement is evidently beyond my capabilities and so I leave this question open. Similarly, I work on the basis of the assumption that there is nothing in an individual that cannot be explained by reference to the conditions of his existence. Thus, I do not pursue the strategy to show that an individual, his or her features or actions escape scientific analysis or causal conditioning. My assumption might be wrong, but I consider it to be the task of science to work under this assumption and to see how far it will take us.

A. The Research Site – Kimoram Before I give an account of Musa’s life in chapters C., D. and E., I will first introduce the reader to the main research site. Throughout the time I spent with Musa, he lived in two different places. The majority of the year, including the rainy season (June to September), he remained in Kimoram, his home village in Niger. His main economic preoccupation in Kimoram was field cultivation. In parts of the slack period, i. e. the dry and cold season (October to May), he travelled to Nimari, a town in Plateau State, Nigeria. There he roamed the streets to hawk bread and tea. For him, Kimoram was the more important of these two places. His compound was in Kimoram, his wife lived here, his father and his children. I will first describe Kimoram and introduce the reader to Nimari later on in the chapter on labour migration (D. VII.).

I. Niger: Climate, Ethnic Groups, Administrative Structures Kimoram lies, as I have already mentioned, in Niger, a country in West Africa that has common borders with Mali, Algeria, Libya, Chad, Nigeria and Benin. One of its most striking characteristics is its dry climate. Southern Niger, where Kimoram lies, forms part of the Sahel, whereas the north is largely a desert. The further one travels to the north, the shorter the rainy season is. In and around Kimoram, the rainy season starts in June or July and lasts until September or October. Apart from the rainy season, there is a cold season roughly from November to February and a hot season from March to May. There is no rainfall, however, in the cold or in the hot season. Especially in the southern region of the country that lies along the border to Nigeria rainfall is sufficiently high to allow for field cultivation. The northern part of the Sahel, however, only allows for animal husbandry. Kimoram lies in the arable zone. The Nigerien population is concentrated in the Sahelian part of Niger, especially in the southern area of the country that lies along the border to Nigeria. Niger, as a whole, has a rural character. Approximately 17% of the population lived in cities in 2010 (https://uzh.brockhaus-wissensservice.com/brockhaus/ni ger-1). The most important cities are Niamey, Zinder, Maradi and Agadez. There are many smaller cities in Niger, but the majority of Nigeriens live in villages, hamlets or camps (cf. Lund (1998: 52–6) for a general introduction to the socioeconomic features of Niger). Most of the population in the rural areas of southern Niger survive on field cultivation and often also keep livestock. A minor part of the population in the

22

A. The Research Site – Kimoram

rural area lives on nomadic pastoralism that is often supplemented by field cultivation. Many people raise additional income through other economic activities. They are artisans like blacksmiths or musicians, small traders, brokers at the market or labour migrants. The cities offer a greater diversity of professions. People in the cities work in the transportation business, in trade, in the public sector, for development organisations, as artisans or in what is commonly called the ‘informal sector’. There is hardly any industry in Niger (cf. Grégoire 1990 for the city of Maradi). In the 1980s, however, mining companies started to exploit uranium sites in the north, and these days oil companies exploit oil fields in different parts of the country. The Nigerien state has a history of oscillating between military rule and democratic government. At the moment, Niger is a democratic republic. Several ethnic groups live in Niger (cf. http://www.ethnologue.com/country/ NE/maps). In the south-west, the Zarma are the largest ethnic group (Olivier de Sardan 1984). The Gourmantché live along the border to Benin and Burkina Faso (Alves 2012). The Hausa live in the central southern part of Niger. The KanuriManga live in the south-eastern part (Heiss 2003), and the Yedina on the shores and the islands of Lake Chad (Heiss 2009, Konrad 2009). The Tuareg live in the north of Niger (Bernus 1993) and the Tubu in the north-eastern part (Baroin 1985). The Fulb’e (Fulfuld’e, sg. Pullo; Hausa pl. Filani, sg. Bafillace) can be found in the same region as the Zarma, Hausa and Kanuri and they also live in the southern parts of the Tuareg area (Dupire 1996). Similarly, the Tuareg not only live in the north, but also in areas that are mainly inhabited by members of the southern ethnic groups. Moreover, there is a small Arabic ethnic minority. The Bugaje (Hausa, sg. Buzu) might be considered a group of ambiguous status. Bernus (1993: 62–3) considers them to be former Tuareg slaves who have become emancipated from the Tuareg. Baier (1980: 126) calls them “low-status Tuareg” who came to settle in the southern part of Niger and took up farming. It is thus not common to define them as an ethnic group (although Lund (1998: 59) does that). However, the inhabitants of Kimoram draw a distinction between them and the Tuareg. The inhabitants of Kimoram are Hausa, the villages to the east speak Kanuri-Manga, and a major part of the village to the west of Kimoram speaks Fulfuld’e, the language of the Fulb’e. Niger is divided into seven régions and the capital district of Niamey (see map 1). Kimoram is situated in the région de Zinder. A région is headed by a gouverneur and is further divided into several départements. The région de Zinder comprises the départements Tanout, Gouré, Mirriah, Magaria and Matameye. Départements are headed by préfets. For reasons of anonymisation, I do not specify in further detail where Kimoram lies. A département is further subdivided into centres urbains and cantons. Kimoram lies in the canton de Garin Gabas (name

II. The Canton de Garin Gabas

23

invented by myself). Kimoram lies about ten kilometres to the north of Garin Gabas.

Map 1: The different regions of Niger. For purposes of anonymisation, the exact location of Kimoram is not indicated.

II. The Canton de Garin Gabas, the Chef de Canton, Maire and Headmen The canton de Garin Gabas is situated on a huge sand dune, part of which can be seen on photo 1. The sand dune has a wave-like shape. In some places, there are deeper depressions in the sand dune. In these depressions, the ground water level is often not far from the surface. While the vegetation on the sand dunes is rather scarce, it is often denser in these depressions. Mainly grasses and leptadenia pyrotechnica (a kind of shrub) grow on the sand dunes. In the depressions, one can often find hyphaene thebaica (dum palms). Here and there, surface water gathers in the deeper depressions and forms ponds. Two ponds are situated to the south of Kimoram. The villages in the area normally lie on the sand dune crests. So does Kimoram. To protect themselves from the sun, the villagers grow trees in the villages. Due to these trees, the villages can already be seen from far away. The photo shows the villages of Kimoram and of Garin Dengi.

24

A. The Research Site – Kimoram

The economy of the canton de Garin Gabas is diverse, but rain-fed agriculture is the main economic activity. The farmers grow millet and cowpeas on the sand dunes. Most of the sand dune area is under cultivation, hardly any plots are fallow land. Some farmers also hold land near the ponds or in the deeper depressions. Since the ground water level is not far below, they do gardening here. They mainly cultivate cassava, but also dates, tomatoes, onions, lemons, etc. However, not all farmers have access to gardening land.

Photo 1: The landscape around Kimoram.

The conditions for rain-fed agriculture are difficult, because the amount of rainfall is inconsistent. Sometimes, rainfall sets in earlier, stops earlier or ceases for a longer period of time during the rainy season. While the area has historically been threatened by erratic rainfall patterns and droughts, heavy or irregular rainfalls causing damage to the harvest time and again, the peasants complain that rain has generally become scarcer over recent years. These days, rain regularly falls in insufficient quantities and drought threatens the harvest in most years. The population in the canton de Garin Gabas can be subdivided into four different ethnic groups: the Hausa, Kanuri-Manga (who speak the Manga dialect and I shall therefore call Manga from here on – they also call themselves Manga), Fulb’e (sg. Pullo) and Bugaje (sg. Buzu) – if one counts the latter as an ethnic group. Hausa settle in the western part of the canton, Manga in the East.

II. The Canton de Garin Gabas

25

Both groups grow millet and cowpeas and live in villages or hamlets. One seldom finds villagers who also hold larger amounts of cattle. Fulb’e can be found interspersed among them, either in villages, hamlets or in single homesteads. The Fulb’e are either peasants or combine field cultivation and cattle herding. Some of them regularly leave the area during the rainy season, moving eastward with their cattle to bring them to richer pastures and return to the canton after the rainy season. Whoever has cattle, be it a Hausa, a Manga or a Pullo, but does not want to keep them in his settlement throughout the year, entrusts it to cattle-herders who integrate the cattle into their herds. Interspersed with the other groups are also some Bugaje. The Bugaje who live in the vicinity of Kimoram have come from the north during past droughts. Garin Gabas is the biggest town in the canton de Garin Gabas. Town-dwellers cultivate the fields on the surrounding sand dunes and a variety of garden products in the vicinity of their town. Agriculture is the most important economic activity in Garin Gabas, but there are also other activities: some people own shops, some are mechanics, etc. Garin Gabas is also the main marketplace for the surrounding villages. Sunday is market-day in Garin Gabas. Cars bring customers and vendors from Zinder and other places, and villagers from the surrounding area come to Garin Gabas to sell their goods, to trade and to buy. Garin Gabas is also the administrative capital of the canton. The chef de canton resides in Garin Gabas, the gendarmerie nationale and the douane have a post there. Garin Gabas has a mayor (maire), primary schools and a secondary school, a healthcare centre and some NGO branches. The canton de Garin Gabas is subordinate to its chef de canton. The institution of the chef de canton largely conforms to the model of administrative chieftainship (Krämer 2009). The chef de canton is indigenous to the canton, but he also represents the state and the administration to the local population.1 The local population calls the chef de canton ‘sarki’, i. e. ‘king’. At the time of research, Sarki Ibrahim ruled the canton. He resided in his own palace in Garin Gabas and his competencies, so it appeared from many a conversation I had in the field, were manifold. He played a role in tax collection. The village headmen in the area collected taxes from their followers and handed them over to the sarki who, after he had set aside his share, would hand the tax money over to the state. Moreover, the 1 The present administrative structure still resembles the administrative structure which was introduced by the French during the colonial period (Fuglestad 1983: 80). The French created an administration that comprised cantons and the larger administrative bodies that still largely persist as régions and départements. The heads of these larger administrative bodies were French colonial officers or bureaucrats in former times and are now Nigérien civil servants or elected representatives. The chefs de cantons, however, belonged to the canton’s local population in colonial times as they do these days, even if they form a superior stratum in local society. (Cf. Lund 1998: 64–5.).

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

villagers reported that the sarki sometimes was in charge of distributing food aid in times of crisis. The sarki also claimed ultimate ownership of the land. Farmers or kin groups owned their own plots, could inherit them, and in some cases, even sell them, depending on the rules that prevailed in the village. However, if strangers wanted to farm on hitherto virgin land, the sarki could sell them the rights to the land.2 But he also considered the land under cultivation as his property and claimed the right to transfer it to others. The villagers, however, did not consider the sarki’s ultimate ownership of land legitimate.3 Furthermore, the sarki also set a time when the Fulb’e herders who came back from their seasonal migration at the end of the rainy season would be allowed to enter the canton with their herds. The purpose of this was to make sure that the peasants would have sufficient time to put their harvest into the granary before the cattle would feed on it. Sarki Ibrahim also expelled people from the canton who misbehaved. He was said, for instance, to have deported about 80 prostitutes from Garin Gabas to the Nigerian border, when their numbers were considered to have risen beyond what was acceptable. The sarki also acted as judge in the canton.4 When the villagers of the canton or their headmen could not resolve conflicts among themselves, they could let the sarki judge the case. So the sarki often had to deal with disputes over land. I was told, for instance, that one inhabitant of the canton had proposed to one of his kinsmen to straighten the border between both their fields. The latter, however, refused and consequently the former sought to take possession of his kinsman’s field. The sarki finally judged the case and preserved the latter’s rights to the land. Similarly, a villager could seek the sarki’s assistance if another villager did not tend his animals well so that they entered and caused damage to his garden. The sarki also judged thieves. He did not, however, judge severe crimes like murder. These fell into the jurisdiction of the gendarmerie and the justice in Zin-

2 This is apparently an old practice. With respect to the pre-colonial organisation of Damagaram, Dunbar (1971: 136) writes: “Newcomers were presented by a quarter head to the sarki who granted permission for settlement and allocated fields to the strangers.” 3 That the sarki’s claim to the land was contested by the peasants, so one might assume, reflects a historical process which Olivier de Sardan (1984: 227, 233, 236, 238) describes for the Zarma region in Western Niger. Pre-colonial norms did not allow traditional chiefs to expropriate peasants. These norms were founded under colonial rule: “L’ ‘autorisation’ que, au nom de la collectivité, le chef donnait autrefois à de nouveaux arrivants pour qu’ils puissent s’installer et défricher, autorisation découlant des fonctions politiques et parfois symboliques dévolues de la chefferie, se transforme ainsi tout bonnement en ‘nue-propriété’ du chef de canton! Et, inversement, le simple cultivateur n’a plus que l’usufruit d’une délégation de propriété . . .” (Olivier de Sardan 1984: 236). 4 Cf. Lund (1998: 69): “Only the magistrates and the judges at the courts have adjucating powers, while traditional chiefs [for instance, the sarki; jph] and the sous-préfet have mere conciliatory powers. However, the formal limits of the legal powers of the chef de canton and the sous-préfet have always remained somewhat obscure to the average farmer.”

II. The Canton de Garin Gabas

27

der. The sarki was also deemed to be an arbitrator. He mediated in matters of marriage and divorce. The sarki could also take action against sorcerers. Once a sorcerer had been identified, the sarki could make him swear on the Qur’an and thus prevent the sorcerer from further bewitching others. The sarki was elected from among certain families by the village headmen in the canton and had to be approved by the government. At the time of research, there were 32 village-headmen in the canton. The villagers said that the different candidates tried to further their chances by presenting the village-headmen with money at the last election. According to one informant they offered sums of 20–30,000 Fcfa. (Niger’s currency is the Franc Cfa. One euro equals 656 Francs Cfa. Nigeria’s currency is the Naira. At the time of research, 200 Naira equalled one Euro.) Once elected and approved by the state, the sarki was appointed to his office for the rest of his life. He remained subordinate to higher state officials, e. g. to the préfet, who could, if he so wished, dispose of him.5 As can be seen from the description of his tasks, the sarki’s position was invested with much power over the local population. Being in a superior position, the sarki was also treated with respect by the local population. When the sarki left his palace and appeared in the open space in front of it, for instance, all those present had to stand up and wait until the sarki sat down before they would sit down too. When the sarki judged a case, all those present – his lower functionaries, the plaintiff, and the defendant – removed their shoes and sat on the ground, whereas the sarki kept his shoes on and remained in his seat. Nevertheless, the villagers also evaluated the sarki’s performance. Thus, the villagers considered the sarki to be a fair judge, but they also believed or assumed that the sarki bent or ignored rules in order to enrich himself or to punish the local population. Some villagers, for instance, suspected the sarki of embezzling part of the food aid that was due to them. Some also believed that, in the recent past, he had exempted some villagers from receiving food aid because they had not accepted his judgment. Some villagers also said that he had ignored the inherited rights of some villagers on their land and that he had sold it to new settlers in the region. Similarly, they thought that the sarki did not care enough about the well-being of the canton’s population. One villager, e. g. would have liked the sarki to copy what he had seen in Nigeria. The sarki there had restricted the movement of herders and confined them to one pasture area, even after the harvest was over. As a corollary of that, the peasants could cultivate sesame and melons on the fields which grow after harvest time. The villager thought the same to be possible in and around Garin Gabas, as there would be pasture areas nearby.

5 See Lund (2001) for a description of the process of electing a new canton chief in Magawa.

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

Although some villagers believed that the sarki sometimes bent the rules and some even seemed to hold grudges against him, they still did not want him to be removed. This was probably due to a variety of causes. Some villagers accepted the situation as it was, because they did not have any means of sanctioning the sarki. Some even showed a certain level of understanding for him, as acting arbitrarily was, as one villager put it, the prerogative of a king. Some did not seem to think much about altering the situation, but thought it better to benefit from it. Finally, there was nothing unusual about the sarki’s behaviour. In Kimoram, some villagers embezzled money from the cereal bank and others tried to appropriate other people’s land and goods. Against this backdrop, the sarki’s behaviour might be viewed critically, but it was not unusual.6 The sarki had messengers, the dogarai (sg. dogari). If the sarki wanted to inform the population about an issue, the dogarai would mount their horses and convey the message to the intended recipients. If the sarki wanted villagers to come to Garin Gabas, for instance, in order to judge their cases, the dogarai would summon them. The dogarai could also assess damages before the sarki would decide on the amount of compensation due. If, for instance, Fulb’e herders entered the territory before they were allowed to and their animals ate up part of a peasant’s harvest, the sarki could order his dogarai to assess the damage. In order to interact with the village population in the canton, the sarki not only drew on his dogarai, but also on the village headmen. As Kimoram itself did not have a headman at the time of the study, the sarki called upon Mamman (y) when he needed to communicate a message to Kimoram. He then either summoned Mamman to Garin Gabas or sent him a message. In recent years, mobile phones have become available in the region. Some of the messages was now conveyed via these, I was told by one dogari. Whilst, in former years, the office of chef de canton or sarki was the only political office in the canton, some years earlier, in the wake of administrative reform, the position of a maire has been created. In contrast to the chef de canton, the maire was elected by the inhabitants of the town of Garin Gabas and he held his office only for a limited period of time. The villagers said that the maire had functions only in the town of Garin Gabas itself. At the same time they were not entirely sure about the maire’s functions, but they knew that he issued deeds of land ownership for the town of Garin Gabas and that the canton’s population (rural and urban) could submit applications for identity cards with him, as well as requests for the establishment of schools. In any case, the maire only played a marginal role in Kimoram.

6 Cf. Spittler (1978: 94–8) who describes the emic model of political power among Hausa peasants in Gobir. Spittler finds that the peasants do not ascribe legitimacy to their political authorities, but they evaluate the political authorities’ actions nevertheless.

II. The Canton de Garin Gabas

29

As I mentioned previously, the villagers in the region followed headmen, masu gari (sg. mai gari). Even though mai gari means ‘owner of a town’, a mai gari did not necessarily represent a certain village. In the area around Kimoram, a headman had followers, and these sometimes lived in different villages. Not having a headman of their own, the villagers of Kimoram followed different headmen, none of whom lived in Kimoram. A headman did not necessarily belong to one’s own ethnic group. Among the headmen, whose followers lived in Kimoram, were five Hausa, one Manga and one Pullo. Headmen collected the annual taxes from their followers who, after having set aside their own share, handed them over to the sarki. The headmen were also involved in arbitration and jurisdiction. When a woman from Kimoram had beaten somebody else’s daughter, for instance, the headman of the girl’s family came to Kimoram, inquired into the matter, listened to the parties involved, and finally fixed a fine for the culprit. Headmen had to be appointed by the sarki. If someone intended to become a mai gari, he would need some followers to support him. He would pay a fee to the sarki and would then be appointed mai gari. A mai gari held a superior position in the village hierarchy and deserved some deference. On ritual occasions, for instance, a mai gari was greeted by more villagers than a common participant would be. He was greeted more enthusiastically and he chose to sit in the same place as other honourable participants, i. e. other masu gari who happened to be there and the Imams. A mai gari was expected to follow certain rules but he could also bend those rules. When, for instance, the above-mentioned mai gari fined a woman for having beaten a child, rumour had it that he would probably define himself as a member of the damaged party by virtue of being their kinsman and retain part of the fine for himself. Similarly, another mai gari who had followers in Kimoram was said to have received food aid to distribute it among the villagers, but allegedly kept it for his own village. There were two types of masu gari: firstly, Hausa- or Manga headmen and secondly, Fulb’e-headmen who bore the title ardo. The former were subordinate to the chef de canton in Garin Gabas. The latter belonged to the canton des peuls and were subordinate to the sarkin Fulani, the sarki of the Fulb’e, who also lived in the canton but was equal in rank to the sarki in Garin Gabas. Like any other mai gari, an ardo might have followers in different places. Due to the nomadic life of many Fulb’e, some of his followers might live many miles away and the ardo might have to travel far in order to collect the taxes from his followers.7 Although an ardo was of Fulb’e-descent, his followers might belong to different

7 This is evidently an old practice too. With respect to the pre-colonial organisation of Damagaram, Dunbar (1971: 142) writes: “The title of Sarkin Fulani was held successively by a free person and then by slaves. Responsible for the collection of revenue of Fulani, either nomad or settled, they worked through the lardo (= ardo; jph) of each particular group.”

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

ethnic groups. Maigari Dengi of Garin Dengi, the village next to Kimoram, was a Fulb’e-ardo, but he had also Hausa followers in Kimoram.8

III. Kimoram Kimoram lies at a distance of approximately 10 kilometres to the north of Garin Gabas. The village comprised about 100 compounds and around 180 adults lived there at the time of the study. (I could not carry out a complete census for reasons detailed in chapter B.). The inhabitants of Kimoram speak Hausa as their native language and consider themselves to be Hausa. Kimoram lies close to the language border between Hausa und Manga. The neighbouring villages to the east speak Manga. Whereas the male Manga population in these villages speaks Hausa as a second language, only a small proportion of the Hausa who live in Kimoram speak Manga. Many of them, however, have a more or less limited passive command of Manga. As noted above, Kimoram is situated on top of a hill. The village is surrounded by the sandy soil of the sand dune where the villagers’ fields lie. In the rainy season, the villagers grow millet and cowpeas on these fields. At the time of research, nearly all the fields around Kimoram were under cultivation and only a few fields remained fallow. It took me 45 minutes to reach the fields that were furthest away from Kimoram but still belonged to the village area on foot. Some villagers also had fields in areas that belonged to other villages, and some inhabitants of other villages owned fields near Kimoram. To the south of Kimoram, water gathers in two depressions in the ground and forms ponds. Reeds cover the ponds and there are also fish. As the ground water level is not very low, some villagers do gardening on the shores of the ponds. They grow dates, tomatoes, cassava, pumpkins, onions, etc. There are some more depressions in the area surrounding the village. However, no water gathers in these. The soil in some of these depressions has dried up and no gardening is possible there, but in some of the depressions the ground water level is near enough to the surface to dig wells and do some gardening. The villagers live in compounds, comprising one or several mud huts. They are enclosed by a rectangular fence, often made up of wooden fence posts and millet stalks between and behind the posts. The picture below shows Musa’s hut in 2009.

8 Cf. Spittler (1978: 46–51) for a description of the offices of sarki and mai gari in the province of Gobir. Cf. Lund (1998: 64–81) for a detailed description of the rights, duties and actions of the canton chiefs in two cantons in the vicinity of Zinder. Lund refers to the colonial period.

III. Kimoram

Photo 2: One of the two ponds to the south of Kimoram. In the front of the picture, cassava grows, in the middle, reed covers the water and in the rear, dum palms encircle the pond.

Photo 3: Musa’s hut.

31

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

The mud hut gave shelter to his wife, to him and to their children. Often mud huts contain a single room, sometimes two. The hut on the photo contains a single room. In the front, there is also a cooking hut where Mariama, Musa’s wife, did the cooking. To the left of the mud hut, there is the ‘bathroom’ screened from the observer’s eyes by a braided mat. Family members and guests urinated there and the family took its baths. On the left side, one can also see an earthen water container, randa, half of it is covered by a fence post. Mariama went to the well or to the water pump several times a day to fill the container. Whoever needed to drink, to take a bath or to cook, took water from it. The following diagram shows the outline of the compound described above from a bird’s eye perspective.

Diagram 1: Musa’s compound from a bird’s eye perspective adua is the Hausa name for balanites aegytiaca, maina stands for azadirachta indica (nimtree).

Musa’s hut being similar to all other huts in the village, these rectangular compounds are “put together” to build the whole village (diagram 2). There is a variety of household structures in Kimoram. In the simplest case, a household consists of a husband, his wife and their children. The husband’s main duties are to provide for housing and to feed his family, whereas a wife’s main duties are to cook, to clean the house and to raise the children. The husband’s main economic activity is field cultivation. The man owns one or several plots of land on the sand dunes around Kimoram. Before the rains start to fall, he cleans the fields. After rain has fallen, he sows millet and cowpeas. Later on, he weeds and finally he brings in the harvest and stores it in the family granary. The harvest serves to feed the family and to meet the family’s other financial demands.

III. Kimoram

33

Diagram 2: Outline of the village.

While her husband is working the fields, the wife does the cooking. She brings the food to the field and she might help him to cultivate the fields. Male children regularly help the father on the field. The man sets aside parts of the field for his wife and the older children respectively, where they cultivate their own millet and cowpeas. The field produce from these plots is their only. If not from a historical point of view, then at least from an analytical viewpoint, the more complex household structures are based on these simpler structures. Children work on the father’s fields and contribute to the family income. Each of them also cultivates a plot of land their father has set aside for them. Later on, a son establishes his own hut in the same village as his father lives and where he was born. Then, the children marry. The newly-wed wife moves into her husband’s hut and takes over her responsibilities as a wife. This process stretches, over many years. In the beginning, the wife cooks with her mother-in-

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

law and later, as time passes, she starts to cook on her own in her husband’s compound. Similarly, the new household only slowly gains economic independence. At the beginning, the son continues to work on his father’s fields, as he did before, and he is fed by his father. Later on, the son continues to work on his father’s fields, but he builds his own granary. At harvest time, the father hands over part of the harvest to his son who stores it in his granary. At a later stage, when the son has perhaps already reached the age of 35, the father splits up his fields and the son then cultivates his share of the fields independently. However, both households are still linked together by a variety of social obligations. In case of a shortage of food, for instance, both households can claim the other household’s help. In case of marriage, the father might still contribute to the marriage expenses when his son divorces his wife and wants to marry again. Social obligations to help each other also exist between uncles and nephews or between cousins. These are, however, far less strong than obligations between fathers and sons. Sons of the same household might jointly establish themselves independently from their father’s household. The sons might work a common field and share the harvest among themselves. However, I only knew of one such a case in Kimoram. Some households are polygamous. When a man marries several wives, he sets aside a part of his fields for each of his wives. Often children grow up in other households. A first-born child might, for instance, not grow up in his father’s compound, but rather in that of his grandfather or grandmother. Or someone gives his child into the care of a kinsman or kinswoman, or receives another kinsman’s child. These children live together with their new families, be it for a while or for longer. The responsibilities for the children, for instance, for their marriage expenses, devolve to the new families when the children remain for a longer period of time with their foster parents. However, the children do not inherit from their foster parents and the relations to the natural parents are neither hidden nor denied. From a historical point of view, however, the prevalence of the nuclear family and of individualized land ownership in Kimoram rather seems to be the result of a process of disintegration of larger social units. Olivier de Sardan (1984: 244– 247) analyses this process for the Zarma region of Western Niger where larger units split up in response to social change under colonial rule. He cites, for instance, the pax gallica, migration and new rules for landed property, as factors that led to change. Raynaut (1972: 25) and Cooper (1997: 41–3) report about such a process for the region around Maradi. Kimoram was probably founded in the 1940s. When the first settlers came to Kimoram, there was still plenty of land and they appropriated large plots. As land was passed on from father to son, it was split up in the course of time. At the time of research, there was no land without an owner around Kimoram and, except for some stretches that lay fallow, all the land was under cultivation. As a corollary of this process, the size of the plots varied and some peasants like

III. Kimoram

35

Abdu, who was one of the village elders, had a lot land, whereas other peasants did not have sufficient. When the fathers eventually die, the sons inherit their land and split it up among themselves, or, but this is a rather rare case, work on it together. The same rules of inheritance apply to garden plots. Individual farmers own them and pass them on to their sons who split them up among themselves. As a rule, daughters should also inherit land from their fathers, although their share should be half as large as that of their brothers. Kande, a female villager, inherited a plot of land from her father, but this was the only case of female land ownership I knew about and I had the impression that the villagers did not strictly abide by this rule. This impression is confirmed by the findings of Khilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 52) in Gomba village in the département de Kantché where women are usually excluded from land ownership. Inheritance is the most important way to get control over land in Kimoram. If someone wants to cultivate more fields than he has obtained through inheritance, he has other options to acquire new fields. Sometimes a villager who is absent from Kimoram or who has more fields than he needs lends a field to his kinsman. The latter cultivates the field and does not pay for it, although an occasional present would prove his good manners. This form of exchange is called aro. One can also get access to a field through pawning. The owner of a field allows someone else to cultivate his field in exchange for a certain amount of money. Only if the owner returns the same amount of money, does he gain control over his field again. There is no time limit to such an agreement. Even when the user of the field has been exploiting the field for many years, the owner of the field can only gain control over his field again if he pays back the original sum. This form of exchange is called jingina. Another way of gaining access to a field is through one’s wife. If one marries a wife who owns a field, one can possibly cultivate it. In such a case, however, the harvest belongs to both, husband and wife, and the husband cannot make use of it independently of his wife’s wishes. Finally, one can buy a field. If someone is in severe financial difficulty, he might, as a last resort, sell his field. As there are different ways of gaining access to fields, the fields of many households come from different sources (cf. Kilani and Waziri Mato 2000: 50– 56). Malam Magaji, for instance, cultivated three fields. He inherited one field near Garin Adam, an adjacent settlement. A kinsman lent him another field to the east of Kimoram, and he cultivated a third field under a jingina arrangement. When still working the same fields, Musa and his father cultivated two fields. One was his own field and the other was Abdu’s, the father’s maternal halfbrother, who had lent it to him as part of an aro arrangement. In contrast to fields, trees are common property. They do not belong to the owner of the field where they have grown. Everybody, therefore, can use and fell

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

them, although there might still be a dispute in such a case, as the field-owner might need the tree to provide shade or to break the wind. Households differ in agricultural productivity. Adam’s harvest, for instance, was enough to meet the family’s needs for 6 months, whereas Malam Magaji’s household had not yet consumed all of the 2006 harvest by August 2007. Major causes for the difference in productivity seem to lie in the different availability of land and in different worker-dependent ratios. In most cases I knew, field cultivation is not enough to sustain the household for more than 3, or sometimes 6 or 7 months a year, let alone to improve their living conditions or build up their wealth. The villagers therefore need to raise additional income. Some raise money in the village or in the region. Gardening is a strategy to earn additional money locally. Some villagers cultivate their fields in the rainy season and do gardening for the rest of the year. However, whereas all households in Kimoram have access to fields on the sand dunes, not all farmers have access to garden plots. But even some of those who own garden plots are unable to exploit them, because the water in the ponds rises and shrinks periodically and floods their plots. Besides field cultivation and gardening, raising and fattening animals are also important economic strategies for the villagers. The villagers buy or, if they do not have sufficient money, would like to buy young animals, raise and fatten them. At the same time, they use the animals in order to hoard money. The money invested into animals is safer than cash as it cannot be wasted or spent. If there is a need for a greater amount of money the animals can be sold. Goats are the cheapest animals and many villagers, especially women, own some of them. Sheep, especially rams, are more expensive and only some villagers have them. Even more expensive and much more desired animals are cattle. These also serve as a ‘savings bank’ or ‘investment’, but, above all, bulls also have an important function in that they draw ox carts, while they also grow and increase in value. Some villagers keep cattle in the village throughout the year and others put their cattle into custody with semi-nomadic Fulb’e who take them to pastures in the bush during the rainy season (Hill 1972: 217). Some villagers also have horses for the purpose of storing or increasing wealth. Horses do not draw carts but are mounted by their owners. At the time of research, two villagers also owned camels. Their owners used them for trading, the camels thus served to carry goods from the village to further away markets and back. Rams, but even more so bulls, camels and horses increase the prestige of their owners significantly. Besides gardening and keeping animals, there are also other possibilities of raising income locally. As I have said, some farmers have ox carts. They use them in order to bring manure to their fields, and also to provide transportation services for those who want to sell or buy goods at the nearby markets. At the

III. Kimoram

37

time of research, three villagers ran shops where customers could buy everyday commodities in small quantities like soap, washing powder, batteries, salt or stock cubes. One villager caught fish in the ponds. Another one was a broker for horses at the market in Garin Gabas. A former inhabitant who had left Kimoram some years before, had installed a grinding mill in the village that was run by a Pullo who had come to Kimoram for this purpose. One inhabitant built and repaired mud huts. Some women fried small cakes made of cowpea or wheat flour to sell them at breakfast time. The Imam earned money by leading joint prayers. Others braided mats, ropes and baskets with dum palm leaves. It was rare, however, that the villagers worked for wages. Mainly younger peasants sometimes work a day or two on the fields of other peasants in order to earn some money. All these possibilities to raise income locally complement the income from field produce and all households pursue one or several of these strategies. However, for most households locally raised income does not suffice to meet their demands. Household members have to leave the region then and go to Nigeria. Their main destinations are Gombe, Potiskum or Nimari.

Map 2: Labour destinations in Nigeria, destination Nimari added at its approximate location.

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A. The Research Site – Kimoram

Most of the labour migrants from Kimoram have close contacts to bakeries in these towns. Overnight, they stay in the bakeries. In the morning and in the afternoon, they roam the streets, selling bread and tea. They bring the money they earn to Kimoram and this makes up for the insufficient amount of field produce, at least, partly, because success in Nigeria cannot be taken for granted. If they are very successful in Nigeria, however, they invest the money, for instance, into animals. In one case I knew about, a son even stayed in Nigeria throughout the year, while the other sons worked the fields. In this way, he ensured a constant flow of money from Nigeria. For another peasant, working in Nigeria had become so important that he did not come back from Nigeria in time to clear his fields before the rains set in. Moreover, when field cultivation allowed him to let work rest for a week or two, he left for Nigeria to earn some more money. Despite the fact that many peasants travelled to Nigeria during my field study or had been there in the past, there were still peasants who had never been there before. Each household had its own pattern of raising income. Sani Bala, for instance, gained money through field cultivation, gardening, and occasional wage-labour but, contrary to local norms, he forbade his wife to cultivate her own field. Malam Magaji’s household comprised many members. His household combined field cultivation, gardening, the transportation of goods to the markets and labour migration to Nigeria. Nevertheless, field cultivation remains the backbone of the village economy as well as the basic economic strategy for most households. The households thus gain their livelihood through field cultivation and other forms of income-raising activities, among which labour migration to Nigeria plays a major role for many households.9 Nevertheless, many households are not able to raise enough money to meet their demands.10 They have to economise. Some parts of the year, for instance, they eat only once or twice a day, or they rely on help and gifts from others, or they have to borrow money. There are some richer traders and cattle owners in the wider region who lend money and Halilu from Kimoram also gives credit. However, receiving gifts, help or taking credit amount to impasses in the long run and cannot be carried beyond a certain point. One villager, for example, ran out of food in his household. He was obviously starving and no longer received any more help from his kinsmen, so he finally had to leave to Nigeria during the rainy season. From a Western perspective, all villagers are poor. Some own cassette recorders and mobile phones, but nobody has a generator, a motorbike or a TV set, for 9 See Hill (1972: 101) for the village of Batagarawa (near Katsina) in which seasonal migration was uncommon in the 60s, and Mortimore (1989: 117–122) on the rising numbers of labour migrants to Kano after the droughts in the ’70s. 10 See Verne (2007: 88) for a similar situation in the village of Berberkia to the west of Zinder. Here, too, labour migration does not raise sufficient income to generate wealth.

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instance. The most affluent, by village standards, were Abdu, Alhaji Tasau and Aminu. Abdu owned a lot of land and many garden plots. Furthermore, he also had many able-bodied descendants. His rather elevated economic status was also reflected in his marital status, as he was married to four wives. Aminu owned camels and traded in markets that were further away. Over the course of the years, Aminu was even able to accumulate enough money for a pilgrimage to Mecca. (Unfortunately, in the end he was not able to leave for Mecca, as the organiser of the journey embezzled all his money.) Other farmers were rather poor, even by village standards. The villagers also perceive themselves to be poor. However, they still try to improve their economic situation. I was able to ascertain the success of some between my field stays in 2006 and 2008. The acquisition of ox-carts was one of the most important goals for many villagers and therefore seemed to be an appropriate indicator of economic advance. Whereas in 2006, there were only two ox-carts going to the market in Garin Gabas on Sundays, in 2008, there were already six. This should, however, not obscure the fact that not all peasants participated in an upwards-trend. The situation of some did not change. The reasons for this were manifold. Some households had an unfavourable worker-dependents ratio, some were indebted, some peasants were unfortunate and lost money, some fell sick or had to care for sick relatives, and others might also have lacked initiative. The village disposes of a concrete well in the west of the village and a ‘traditional’ well in the east. In former times, a development agency had installed a hand-driven water pump. After some time, the water pump stopped working and nobody repaired it. In 2008, however, another development agency repaired the water pump and the villagers did not use the concrete well anymore. The traditional well, however, was still in use. Some people continued to draw their water from it and some people used it to water their animals. The cereal bank in Kimoram had a similar fate to that of the water pump. A development agency established the bank and it worked for a while. Some villagers did not pay back their loans to the bank, some embezzled some of its contents and it stopped working. In 2007, another development agency restocked the cereal bank and reestablished the steering committee. Kinship reckoning is cognatic (cf. Parkin 1997), although more weight is given to agnatic relatives than to uterine relatives. The villagers do not form corporate descent groups. Yet, any group of kinsmen, such as the inhabitants of a more distant village, related to ego through an agnatic link which ego cannot specify in detail, is thought of as a group of relatives within the entire group of one’s kinsmen. The next chart shows the kinship relations. They are applied on the basis of generations. As a corollary of that, an uncle can be younger than his nephew.

Diagram 3: Kinship terms from the perspective of a male ego.

40 A. The Research Site – Kimoram

III. Kimoram

41

Marriages are virilocal, i. e. meaning men stay in their home villages when they marry, whereas women either marry in the same village or, as is usually the case, leave the village to join their husbands (cf. Smith ([1954] 1981: 21). The marriage-system allows for the marriage of cousins.11 Some women thus stay with their male relatives even after marriage. The male population is divided into groups of males that are more closely related to each other than to the other groups. The village thus resembles a cluster of groups of males that are linked by common male ancestry among themselves, and are supplemented, so to speak, by uterine relatives and by women from one’s own or from another cluster or from another village (see schema 4). The members of these groups of male relatives often have their compounds in each other’s vicinity. Yet, one cannot speak of village quarters that are exclusively inhabited by members of one group. The younger members, in particular, have diluted the neatness of the structure, as they build their new huts anywhere on the border between the village and the bush. There were five such clusters of kinsmen in the village, as can be seen on the chart (schema 4). Each of these kin groups had elder male members and these were the most influential men in the village. The most influential men were thus Mamman; Abdu and the Imam Malam Salifu who together represented the same group; Malam Keli; Sani and Malam Magaji. Isaya, the second Imam of the village, was also influential, but he did not represent a kinship group. At the same time, every villager had agnatic or uterine relatives outside the village. Marriage involves the payment of a bride-wealth by the bridegroom’s side, but the bride’s side also contributes to the marriage expenses. The size of the groups which contribute to the marriage expenses is subject to negotiation and interests, but the main responsibility is with one’s closest relatives, one’s father, brother, paternal uncle, cousin. The bride brings the furniture of the couple’s new home into the marriage. It is purchased by the bride’s side, partly with the bride-wealth, and this remains the bride’s property. Should she divorce, she will leave her husband in an empty hut. Polygamy is not frequent in Kimoram. As we have seen, most male villagers are native of Kimoram. Some villagers are not from Kimoram, but they are rare in number and have lived there for a longer time. 11 Cf. Smith [1954] (1981: 21): “Cross-cousin marriages of both types are now made, though matrilateral cross-cousin marriage (. . .) was probably the traditional form. Parallel-cousin marriages of both types are also found, the marriage between children of brothers, which is preferred in Islam, being far more frequent than the marriages between children of sisters.” Cf. Hill (1972: 295): “. . ., although the incidence of auren zumunta (kin-marriage) was not assessed in Batagarawa, it is doubtful whether unions of parallel or cross-cousins should be regarded as ‘preferred’ (. . .), except possibly by poorer people . . .”.

A. The Research Site – Kimoram

Diagram 4: Kinship relations.

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Given the fact that the idea of a village triggers the idea of a sedentary and stable population, it seems noteworthy that many of the inhabitants of Kimoram are mobile, not only as labour migrants. One villager, for instance, had left Kimoram to settle in Potiskum, Nigeria, after he had embezzled money from the cereal bank. Bala came from Garin Adam to settle in Kimoram. Musa’s father, the Imam of the southern mosque, had left Kimoram for Nigeria and had then come back several years later. More examples exist. Garin Gabas was of special importance for the villagers, as the chef de canton resided there, the market was held there on Sundays, and the road to Zinder passed through Garin Gabas. Garin Adam was also important for many villagers as many of the ancestors of those villagers came from Garin Adam and settled in Kimoram. Thus, some villagers had kinship ties with inhabitants of Garin Adam and some also had fields in the vicinity of Garin Adam. The fact that three masu gari in Garin Adam had followers in Kimoram further testifies to the close ties between Kimoram and Garin Adam. Some smaller settlements were also important for the villagers. There was, for instance, Garin Dengi, a mixed Hausa and Fulb’e settlement some 500 metres to the west of Kimoram, a Hausa-speaking hamlet ‘Idi Gusau’ also to the west of the village, ‘Kanobo’ and ‘Mara’, Manga settlements that lay about 1 km further to the south, and ‘Shamuli’, a Hausa settlement some 2 km to the north. An elder from Garin Adam contended that settlers from Garin Adam founded the villages of Mara and Kimoram. As Garin Adam was a Hausa-speaking settlement at the time, Kimoram, he said, naturally became a Hausa settlement too. In Mara, however, the settlers would have lived together with Manga-speakers and would have adopted their language. According to Mamman, an elder from Kimoram, however, Mara was the older settlement and settlers from Mara would have founded Kimoram. Kimoram would thus have been a Manga-speaking village at that time and would have become ‘hausanized’ later. The name ‘Kimoram’ actually testifies to the second version, as it is a Manga name. The first view, however, is not necessarily entirely false either, as many inhabitants of Kimoram or their ancestors also came from Garin Adam. All villagers are Muslims. They have received some basic Islamic education in village Qur’anic schools. Some of them also participated in peripatetic Islamic traditions and carried on with their studies beyond the most elementary level. At the time of research, the most knowledgeable villagers were the two Imams who lived in Kimoram. They had achieved what was considered the primary goal of rural school education: the memorization of the Qur’an. The village had two mosques, one in the northern and one in the southern part of Kimoram. Each mosque was affiliated with one of the Imams. A reader who is not acquainted with rural Niger might be surprised to read so little about the state and politics in Kimoram. However, no state employees or

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political office-holders live in Kimoram. There are no teachers, no policemen and no party offices. The major link to the state is through the sarki, through tax payment and, occasionally, the distribution of food-aid. In contrast to the past, however, the tax burden is negligible these days. For 1970/71, Spittler (1978: 161) reports that 30% of all household expenses were needed to meet the tax demands. In 1997, however, every adult had to pay 3125 Fcfa, 2000 Fcfa for each cow and 500 Fcfa for each sheep or goat (cf. Heiss 2003: 29). Policemen do not come to Kimoram as there is no crime. During my stays, the administration once came to Kimoram and proposed building a school to the village population, but then the agents left again after a few minutes and nothing came of it. NGOs have come to implement single interventions to support the economy of Kinoram. However, they, too, come and go. There aren’t NGOs to train illiterate villagers to become para-juristes (cf. Lund 1998: 192). No villager has become a political office-holder elsewhere. It would appear that the state had no interest in this region. This might reflect a historical change. In colonial times, Niger’s economy hinged on agricultural production. These days, Niger exports uranium and oil. It therefore seems plausible for the central state to focus its interests more on these extractive industries than on subsistence-agriculture and the meagre revenues generated by it. Hence, the state appears to exert its influence through the sarki and through some kind of virtual presence. The state could intervene in Kimoram, but it doesn’t.

B. The Research Process As noted above, I empirically researched a field subject’s life, tried to analyse it in theoretical terms and, as far as possible, to explain it. The research process stretched over several years and comprised the steps of developing the research question, acquiring the knowledge I expected I would need, acquiring funding, carrying out the research and writing up my findings. The whole process, or so it would be desirable, should be transparent in order to understand to what extent its results depend on my own mind set, personality and methods. Needless to say, I cannot achieve complete lucidity. All I can do is to shed some light upon the research process. Due to spatial constraints, I will focus on the methods used to collect the ‘data’, the theories which guided my research, as well as on my relationship with Musa and the villagers when I discuss the research process in this chapter. Before discussing these matters, I should, however, provide some contextual information. At the root of this research, was an uneasiness I had already felt as an undergraduate student. I read plenty of anthropology books and I was always dissatisfied to a certain extent because I felt that the field subjects and their lives did not take on concrete and tangible forms in those writings. I could get a sense of what, for instance, the political structures were in a certain place, but I could not get a real sense of what it was like to be a human being in those places. After my Ph.D. research, this uneasiness evolved into a preliminary research proposal which focused more or less on the topic of the “real life” of African peasants. However, this research proposal fell into oblivion for a number of reasons, partly, because I also found other research subjects interesting. Later, in 2006, I went to the field in order to carry out research in linguistic anthropology. The research I wanted to do left ample time for doing other things and the topic also proved to be more difficult to study than I had expected. So my idea to study the “real life” of African peasants which had been lingering at the back of my head the whole time slowly materialised into the project of studying an individual. At the same time, I had gotten to know Musa in Kimoram who seemed to be the right person to work with. This is how I came to choose my subject matter. From then on, I pursued the theme. In the meantime, I had also acquired a position at Zurich University which provided a time frame for my research and would secure my livelihood for the years to come. In order to carry out the research, I went to the field four times. I spent the rainy seasons 2006, 2007 and in 2009 in Kimoram and in December 2010 and

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January 2011 I went to Nigeria to meet Musa. I should also point out that I had done research in the wider region beforehand. I had worked in Kano, in Niamey, in a Manga village to the east of Zinder and on Lake Chad. Hausa had been the language in which I had carried out my research in the last two research projects. I was thus acquainted with the society and culture of the region as well as with the language when I started to work with Musa.

I. Methods for the Study of Individuals: Participant Observation and Shadowing If we divide the whole gamut of anthropological research methods that serve to collect “data” into four major categories, participant observation might well be one, the different forms of interviews – from informal to standardized – another, the genealogical method a third variety, and cognitive tests a fourth. If we take into consideration what the object of study here is an individual and his life as he lives it, participant observation appears to be the most adequate method. This does not rule out the use of other methods, but participant observation acquires a central place in the research design. In the first instance, studying an individual means to study his daily routines, finding out about the diverse reasons he has for doing what he does, discussing the themes that are of concern to him in order to understand his viewpoint, observing his interactions with others, etc. No other method but participant observation gives access to this kind of data. This might be obvious to anthropologists but might need to be explained for others, as interview techniques seem to be the most convenient and scientific approach in acquiring this data. This is, however, only apparently so. A brief discussion of participant observation and interview techniques will help to clarify this (for a more detailed discussion, see Spittler 2001). In participant observation, the researcher can see and hear what is going on in a specific context of action and he can ask questions while the action is going on or directly after the action has terminated. It is in these contexts of action that most of what the anthropologist of the individual is looking for is ‘there’, be it the desires which trigger a field subject’s actions, be it the fears which become visible in a field subject’s face or gestures, be it the beliefs which make an actor act the way he does, be it the change of tone in the actor’s voice which indicates that the actor admires something, etc. The participant observer of a social process thus has direct access to many cues which point towards what interests him. The interview, however, relies on linguistic objectification. The interviewer lacks direct access to the situations in which what interests him is constitutive of the situation. The access to what interests him is mediated then through the linguistic-symbolic behaviour that occurs between interviewer and interviewee. Several factors limit the success of such an endeavour. The interviewee, for instance, will not recall the situation in detail and the interviewer will not ask as

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many and as detailed questions as the participant observer because he does not have access to as many clues as the participant observer has (for an attempt to reconstruct a life-course from an account of a life-history, see Sieder 1998). Yet, participant observation has another advantage over the interview. The presence of the researcher has an impact on the processes which occur during observation or interviewing. More so than by means of interview, participant observation is likely to establish trust between the researcher and the field subject because both get to know each other closely over the prolonged time they spend together. Mutual trust makes communication easier and behaviour more natural; many of the barriers or filters that restrain communication and behaviour thus become obsolete. An interview as a specially arranged interaction between strangers can normally not provide the same amount of trust. In not all, but I am assuming in most cases, information provided in an interview situation thus often remains more selective. Finally, the long time the participant observer stays with the field subjects triggers an equally long process of conscious and subconscious reflection in him. In the course of this process, the participant observer gains a deeper understanding of the others. This is similar to what we experience in family relations where we suddenly understand other family members beyond what they have explicitly told us. The interview cannot imitate this process. However, participant observation brings with it its own genre of problems. One point, it seems to me, needs to be mentioned. The long involvement of the researcher with his field site and its field subjects renders the way in which the researcher gains his knowledge partly opaque. If the researcher is exposed to the field and tries to understand it, he loses oversight over the whole process of his interaction with the field subjects and his reflection on the topic. In long-term participant observation, thoughts build upon a process of experiencing and reflecting that stretches over many years, with some interruptions. The researcher is sometimes no longer able to explain how he got his ideas and on what grounds he might claim those ideas to be plausible, but, at the same time, he is convinced that he is right. Part of his knowledge is thus not in the field notes but in his memory and in his sedimented knowledge about the society he is investigating and part of it is beyond his ability to fully explain (cf. Judith Okely who made a similar point when she wrote that the anthropologist “judges the authenticity of his or her conclusions and interpretations in terms of that total experience” which lies in “his memory of field experience, unwritten yet inscribed in the fieldworker’s being” (1994: 31, cited in Okely 2008: 57–8).) Studying an individual requires the researcher to get to know his field subject closely and the above-mentioned factors make participant observation the most important method for the study of individuals in anthropology. This does not mean that the interview technique does not have its benefits. Especially if the

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researcher wants to know more about symbolic constructs like a life-history or a cultural model, or if he wants to systematically expand on a theme from a variety of perspectives, the interview technique would be the more appropriate method to use. When a researcher studies an individual, participant observation turns into what is called shadowing (Czarniawska 2007). In shadowing, the researcher follows the field subject throughout the day or, at least, in all those situations to which he has access. Shadowing is, then, a very dense form of participant observation. As noted above, any research situation can influence the processes being observed. Sometimes, the influence is negligible. When field subjects struggle with each other, they are occupied with what they are doing and the observer might be ignored. When field subjects work, they do what they are used to doing in public every day. Hence, in those situations, an additional observer does not change their behaviour. Sometimes, however, the influence is felt. When a researcher is new to a social group and its members are not sufficiently well acquainted with him, he might be in the focus of the group’s attention. When the field subjects have high expectations of the researcher, they might try to behave in a way which does not incur his displeasure. These are risks inherent not only in participant observation but also in shadowing. Shadowing might also add to the impact a researcher has on what is going on. It might, for instance, increase the proportion of reflection by the shadowed person (Czarniawska 2007: 28). In my research, for instance, the closeness between Musa and me also let us discuss important issues and decisions in his life. We discussed the practice of marrying a second wife, and me as well as my Zarma-friend from Niamey who happened to be in Kimoram at that time both advised him not to do this. In Nigeria, I once convinced him not to travel back to Kimoram for a short visit. From this closeness then ensued an impact on his life the extent of which I find difficult to assess. There is probably no remedy to the participant observer’s impact on the field. The researcher will neither be able to fully control the impact he has onto the field subjects’ behaviour nor does it seem possible for the researcher to become fully aware of the myriad of ways in which he might influence the interaction with the field subjects. However, the researcher still has some leeway in dealing with the issue and in minimising his impact. While I was ‘shadowing’ Musa, I assume that a number of factors contributed to minimising the influence of my presence on his behaviour and on his interactions with others. I benefitted, for instance, from the fact that the villagers and Musa lived a largely public life. Most of their behaviour was visible to others and it did not matter so much that I was present. I further benefitted from the villagers’ and Musa’s ability to be virtually always in company of others. Being in such a mode, makes it easy to accommodate an additional person in one’s presence, without needing to make a special effort to adapt to him. Furthermore, I assume that Musa’s personality and

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mine were somehow compatible, otherwise our spending time together would probably have produced tensions or frictions which it didn’t, at least, not on my side. None of us seemed to feel uneasy if we spent time together, even if these were longer stretches of time. This was further facilitated by Hausa culture, which knows this kind of male companionship as an institution. In order to minimise my impact on what was going on, I often tried to take a rather receptive stance. I would often not engage actively in the actions and interactions that took place, but just be a silent observer. At the same time, I often did not inquire into a variety of subject-matters, especially those which related to conflict-situations or negative evaluations of others’ character or behaviour. I did not do that for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I did not want to appear intrusive. Given the local standards of proper behaviour, this would have been detrimental to my standing among others and, given my own standards, to my own self-respect. However, I also did this because my being regarded as intrusive would probably also have made it more difficult to gain access to further information in the long run. As a corollary of this, I sometimes cannot provide complete stories in this book, but only tell a part of them. Shadowing might, however, not only have an impact on the social process which the anthropologist is observing, it might also influence the way the researcher feels and thinks. Usually anthropologists develop ties of friendship with some of the field subjects they are working with. In the course of their research, they begin to identify with the field subjects, their objective scientific stance loses some of its intellectual detachment and they adopt a perspective which becomes more or less biased. This might occur in shadowing as well, even in a more intensive form. However, I am not aware of any remedy for this. The interruption of field stays might serve to re-establish intellectual distance, but also possible conflicts and moments of discontentment in the course of the research might have a similar effect. The reader might like to read this book critically with respect to the degree of ‘one-sidedness’ which might have resulted from the method of shadowing which I have employed.

II. The Theories in the Researcher’s Mind The research process does not, however, only depend on the object of research and the choice of methods, but also on the theories in the researcher’s mind. So I should point out that I had read Tugendhat’s “Egozentrizität und Mystik” before going to the field. Tugendhat builds on a long tradition of philosophical reflection on the individual. In his book, he does not, however, discuss single aspects of human existence but tries to capture what constitutes an individual. He reflects upon an individual’s actions, reflections, emotions, moods, etc. and tries to unravel the ramifications between these themes. In doing that, he does not only reflect on these themes, but seems to be constantly aware of the fact that he also

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needs to find a language in which to speak about these themes in a clear and understandable manner. As far as I can see, the result of this is that Tugendhat takes up Heidegger’s original concern about human “Dasein”, but unfolds it without making use of impenetrable language. Parts of Tugendhat’s theory constantly crossed my mind during the research process and thus his approach shaped my approach to Musa. A summary of it will be given in chapter F. His theory helped me to think about Musa as an integrated whole and it constantly reminded me of producing a coherent account of Musa, to see that his aims are linked to his hopes, that they are linked to his mood, that persons not only fight with their environment, but also with themselves, that people can step back from their aims in favour of others or in favour of values, etc.1 At the same time, this study is not an application of Tugendhat’s theory. In my view, when doing anthropological field work we should be aware of the fact that the empirical world is always “richer” than any theory of it, and that the theory both enables us to make observations and also restricts our ‘visual field’. The appropriate stance towards the field seems to be to ask the myriad of questions we have and to draw on the many authors we have read and thus to slowly produce a coherent account of what we think happens in the field. It is in this sense that I say that parts of Tugendhat’s theory constantly crossed my mind during the research process. The other part of the theory which helped me ask questions stems from the training I had received in anthropology and which corresponds to the canon of an empirical anthropology which understands itself as a social science. My sense of the pivotal importance of relationships for the life of an individual probably derives from there, as well as the idea of power as inherent to any social relationship, or the idea that inner states find expression in gestures or in the actor’s face, ideas largely being absent in Tugendhat’s philosophical account. Writing a monograph on an individual also means dealing with existential questions. So I suppose that the extent to which I had so far been exposed to these questions fed into my research on Musa. This might have left its traces in the text, for instance, when I write about Musa as a son and as a father or when I deal with his religious ideas. At the same time, the fact that I have never been exposed to hunger and the fact that death is an extraordinary event in my life and not an everyday threat might have made me underestimate their importance for Musa. 1 This might sound naïve to some anthropologists as, according to them, these insights are “implicitly there”, can be taken for granted and regarded as truisms. However, I think this misconstrues the role of general theory in our thinking. What is “implicitly there” should be made explicit. We can thus control and criticize what would otherwise control us behind our backs and we can consciously orientate our research towards what has become explicit. As I attempt to show in chapter F. II. 6., it is this lack of conscious reflection on the individual which makes some anthropologists produce one-sided accounts of their field subjects.

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III. Interaction with Field Subjects The research subject and the researcher’s theoretical background partly determine the research process, but the field subjects themselves and the interaction with them is of even greater importance. The field subjects are autonomous social beings who – independently of the researcher’s wishes and ideas – decide whether they wish to interact with him and in what way. I will thus describe my relationship to Musa and the villagers from my own perspective here. For the reader of this book who might be unfamiliar with anthropology in general, it might be useful to know that Musa and the villagers did not attend modern school and are not familiar with higher institutions of academic learning. They are unfamiliar with interviews or cognitive tests and have a strong preference for a form of communication similar to everyday interaction. This, too, adds to the importance of participant observation as the method of choice. First of all, however, the researcher has to get access to the field and develop a rapport with the field subjects. A first element in getting access and establishing rapport was my acceptance by the local state authorities which would convince the villagers that my presence would not cause problems between themselves and the state. When I had received my research permit by the Ministry of Higher Education in Niamey, I thus presented myself to the chef de canton in Garin Gabas. With the chef de canton, I discussed the question which village I should choose. He joint me with his nephew who brought me first to Kanobo to the south of Kimoram and then to Kimoram itself. Kanobo turned out to be Mangaspeaking, but Kimoram was a Hausa-speaking settlement and I thus wanted to explain my objectives to the village population of Kimoram, their consent being a further step in getting access. However, since I arrived in the cultivation period, hardly anybody was in the village and so I explained what I intended to do to Mamman, the contact person for the chef de canton in Kimoram. Mamman said that the villagers would discuss the issue and let me know. I returned to Garin Gabas then and received an affirmative answer after a couple of days. I moved to Kimoram and was hosted in the hut of Mamman’s son. He lived in a compound of his own but his wife had moved out. So we shared the empty hut, but he only came there to sleep in the night. During the day, he worked or spent his time elsewhere. The villagers then wanted to find out who I was and what relevance I might have for them. During the first days of my stay, I was therefore visited by many villagers. I explained my research project which, at that time, had to do with patterns of communication. None of the villagers seemed to be excited about the project or had any sense of what it might entail. In the course of the following days, I went through the village to establish contact with some of the villagers. I explained to them what I was about to do, inquired about the work they were

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doing and asked them if I might pay them a visit on their field. On one of the first days, Musa came to see me. I sat on my upturned cooking pot and he squatted next to me. He appeared to be open-minded, and a conversation ensued from our first exchange of words. He was also willing to go to the fields with me. What sprang to my mind during this first conversation was that he seemed to have some communicative skills which, I assumed, would allow him to adapt to his conversation partners and appear pleasant. Moreover, his face resembled that of a friend of mine from Kano. Over the next few days, I paid visits to a number of different peasants who were working on their fields. In none of these cases, did I experience a greater willingness to help me with the project (of course, this was only my impression) nor any curiosity to interact with me. The peasants were polite and had conversations with me, but none of the conversations became light and self-propelling. This was different with Musa who had, or so I believed, a willingness to explain to me what I wanted to know and who also appeared to enjoy my company. From this moment onwards a more complex relationship developed between Musa and me. Before I am going on to describe this relationship, I would first of all like to briefly describe my relationship with the other villagers. The relationship I had with Musa also shaped the relationships I had with the other villagers (cf. Cooper (1997: xxi) who stopped interviewing the husbands in order to maintain the quality of her interviews with the wives). As I learned later, my arrival in Kimoram was not approved by the whole population. The different sections of the village were divided, the northern part opposing the southern part, with each part represented by its own Imam. The different parts also took a different stance towards me. Some of the villagers who mainly lived in the north of the village and whose leading figure was the Imam at the northern mosque of Kimoram were opposed to my presence. Their Imam also rejected most of what came from the West. Allegedly, he had also advised the village population to reject food aid. In hindsight, it was thus not astonishing that part of the population interacted with me on polite terms but did not show more interest in interacting with me. The villagers who lived, however, in the southern part and who were represented by the Imam of the southern mosque, Musa’s father, supported my stay. They proved more receptive and I thus got more closely affiliated with them. I spent less time in the northern part where I had already sensed some reservations towards me. The effect of this was that I could not accomplish a village census and a complete genealogical chart that would also have comprised the northern parts of the village. It did not feel appropriate to inquire too closely there. Given the division of the village, my closer affiliation to Musa, i. e. one of the conflicting parties in the village, has probably worked against my getting closer to some of the villagers of the northern part of the village. It was only in the later stages of my research that I sometimes sensed that some people from the northern part who initially had reservations against me were slowly warming up to me. I never

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sensed reservations against me in the southern part of the village. Yet, among those living in the southern part, my relationship with Musa was by far the strongest. I gradually came to understand that the need for money and for material goods was even more strongly felt by many villagers than I had expected. Food, money, goods, credit were themes which the villagers were often preoccupied with. I was drawn into these negotiations, and all the more so because the difference in financial power between myself and the villagers was apparent to everybody. Many a visitor came to see me, drew me into a conversation or gave me small presents like a cassava root in order to later ask me for money or credit. Some were rather direct, others chose to pay me repeated visits before they would make their request. In the beginning, I handed out small sums of money, up to 1000 Fcfa, on a credit base, in order to respond to the pleas, to help and also to avoid being seen as hard-hearted but I soon learned to avoid this because trouble ensued from this. Rufa’i, for instance, came to see me and told me about what he would need the money for and how he would soon be able to pay the loan back. When I later asked him to pay me the money back as he had promised, he ignored me. In order not to be seen as easy prey and not to lose my respect in the eyes of others, I kept paying him visits and set him time-limits until he finally gave in. I made a similar experience with Dengi, the village head of neighbouring Garin Dengi. After I had made both of them pay me back the credit as they had promised, they took revenge on Musa, evidently suspecting him of advising me to take a stern stance. Rufa’i, for instance, did only deliver sandy soil to Musa who had paid him to deliver mud for his house repairs. Dengi criticised Musa directly and Musa took magical potions to protect himself against Dengi’s anger. In contrast to Clough (2014) who gave credit in order to understand the economy of Marmara village in northern Nigeria, I decided that I should not give credit anymore. I was a stranger and could neither wage a conflict with anybody in the field nor behave in a way that would result in a loss of status nor cause harm to Musa. Moreover, some people put pressure on Musa to make him approach me, put in a good word for them and to make me grant them credit. I thus stopped giving credit and once this was known, hardly anybody came to see me anymore. The only villagers who kept coming were Musa and the sons of Malam Magaji, especially Hamidu. The latter ones did not seem to have a financial interest in me and never asked me for credit. I got along well with Hamidu and accompanied him to the field from time to time. I also regularly paid visits to his father who always responded kindly. In a way, my own position in the village came to mirror Musa’s position. I got closely affiliated with him and his household. I was well hosted by his kinshipgroup, even though there was a sharp decline in closeness towards the other members of his kinship group as there was a decline in closeness between Musa

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and them. Furthermore, similar to Musa’s position in the village, there was considerable distance between me and the majority of the other villagers from the northern part of Kimoram. Relations were polite but did not develop beyond that, except for my relations with Malam Magaji’s household and my occasional contact with Bala, also a friend of Musa’s. As time went by, my relationship with Musa went through several stages, in the course of which it became closer and our talks more and more confidential. We were soon discussing his economic situation and his despair, his relationship to his father, the behaviour of one of the masu gari, aspects of his wife’s behaviour, etc. At the same time, I discussed issues in my own life with him, such as my children’s behaviour or the loss of my father. However, the more important topics related to his life, as it was his life that was actually taking place around us, whereas my life in Germany and Switzerland had a rather virtual character when I was in Niger. This kind of relationship, it seems to me, presupposes some compatibility in character, values and interests, otherwise, I would presume, tensions or the wish for the other to be absent would be more likely to arise. I remember some instances when Musa and other villagers made the apparent compatibility between Musa and me explicit. At one point in time, Musa tried to summarise the traits of character he had perceived in me. He said that I would have a kind disposition, would like others, would not be stingy, and be willing to help. In Nimari, he and the villagers confirmed to the police that they had spent much time with me and if I had harboured any evil intentions they would have noticed that. To emphasize my social nature, Musa once also explained to others that I had embraced his children right from the beginning. By and large, I think that I was considered compatible with Musa and the villagers. I think that when we were in Nimari, Musa and I reached a further step in our relationship. I had a cold and a slight fever for three days. I stayed inside the room to avoid to be exposed to the wind. One day, he came back from work, looked at me and I could read concern in his eyes. He had, it seemed to me, begun to care about my well-being. Yet, it was also always clear that I was in Kimoram in order to work and this interest always shined through in my relationship to Musa. From the perspective of most villagers, I assume, I was there to understand how the villagers lived, worked, cooked, ate, etc., and then I would leave again. This was clear to Musa as well and he inquired, at times, about my field notes and was not content when I had filled less than 5 pages per day. As noted above, for some of the villagers, what counted most, however, was that I was a potential provider of credit. This motive was not absent from the relationship between Musa and myself either. Anyway, this could hardly have been otherwise since Musa was poor and in need. Thus, I bought millet for his and his father’s household several times. Moreover, I also left some money for Musa after each of my field stays. Raising this income was probably part of his relationship to me. At the same time, friendship in the

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context of “Hausa culture”, if I might apply this term to my relationship with Musa, comprises being sociable, company and confidentiality on the one side and support, including financial support, on the other side. Unlike our Western perceptions of friendship, Hausa do not keep financial transactions separate from their social ties. In a way, our friendship thus comprised the reciprocal exchange of knowledge and financial means. Most of the time, I tried to downplay my interests in information in order not to make my relationship to him appear interest-driven only. At the same time, it seemed to me, Musa did the same by putting his financial hopes into the background. His financial hopes, however, sometimes broke through. This was the case when he directly asked me to buy millet when his and his father’s household had run out of food. Musa also wanted to convince me that I should invest in Kimoram. Two or three times, he suggested that I should follow one of the shop owners’ example, buy some cattle, leave it in Musa’s custody, let him raise the animals and sell them. We would then share the profits. (I objected to this. I said that I could not set up a business in Africa because sooner or later some problem would arise and I would lose my capital.) Once, his financial hopes rather erupted, however. After my second stay, he brought me to Garin Gabas from where I wanted to take a car to Zinder. We sat on the ox-cart and he suddenly shouted that he would soon build a turaka (an additional hut in his compound reserved for the household-head) from my money. In my eyes, not so much in what he said but rather in how he said it, this was going too far. I did not respond to this because I did not want to jeopardise our relationship. His financial interest in me appeared to be more pronounced than I had hitherto expected. However, it would not have surprised me if Musa had later changed tack, as we subsequently had conversations in which he stressed that he would not like to receive money that I would need for my own children. Our relationship thus contained a certain degree of mutual understanding, compatibility of personalities and companionship which resembled friendship. At the same time, we were bargaining for information and for money without discussing this topic openly which would, it seems to me, probably have undermined our relationship in other respects. As noted above, I had first come to Kimoram to study patterns of communication. When I saw that the villagers did not understand what I was looking for, I adopted a simpler explanation and told them that I was interested in their way of life. I had, however, changed my research theme after some weeks in the field and decided to study an individual instead. This got me into a dilemma. The fact that my relations to Musa became closer and more confidential would not have been a problem if my research topic had been the study of communication. The details of his life would not have been relevant to my research theme then. However, confidential information would already have caused a problem if my research topic had been the study of the villagers’ ways of life. “Ways of life”

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might denote established patterns of social life, but it also covers the institutions of conflict regulation or the intricacies of polygamy, for instance. To the extent that the village population would have liked to appear as a community free of inner tensions – and they considered their tensions as their business, not mine – I would have quickly reached a limit with respect to the feasibility of such a study. Had I told the villagers that I wanted to study their ways of life and that this would also include the study of their marital problems, embezzlement, corruption and mutual hostility, I would not have been able to pursue the study. It sounds naïve then, when Czarniawska contends that management scholars, in contrast to anthropologists, do not feel that they have the moral right to become involved in other people’s personal lives (2007: 32). However, the problem is that we cannot understand many subject matters if we do not touch upon personal lives, and I presume this is also true for the behaviour of managers. If management studies do not investigate the role of personal relations in recruitment processes, for instance, embezzlement or insurance fraud because it is unethical to inquire into people’s personal lives, then the results of their research will be biased, if not false, and we will be unable to understand a large part of management processes. At the same time, the way Czarniawska puts it, places management scholars in the light of morality. They abide by what is considered justifiable. Against the backdrop of what I have said, this statement is illusionary. Moreover, it masks the fact that the value sphere of morality is only one sphere of value. We treat moral values as objective and to be abided by under any circumstance when we want to characterise ourselves and place ourselves into a good light, as Czarniawska does. If, however, we are dealing with everyday problems, we suddenly feel justified in treating the value-sphere of morality as one sphere of value among others. Hence, we consider it appropriate to invest in consumer goods and in personal pleasure, although we could use our money instead to improve the lives of the sick or lonesome (cf. Nagel (1979: 128–141) on the incommensurability of different forms of value). Anthropologists usually deal with this problem in such a way that they rely on information about personal lives but try to protect their informants’ interests by rendering the identity of their field subjects anonymous. Notwithstanding this strategy, there always remains some clandestine element in their work (Girtler 1988: 97–100) which can be justified only by weighing, on the one side, the exigency of transparency and informed consent against the feasibility and value of scientific work and the advantages the field subjects gain from the researcher’s presence, on the other side (cf. Kastner 2014: 30). This ethical problem was more pronounced, though, with respect to my research on Musa’s life. On the one hand, I benefitted from the exchange of confidential information, but, on the other, I was not sure if I could tell Musa what my actual aim was, because this, I supposed, might have a larger impact on his behaviour. He might then have been inclined to withhold more information,

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which would have been important for gaining an ‘authentic’ picture of his life or he might have felt inclined to put himself on display. So, at first, I adopted a strategy that would fulfil local standards of moral behaviour. It is possible in Hausa culture to pursue one’s own strategies without making public what one intends to do and one might even interact with friends, as part of this strategy, as long as one makes sure that their interests are protected. I thus carried on with my study for a while and took the decision to protect his interests in publication. Furthermore, I decided to make subsequent publications depend on Musa’s approval. This posed a risk for my own career, but academic careers are risky anyway. Nevertheless, I found myself in a dilemma. So, when I saw that my research on Musa would probably work out, I tried to resolve the dilemma. I told him that my study would focus on him and his household, as I was spending most of the time with him and his family. He did not see a problem in this new approach. I asked him if I should render his name anonymous, but he was opposed to the idea. At this time, I was still in the process of data collection and I was not yet aware of the fact that my research report would contain so much information on others who might be opposed to their name and identity be revealed. I still considered it feasible to write a report, keep Musa’s name and protect the interests of the others by means of anonymisation. When I was writing the report, however, and rendered some of the identities anonymous, I came to the point where I found that I could not keep some identities and anonymise others. The relations between the people I wrote about were too close, identifying the ones would necessarily imply the identification of all others. Thus, I had, or so I felt, to finally anonymise all identities. Furthermore, I would have liked to discuss the resulting book with Musa and determine whether he agreed with it. However, the lack of money for travelling and the activities of Boko Haram made this impossible. Hence, all I have is Musa’s willingness to be the subject of this book and I hope that I have done enough to protect his identity and those of the others involved. Anyway, his major interest in this book would have a beneficial effect on his own life. If it could be sold, he would like to have a share of the money, he once said. In case I ever secure a permanent job, this would result in a generous lump sum for him and his wife. Finally, he was also aware of my own need to work, advance in my career and make money. He would not have wanted to make life difficult for me.

C. Musa – Daily Life in Kimoram In this chapter, I will first (C. I.) introduce the reader to the structures of Musa’s household and family, and then give an account of his life history (C. II.), describe his daily routine (C. III.), and finally identify those social relations that were most important to him (C. IV.).

I. Musa – Household and Family In 2006, when I first came to Kimoram, Musa lived in a hut in front of his father’s compound, different from the one indicated on the village map above. He had already been married twice. He was then in his third marriage. A few months before my arrival, he had also married Mariama as a co-wife to his main wife. However, some days after my arrival, his main wife left the compound. After a while, Musa divorced her and Mariama remained his only wife. No children had been born in the first two marriages, but Musa had a daughter, Bintu, with the wife whom he had divorced shortly after my arrival. As Bintu was still an infant when her parents divorced, her mother took Bintu with her. During my first stay in Kimoram, Mariama gave birth to their first child, Idris. After Idris’s birth, Balkisa moved into Musa’s household as well. Balkisa was the daughter of Mariama’s paternal uncle. Her parents lived in Samia, a village situated about one hour’s walk to the west of Kimoram. Balkisa came to live with the family, because Mariama needed help with her child. Occasionally, Balkisa went home, for instance, when her parents needed her to work on the field. In 2006, Musa thus lived in his own homestead which he shared with Mariama, Idris and Balkisa. Mariama prepared the meals for the family in the compound, but the family was still economically integrated into Musa’s father’s household. Musa was working his father’s fields, one of which was in the north and one in the south of Kimoram. The harvest of these fields was stored in his father’s granary and his father handed over millet from the granary to Musa from time to time. Musa was regularly going to Nigeria during the slack period and he handed over to his father the majority of the money he had earned there. His father had set aside a smaller part of the northern as well as a smaller part of the southern field for Musa. Musa also worked these smaller fields and the harvest belonged to him. Musa’s father had also set aside a small part of his fields for Mariama, which she worked and the harvest of which belonged to her alone. Musa’s father was, I presume, in his seventies. He was the Imam of the southern mosque. The location of his compound can also be seen on the village map. At

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that time, the Imam’s household comprised many members. There were, to begin with, his two wives: Baba Umma, aged about 65, was his first wife and Bintu, aged about 50 years, was his second wife. With his second wife, the Imam had a young daughter, Shawa, and a son, Ibrahim. Besides these younger children, who stayed with him, the Imam also had three grown-up sons and a daughter with a former wife who had deceased, Musa’s mother. The eldest, Maliki, had died, the middle son, Mutari, lived in Nigeria, the daughter, Hawwa, lived in Nigeria as well, a second daughter died early and the youngest of his children was Musa. All of his three sons had children. Two of the sons of his eldest son, the orphans Babangida and Ali, as well as one of his middle son’s sons, Awalu, lived in the Imam’s household. These three were between approximately 10 and 15 years old and they helped with field cultivation. The Imam also had a daughter with Baba Umma, Zainabu, who was married and lived in Kimoram. After the harvest in 2006, Musa moved his compound to the edge of the village where he built a new hut. The location of his new hut can be seen on the village plan. As I mentioned before, Musa’s former wife had taken their daughter, Bintu, with her. In 2007, however, Musa insisted on her moving back to his compound. Some of his former wife’s relatives brought her back to Kimoram and Bintu then lived in the Imam’s household under the care of the Imam’s first wife, Baba Umma. Bintu came to Musa’s house every day, but she spent most of the day in the Imam’s compound. In 2009, Mariama gave birth to Ya’u, their second child. In the same year, Musa’s household became independent from his father’s household. The father handed over some of the fields in the north and in the south to Musa. From this point onwards, those fields belonged to Musa. Musa built his own granary and the responsibility to feed his family shifted to him. Setting up an economically independent household also brought about a re-arrangement in manpower. The Imam kept Babangida and Awalu in his own household. As the Imam was too old to work the fields himself, both of them were to cultivate their grandfather’s fields from then on. Ali, however, moved into Musa’s household. From then on, Ali stayed with Musa, Mariama, Balkisa, and the two toddlers, Idris and Ya’u. In the period after I had left Kimoram in 2009 and before I met Musa again in Nigeria in 2010/11, the family had become even more numerous. In 2010, Musa and Mariama had twins, Assana and Hassana. As I stated before, photo 3 shows Musa’s mud hut in 2009 and the sketch below the photo gives an overview of the compound structure. The family kept its animals opposite the hut. Over time, these varied in number. In 2009, the family kept a bull, a ram, a female sheep and four goats. The bull and the ram belonged to Musa, the four goats were the collective property of four women in the village. The goats were part of a rotating scheme implemented by the development project Goal. One of the four women would keep the four goats until they would give birth to four kids. Then, they would move into the custody of another

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woman who participated in the rotating scheme. The female sheep belonged to Baba Umma, the Imam’s first wife. She kept it in Musa’s compound in order to obscure the fact that the sheep belonged to her. She wanted to avoid people begging her for financial assistance. The Imam and Musa owned a field to the south and a field to the north of Kimoram, both of which the Imam divided up when Musa became economically independent. Only the southern field belonged to the Imam and his family. The northern field was Abdu’s property. Abdu being the Imam’s maternal half-brother had lent the field in the north to the Imam. He was one of the first settlers who had come to Kimoram and owned large stretches of land in the village area, fields on the sand dunes, as well as garden plots close to the ponds. He had also lent a garden to Musa. However, as the water level of the ponds was high, Musa’s garden plot was flooded and of no use to him.

II. Musa’s Life History1 Musa’s grandfather had lived in a village in the mountains to the west of Kimoram. He had been married there and his wife bore Musa’s father, Salifu. Salifu was probably born in the 1930s. However, the marriage failed. Musa’s grandmother left for what is now known as Kimoram, took Salifu with her and he grew up there. Salifu engaged in studying the Qur’an and his studies brought him to different places, also to the village of Gana, in what is now the state of Yobe, in Nigeria. Salifu married and settled there. His wife gave birth to several children. The eldest son was Maliki, who later died and left behind Babangida and Ali. The second son was Mutari who still lived in Nigeria. The first daughter was Hawwa and the third son was Musa. A second daughter died early. Musa was born in Gana probably around 1972. At the age of 5, his mother died. When he was a small boy, the Nigerian authorities wanted Salifu to send his children to school. However, Salifu refused to do this and decided to leave Nigeria. His family moved to Kimoram. After seven years in Kimoram, Salifu and his family returned to Nigeria. They passed by Gana, and went further south to Mayaka where Salifu served as Imam. All the children, except for Musa, married in Nigeria. After spending a few more years in Mayaka, Salifu decided to move back to Kimoram because the village needed an Imam. As Salifu did not want to be in Kimoram without a son, he decided to marry Musa off in Kimoram, not in Nigeria. Even before his first marriage, Musa had been interested in Islamic scholarship and he participated in the peripatetic tradition. During the rainy season, he 1 As the villagers did not use our calendar, I had to extrapolate the years in which the events I mention presumably happened. Musa was the source of most pieces of information concerning his life-history.

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worked on the fields. In the slack period, he travelled to other places to study the Qur’an. He continued to do so, even after marrying. Sometimes, he also took some children from Kimoram with him, whom he instructed in Qur’anic learning. After a few years, Musa realised that he would not be able to reconcile his interest in Qur’anic scholarship with married life. So he divorced his wife and continued to devote his time to Qur’anic learning during the slack period. According to Musa, his father was concerned that Musa would settle elsewhere and leave him alone in Kimoram. Thus, Salifu restricted Musa’s absence to a period of four months per year. In the following years, Musa remained a bachelor, cultivating the fields during the rainy season and spending four months per year in search of Islamic knowledge. In the meantime, his eldest brother, Maliki, who had remained in Nigeria, died. He left behind two sons, Babangida and Ali, who then came to stay with the Imam. His brother Mutari lived as a peasant in Nigeria and sent his son Awalu to live with the Imam. After some time, Musa wished to marry again, because all his peers were married, and he felt that, as a bachelor, people did not respect him as much in the village community. So Musa married for the second time. After seven months of married life, however, he realised, he said, that his wife was mentally ill. He therefore divorced her only to marry for the third time, a year later. Whilst he did not have any children in his first and second marriages, his third wife gave birth to four children. The first three of them, however, died, while Bintu survived. For a while, Musa continued to combine field cultivation and Islamic scholarship. But, when the Imam and Musa got into economic difficulties around 2004, Musa ceased to pursue his Qur’anic studies during the slack period. From then on, he went to Nigeria in order to earn money and he pursued Qur’anic scholarship less intensively than before. In 2006, he married Mariama, as a co-wife to his first wife. As we have seen, the relationship with his main wife ended then. The Imam’s family disposed of fields in Kimoram and in Nigeria. The Imam and Musa worked on the field in Kimoram, some relatives and Mutari cultivated the fields in Nigeria.

III. Daily Routine My three field stays in Kimoram happened to be during the rainy season. Throughout my field stays, Musa’s daily routine followed more or less the same pattern, although there were minor changes over time. The pattern, as I describe it here, applies to the weeding period, at a time when Musa did not yet have an ox-cart of his own and had already become independent from his father. In the night, Musa slept in his compound, together with his wife, their children, Balkisa, and Ali. At times, other children stayed with them over night as well. Shawa, for instance, the daughter of the Imam, did so from time to time.

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The family either slept in the hut or in the open space in front of it, depending on circumstances. When rain fell or the ground was wet, the family slept inside the hut, as they also did during the cold periods of the year when temperatures were too low to sleep outside. However, if the sun had heated up the mud hut during the day, the hut retained the heat for the first part of the night and it was more comfortable to sleep outside. When they slept outside, the family put its mattresses into the open space in front of the hut and erected mosquito nets for the children. At sunrise or rather a little bit later, i. e. around six o’clock, the family woke up. The adults got up immediately, as staying in bed for longer encouraged dire thoughts and spoiled one’s mood. More or less all villagers rose at the same time, some a little earlier, some a little later. Some villagers were already on their way to the well or prepared their ox-carts when others got up. The first thing to do in the morning was to pray. Usually, Musa prayed at home. At times, however, he went to the mosque. When he wanted to pray at the mosque, he had to rise even earlier, as the prayer at the mosque took place at sunrise. The prayer was a tripartite act. First, Musa had to do alwala, the selfpurifying rite that precedes prayer in Islam. Musa grabbed a buta, i. e. a plastic container that resembles a tea kettle, filled it with water, and performed the rite. Next, Musa performed the prayer proper. Thirdly, he asked God some favours. Musa asked God to pardon his sins und let him enter paradise, to help him escape from poverty, and to help him maintain equanimity. Only when the prayers had been completed, were the family members allowed to greet each other, as the first duty in the morning was to turn to God. After prayer, Musa took a bath. In preparation, either Mariama or Musa himself filled a container with water and carried it into the ‘bathroom’ (see photo 3). Musa took the bath according to religiously prescribed rules. To describe this process in a rough manner, the process starts with a religious formula which Musa uttered on entering the bathroom. Musa took off his tunica and his trousers. He squatted down, uttered bismillahi and started to wash his body. The rules prescribe which part of the body to start with, how often to wash it, and which part of the body to continue with. So, Musa first washed his hands three times and then continued with the genitals, which he also washed three times. He carried on, until he had washed his whole body. He dressed, left the ‘bathroom’ and returned to the hut. Being imbued with religious meaning, washing was considered an important act and nobody was supposed to speak to anyone who was taking a bath. After that, Musa often carried out some minor task. He would sweep up the fodder which the animals had not eaten the evening before or during the night, for instance. Or he would wash some ingredients for making medicine and place them on the roof of the cooking hut to let them dry. In the meantime, the other

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family members had gotten up too, performed their prayers or were in the process of doing so. Some women entered the house or passed by in the lane to offer fried cowpea cakes and fried wheat cakes for sale. When he had money, Musa bought some cakes for his family and for himself. Afterwards, Musa dressed properly and left the compound in order to walk through the village and greet the members of the village community. He usually had about 20 people in mind he wanted to greet, but he also wanted to greet all those he happened to meet on his way through the village. As all the male villagers followed this procedure in the morning, the village lanes were full of men. As the fences around the compounds were not high enough or braided densely enough to conceal the interior from passers-by, Musa could also see and be seen by anybody who was at home. He called out greetings to people in their compounds and to people he saw from a distance. When he met a man in the lane, they exchanged verbal greetings and shook hands. If he met a woman in the lane, they only exchanged verbal greetings, but did not shake hands. However, Musa not only walked the lanes, he also headed towards compounds where people lived who deserved his respect. First of all, he headed towards his father’s compound. Due to the Imam’s elevated status, the Imam did not leave his compound to greet the village community, but stayed at home, seated under a sunblind in front of his hut. Musa approached him, squatted down in front of him and they had a short confidential talk. On these occasions, the Imam sometimes assigned him a task. In his father’s compound, he also squatted down in front of Baba Umma who had taken care of him after his mother’s death. After that, he left his father’s compound. On his way through the village, he took care to approach and greet Mamman, Kanta, and Amma, his paternal aunt, Malam Keli, who was a respected old man, and Abdu, his father’s uterine half-brother, the Imam’s closest friend and ally in the village. He also squatted down in front of the latter three to show them his respect. The procedure was not exactly the same each day, as the choice of people Musa wanted to meet beyond those mentioned above changed from time to time. Sometimes, he also felt the need to see somebody for a specific reason. There were also people who he greeted when he saw them in the lane, but who he did not specifically visit in their compounds in order to exchange greetings. He had, for instance, visited one villager’s compound in the past, but then no longer did so after he had understood that he was suspected of seeking some sort of advantage. Whatever the actual attitude towards the other people with whom he interacted, the greeting procedure followed the rules of wasa da dariya, i. e. ‘play and laughter’. Whoever Musa met, he was obliged to greet them cheerfully and perhaps even exchange jokes with them. When he passed Rabi’s house, Issu’s wife, for instance, he saw her doing the laundry. In addition to greeting her, he also asked

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her what kind of food she was preparing, pretending not to understand that she was churning clothes. Rabi laughed in response. The closer the relationship between the greeting parties, the more serious talk could be inserted into the greeting procedure and the less important wasa da dariya might become. The greeting procedure was over at about 7 a.m. and Musa returned home. Similar to the process of taking a bath, the greeting procedure had a religious dimension. Musa cared about the village community and that brought about lada, divine reward. When Musa entered his house again, he uttered salamu alaikum. Back home, Mariama had already started the cooking. If working on the field was not urgent, Musa waited until food was ready before leaving for the field. Whereas others preferred to eat only a little before leaving for the fields very early in the morning, Musa preferred to leave after having had a proper meal. Before the meal was ready, Musa had time to complete some minor tasks. When there was sufficient waste in his compound to be used as manure on the fields, he looked, for instance, for an ox-cart in the village. He drew the ox-cart to his house, yoked the bull to the ox-cart and loaded the manure onto the cart. Alternatively, the village barber might pass by to shave the heads of the male family members and children who happened to be present. At times, Musa also simply rested on a mat in front of his hut and neighbours dropped in and started a conversation with Musa or Mariama. The conversation could be about nearly any topic. The parties to the conversation discussed the process of ironing clothes, they talked about resting after work, or someone might shortly withdraw with Musa and silently ask him to prepare some Qur’anic medicine. Children came and stood around, lacking something to do. Musa noticed that a hen was sick and tied it to the fence of the compound. Or Musa and Mariama discussed what they had to do during the day. If Mariama did not want to come to the field, for instance, she needed his permission and they would discuss this. As soon as some of the food was ready, Mariama filled it in a bowl and brought it to Musa. She knelt down when she handed him the bowl. Musa would eat first. When he had finished, the others would eat as well. After having eaten, Musa passed his bowl to the younger boys who were present, e. g. Ali and Babangida. Mariama and Balkisa ate separately. The small boys, Idris and Ya’u, were already waiting for Mariama to bring Musa the food. Although they were supposed to eat last, since they were the youngest, they could not wait and approached Musa while he was eating, demanding their share or tried to grab his bowl. Sometimes Musa sent them back and they approached him again after a short while. Sometimes, he set aside some food for them in a separate bowl. Between 8 and 8.30 a.m. Musa had finished his breakfast and was ready to go to the field. While Mariama continued her cooking, Musa set out for the fields. Usually, he took two empty sacks with him. He wanted to collect grass on the field as fodder

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for the animals in his compound. Musa also needed drinking water on the fields. When he headed towards the southern field, however, Musa did not need to take water with him, as he could draw it from one of the ponds. So he only took an empty water container with him instead. When he went to the northern field, however, he had to pass by the water pump at the western edge of the village to fill his water container, as there was no open water close to the northern field. Before leaving the village, Musa would engage in many interactions. Sometimes, he passed by his father’s compound. When he had left the compound, Musa sometimes remembered that he had forgotten something. He might have forgotten to tell Mariama to add cowpeas to the sauce she was cooking, for instance. Then he would call upon a girl on the village lane and ask her to inform Mariama about his wish. When Musa was on his way to the field, but still in the vicinity of the village, he regularly met other villagers and engaged in ‘small talk’ with them. One day, for instance, he met Kande at the water pump and told her that he had been to the market in Garin Gabas the day before. He had gone there in order to have a leaking water container mended. When he learned that mending it would cost 300 Fcfa, whereas a new container would cost 500 Fcfa, he abandoned the idea, decided to do without mending it and returned to Kimoram. Kande showed her approval. If he walked fast, as he usually did outside the village, Musa could reach the southern field in about 40 minutes. Walking to the northern field took about 20 minutes. Musa followed the trodden paths in the sandy fields around Kimoram. On his way to the field, he interacted with others. Some villagers were already on their fields and Musa greeted them as he passed by. He often exchanged jokes with those he interacted with. When he met Garba, for instance, Garba told him that he would come to see him in the evening. He wanted to borrow 20,000 Fcfa as his wife was pregnant and he needed to slaughter a ram when the baby was born. Garba said so in order to tease Musa. He had a joking relationship (cf. Nicolas 1975: 194–6) with Musa that allowed him to make cheeky comments. Everybody knew that Musa did not have the money. Later on, Musa saw another peasant at a distance. Musa made a joke here as well. He invited the peasant for a gayya at a well-known peasant’s field. When launching a gayya, a peasant expects or invites a number of people to assist him in field cultivation and he, in turn, is obliged to return the invitation (cf. Nicolas 1975: 188). The well-known peasant, however, was said to purposefully invite only a single person to his gayya, while pretending to invite many more. When the invited arrived at the well-known peasant’s field, he would realise that he would have to do all the work alone. Sometimes, Musa met peasants who were on their way to their fields or to other villages. One day, for instance, he met a buzu who settled in a small hamlet in the vicinity of Kimoram. They had not seen each

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other for a very long time. They greeted each other enthusiastically. Musa inquired about the buzu’s fields and the buzu asked about the Imam’s well-being. Sometimes, he also met people whom he had never seen before. Greetings were more formal then. On some days, he met up to 12 people. On other days, however, he only came across a few. All interactions on his way to the fields followed the rules of wasa da dariya, although more serious talk might occur as well. One day, for example, he saw Bunu and Garba when he passed by their fields. In the morning, the village population had gathered in order to perform a common prayer as rain was scarce. However, Bunu and Garba had not participated in the prayer, but gone to the fields instead. Musa rebuked them mildly, but seriously, for not having fulfilled their duties towards the village community. On some days, Musa did not go the fields alone. He joined others. They would then walk together for some time. When the boys of his and the Imam’s household walked to the field as well, they did so separately, but sometimes they joined Musa. Often, the boys had to chase the rams and Musa’s bull to the fields. Sometimes, Musa took his bull to the field himself. Sometimes, he also met somebody who had an ox-cart. He climbed the ox-cart and rode on it until the ox-cart driver needed to take a different path. Sometimes, but rather seldom, he borrowed an ox-cart and yoked his own bull to it. When Musa brought his bull to the field, he had to find a pasture for it. When farmers let part of their fields lie fallow, grass grew there and the fields could be used as pasture ground. If he left his bull there, Musa had to look for it from time to time, lest it entered somebody else’s field and fed on the millet shoots. When Musa arrived on the field, he stopped at a tree where he deposited his two empty sacks and the water container. When he worked on the southern field, he took his empty water container and left for the pond nearby. He entered one of the gardens that lay at the pond’s edge and filled the water container at one of the wells that were dug into the ground. On his way to or from the pond, he sometimes took the opportunity to walk across the field and assess the state it was in. When Musa had put the filled container in the shade of the tree, he took his weeding tool, the hauya. The hauya consists of a wooden pole, about 2 meters long. At one end is a metal blade shaped like a half-moon. When the wooden pole is in its working position (see photo 4 below), the metal blade lies in a position parallel to the surface of the soil. Musa did not carry the hauya back to the village every day, but left it in the field. He hid it in a bush or in the branches of a tree. He would thus find the hauya where he had left it the day before. Once in a while, however, it had gone. Somebody had used Musa’s hauya and had not put it back in its place. Musa looked for the footprints of the person who had taken the hauya, followed them and usually found it. He did not object, so he said, to lending his hauya, but he wanted people to put it back in its place. When he

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had the hauya, he could start working. With his hauya, Musa first marked a rectangular space on his field of approximately 200 square metres. The edges of the rectangle were parallel to the rows of millet. Then he went back to one of the corners of the rectangle. Musa inserted the metal blade into the ground, pushed it into the soil so that it came to a standstill under the surface. Then he pushed the hauya forward. While pushing the hauya forward, Musa had to take care that the metal blade did not enter into the soil too deeply. In its correct position, it cut off the roots of the weeds. When he reached the other side of the rectangle, Musa turned around and came back to the side from which he had departed. Between the first and the second weeding movement, going back and forth, he left out the space for another weeding movement. And so he carried on until he reached the other end of the rectangle. Then he turned around and weeded the spaces he had left out before. Musa had to take care, of course, that he did not cut off the roots of the millet and the cowpeas. So, when the metal blade came close to the millet shoots, he turned the wooden pole slightly and thus raised the edge of the metal blade to pass by the millet shoot and continued to weed behind the shoots. After a while, he finished his work in the first rectangle. Then he marked a second rectangle and continued his work. He went on like this until he finished work in the afternoon. Sometimes, Musa worked alone on the field, sometimes the children accompanied him. When the boys were on the fields as well, Musa had to keep an eye on them.

Photo 4: Musa, Awalu and Ali are weeding.

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He told them where to work, he corrected their mistakes, he admonished them if they lost themselves in conversation or began to play, he encouraged them by shouting to, to, to! 2 or a gaishe ku! 3. But he also engaged in discussions with them or listened to their boyish conversations. Other villagers worked on their fields at the same time, but they were at too great a distance to engage in conversation with him while they were working. In the meantime, Mariama had finished the cooking. She filled some millet gruel into a calabash, some sauce into a metal bowl, added a wooden eating bowl, wrapped them into a cloth, put them onto her head and brought them to the field. Sometimes, she left Idris in the village, where Balkisa took care of him. Sometimes, they came to the field together. Mariama arrived at the field at about 10 a.m. She put the food in the shade of the tree. Musa interrupted his work and sat down in the shade. He filled some millet gruel from the calabash into his eating bowl, poured some sauce over it and began to eat. Mariama sat down beside him and waited for him to finish eating. Depending on the circumstances, they started a conversation. When the boys were on the field, too, they either ate from the same bowl as Musa or the boys got their own bowl.

Photo 5: Musa takes his meal together with Babangida, Awalu and Ali.

2 3

To is an exclamation that roughly means what comes next? in this context. May you be greeted!

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When Musa had finished eating, Mariama and Balkisa ate as well. They were not allowed to eat before the men. They used their own bowl and sat at a certain distance from Musa and the boys. Mariama said that she did not eat any food before she came to the field. Musa doubted that, but didn’t seem to care. The dish was almost always the same, millet gruel and a sauce. At times, Mariama cooked rice and cowpeas instead. Sometimes, she also prepared kunu to accompany the main dish, a drink made of millet flour, water and some spices. Only rarely did the family get hold of some highly cherished nono, fermented milk which Mariama would use to prepare at least a small amount of fura da nono, i. e. balls of cooked millet flour in fermented milk. After eating, Musa usually felt a strong desire for goro, cola-nut. If he did not chew goro, he would lack energy and find it harder to return to work. If he had none, he would ask Mariama if she had some. If she didn’t have any goro either, he had to do without. The workers did not eat up all the food Mariama brought to the field. They left some for the afternoon break at about 2 or 3 p.m. They covered the bowls and put them into the plain sun. Otherwise, ants would climb up and enter the bowls. This morning break lasted approximately 30 minutes and Musa returned to work. Musa then carried on until around 2 or 3 p.m. However, he did not work without interruption. People passed by his field and he engaged in short conversations with them. He had to look for his bull and to bring it back if it had strayed too far away. At times, he felt thirsty and drank from the water container in the shade of the tree. Meanwhile, Mariama took care of her own duties. She worked, for instance, on her part of the field or returned to the village. In the rainy season, clouds might gather and rain might fall. The workers would stop working then and try to take shelter from the rain, not always successfully. On the southern fields, Kabiru Yalla who was working on an adjacent field had built a small hut where the farmers would find shelter from the rain. The Imam’s and Musa’s fields were adjacent to each other. While Musa was working on his field, the Imam often stayed on his own field. He rode to the field on horseback, walked across the field in order to assess the state it was in, spread out a bag or blanket in the shade of a tree and rested there until the afternoon. His main reason to come to the field, however, was to supervise Awalu and Babangida, the two boys who belonged to his household and whose responsibility it was to work his field. Sometimes, however, the Imam rested on Musa’s field. He sat in the shade of the tree where Musa had put his own belongings or in the shade of another tree nearby. He took his food, when Musa and Mariama were at some distance from him, as custom did not permit him to eat in his daughter-inlaw’s presence. Sometimes, he engaged in a discussion with Musa. One day, for example, he spoke with Musa about Ali. Ali had fallen from the bull and a bone splinter had broken off from his elbow. The Imam advised Musa to go and see Malam Awal in Garin Gabas, a specialist in treating bone injuries. The Imam

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also engaged in conversation with people passing by. One day, for instance, an itinerant trader passed by the field. As he saw the Imam resting and me preparing tea, the trader took the opportunity to spend some time with the Imam. They discussed the prices of animals, the health of one of the trader’s camels, they spoke about me and my cooking pot, about the president of Niger, and then the trader tried to persuade the Imam to sell him his horse at a ridiculously low price. As I have said before, Musa took another break at about 2 or 3 p.m. He ate the food he had left for this purpose after the morning break and continued to work. Mariama was usually not around at that time anymore. At about 2.30 p.m., Musa interrupted his work in order to pray. At about 3 p.m. or 3.30 p.m. he stopped weeding. On a good day, he completed about 5 rectangulars, on other days less. The weeding process took about 30 days. His work wore him out and he lost weight. His skull became more pronounced, the eyes turned red and his skin darkened or, as he put it, he became ugly. At the same time, the work was often tedious. On some days, he liked to do this work, but on others he was fed up with it and dreamt of pursuing Qur’anic studies. From time to time, if he did not feel sufficiently motivated or too tired, he rested in the shade of the tree at noon and took a nap. The work was much more pleasant, however, when the boys were around and he could interact with them. When Musa stopped weeding in the afternoon, the work on the field had not yet finished. He still had to collect fodder for the animals at home. In the morning, he had brought two empty bags to the field and he had to fill them with grass. Thus, he took the first bag. The field was only sparsely covered with grass, but in some spots grass grew more densely and Musa went there. He stooped down, grabbed some grass above the roots, tore it out of the soil and put it into the bag. When the bag became too heavy, Musa put the bag onto the ground and collected grass in his arms before bringing it back to the bag. After about 40 minutes, he had filled the bag and it took him another 40 minutes to fill the second bag. If there was somebody with an ox-cart working on a field nearby, he loaded the bags onto the cart. If he had come to the field with his own bull, he loaded the bags onto him. If he had come alone, however, he only filled one bag with grass, put it onto his head and carried it back home. At about 4 p.m., it was time to pray again. Work on the fields was over and Musa went back home. Often, other farmers finished their work at about the same time and passed by Musa’s field. If he was ready or nearly ready to go back to the village, they waited for him, and then two, three, or four of them returned to the village together. Sometimes, however, he strolled back home alone. The women had usually gone back to the village earlier, because they had to prepare the evening meal. On their way back, the women often collected firewood. The men’s way back largely resembled the way to the fields. Musa greeted whomever he met or saw at a distance. Sometimes, he

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walked together with someone else for a while and they discussed village matters then. At other times, Musa stopped over at somebody else’s field or garden, engaged in conversation with him, joked or teased small girls who he met on the way. He arrived in the village between 4.30 and 5.30 p.m. When Musa came back home, he was usually tired and Mariama was cooking the evening meal. The first thing he wanted to do then was to rest for a while. He told Mariama to bring him a mat and water to drink. If he was too hungry to wait until food was ready, he asked her if there was anything to eat. Mariama took some of the food which she was preparing, put it into a bowl and brought it to him. If no food was ready yet, Musa had to wait. Anyway, he would only eat a small amount of food at this time of the day, as he was supposed to take the evening meal in front of his father’s compound later. No fixed schedule was set for the afternoon and different things could happen. Often, his two young sons came close to Musa, climbed onto him and played. Musa would cuddle them. When food was ready, Mariama brought some, Musa washed his hands, told Ali to do the same and started to eat. As before, Musa was supposed to eat first, while the others were supposed to wait until Musa had finished. While Ali was disciplined enough to wait, Idris and Ya’u once again found it difficult to accept the rules. The same procedure as in the morning repeated itself. Sometimes, all four ate together from the same bowl. After they had eaten, different things could happen. To give a few examples, on one occasion Mariama resumed cooking. A little later, Idris tried to grab a knife. His mother scolded him because he was not allowed to do so. The boy got angry, approached his mother from behind and tore off her head scarf. On another occasion, Musa told Ali to clear the place where the animals were kept. Ali grabbed the rake and cleaned the place. Next, Ali grabbed the bags filled with grass that Musa had brought from the field. He poured out the grass and distributed it among the animals. Musa stayed on his mat and observed Ali. From time to time, he told him what to do. He told him, for instance, to begin raking where the goats were and to finish where the bull was. Ali was evidently trying to do his job well and Musa recognised this. Sometimes, visitors entered the house, a woman asked for a stock cube or some onions. A neighbour left her son in Musa’s compound, as she needed to go somewhere else. A woman came and ground some millet corn on Mariama’s grindstone. Musa grabbed his old radio and tried to repair it. Mariama offered Musa bran for 25 Fcfa but he declined the offer. A wind blew. Some sand entered Musa’s eyes and his eyes started to itch. Mariama came to Musa’s aid. She knelt down in front of him, gently opened his eye lid and removed the sand with the inside of his shirt. Children entered the compound and were bored. They sat together and tried to pass the time inventing something to do. Sometimes they had an idea about what to discuss, sometimes they remained silent, sometimes they spoke intermittently, sometimes they played with what was at their disposal. One day, for instance, a boy found a small plastic container on

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the ground, drove a file through it, held one end of the file in his hand, and knocked the container against a piece of wood. Sometimes, Mariama needed to leave the compound and Musa would supervise the children. Thus, when Musa came home in the afternoon, his main purpose was to rest and eat a little bit. Yet, life did not come to a standstill in the afternoon; small tasks had to be done, people demanded attention. So Musa was still drawn into a variety of activities in the afternoon. At times, however, there was nothing else to do and Musa simply rested. After some time, it got darker and dusk approached. The temperature dropped slightly and it was time to take a bath. Musa did not take his bath earlier, as the temperature would have been too high and he would have started to sweat again after the bath. Taking a bath at this time of the day followed the same procedure as taking a bath in the morning. Afterwards, Musa took another short rest, went to his father’s compound to greet him as he did in the morning. Then he prayed for the fourth time, either in the mosque or, as he usually did, at home. He took a rest again, and at about 8 p.m., when it was already dark, he went to the mosque to pray for the fifth time. At the mosque, Malam Yakuba, the ladan, called for prayer. Usually about seven or eight villagers gathered at the mosque. The Imam arrived to lead the prayer. He stood in front and the other villagers lined up behind him to perform the prayer. However, there were always some latecomers. After that, Musa met the male members of his kinship group in front of his father’s compound. Every evening, they had dinner together. The group comprised Abdu and the Imam, as well as all their male descendants, amounting to a total of about 12 people. Abdu and the Imam, being the elders, sat separately from the others, each of them on his own mat opposite each other. The other members of the group sat together at a little distance from the elderly men. After a while, the first of the men’s wives brought the food she had prepared at home. She put it in front of the men. Abdu and the Imam ate from their own bowls, but the other men ate from a common bowl that stood between them. One wife after the other brought food, until the men had eaten everything up. The main dish was, once again, millet gruel with a sauce. While they were eating, the men had their conversation. They talked about anything of interest: the state of their fields, the weather, rumours, news from the radio, and stories from Nigeria. Abdu and the Imam let the younger men have their conversation, listened to it and intervened from time to time. Often the radio was switched on at the same time and some listened to it, while the conversation was going on. Other kinship groups in the village also had dinner together and they sometimes had to find a common attitude towards a certain theme. When, for instance, the villagers had to decide if they wanted to have a school in their village, part of the discussion took place in these groups. Moreover, members of these groups could easily join other groups now and bring their issues in. These

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common meals thus also had a ‘political’ function, as they played a role in the negotiation of village decisions, and Musa participated in the political process of his village during his evening meals. After having eaten, each man decided whether he wanted to stay and continue the conversation with the others or whether he rather preferred to go somewhere else or go home. In former times, Musa stayed with the others. After a while, he found that the conversations were of limited interest to him and often resembled gossip. He decided, then, to instead spend his evenings at home. So, after having eaten, he usually went back home. In the meantime, Mariama and the children had eaten at home. Musa came home and lay down on a mat. Often, both children were already sleeping and Mariama was tidying up the cooking hut. Musa and Mariama often engaged in conversation then. To give an example, both of them wanted to attend a funeral ceremony in Samia on the same day, but due to the daily tasks, they could not do that. So they found an arrangement, whereby Musa would attend the ceremony on Monday, and Mariama on Tuesday. Sometimes, visitors came in. For instance, Sa’ade might enter the compound in order to complain about someone else’s behaviour. The person concerned had accused her of having insulted him. As the person had already done so before, Musa said that nobody would believe him and that one might need to intervene if the person did not alter his behaviour. After a while, Musa fell asleep. Mariama prepared the mattresses and the mosquito nets for the children and then went to sleep too. Such was the daily routine during the rainy season. The activities were different in the slack period when there was not much work to be done and people would spend more time pursuing leisure activities and visiting people. Unfortunately, I could not be in Kimoram during the slack period due to my duties in Zurich. The activities were, of course, also different for the labour migrants when they were in Nigeria. I describe these in chapter D.VII. But even in the rainy season, there were variations in the daily routine. On some Sundays, Musa left for the market in Garin Gabas. As he left early in the morning and returned at sunset, he did not go to the fields on those days. Sometimes, Musa attended a ritual. If a baby had been born in the village or somebody had died, the respective families held the prescribed rituals, received visitors and Musa normally participated. At times, he also attended such occasions in other villages. On other days, he wanted to assess what state the fields were in and went to both the northern and the southern field. Sometimes he was both mentally and physically weary of the field-work, and would leave for the field rather late in the morning. When the month of Ramadan fell into the period of field cultivation, the routine changed too. As the villagers were fasting, their bodies were weaker than in other months and they had more difficulty coping with the sun and the exertion. The peasants were thus not able to cultivate their fields in the same way they did in

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other months. Musa had breakfast before sunrise and left for the field very early in the morning. He worked for about two hours, collected grass for his animals, returned home and rested. During Ramadan, the working pattern for women did not change as radically as it did for men, as they nevertheless still had to take care of the children and prepare food.

IV. People Close and Distant Throughout the day, Musa shifted from social context to social context. In each of these contexts, he carried out a specific kind of action or interaction, greetings in the morning, work on the field, a common meal in the evening, etc. Each social setting also comprised its own set of interaction partners. Musa began his day, for instance, within the ‘frame’ of his own family. In the beginning of the day, his wife and his children were his immediate interaction partners. Leaving his compound, he entered public space to greet the village community. In this context, his interaction partners were his neighbours and kinsmen. Next, Musa entered his father’s compound. Here, his main interaction partners were his father and the other family members. However, as every villager was on the move in the morning, many people rushed into the Imam’s compound at that time of the day. The compound thus became a semi-public space in which Musa also related to the visitors to his father’s compound. When he left his father’s household, he entered the public space again. As before, his interaction partners were his neighbours and his kinsmen. He then re-entered his own compound and then his family members were his interaction partners. However, in the meantime, the space of his compound had changed its quality, as neighbours, kinsmen, and friends started to drop in, giving his compound a more public character than in the morning. As noted above, interaction partners changed from social setting to social setting. From Musa’s perspective, this description would, however, be incomplete. He repeatedly interacted with God throughout the day. There were, for instance, the five obligatory prayers. Taking a bath also followed certain religious rules, the greeting procedure in the morning was also a religious duty, and both practices brought about lada, divine reward. The density and frequency of interaction did not necessarily reflect a person’s importance to Musa. Sometimes, Musa saw his father only for a short time and hardly spoke a word with him. Nevertheless, he was one of the most important persons to Musa. Musa had grown up ‘under’ his father. Many ties of common biography and solidarity bound the two of them together and would also be decisive for their future. Similarly, Musa might not have much to do with his children on some days, because Mariama and Balkisa were taking care of them during the day. Nevertheless, they were among those people who were most important to him.

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As will become clear in the course of the text, for Musa, the members of his own compound, i. e. Mariama, Idris and Ya’u, Ali and Balkisa, and the members of the Imam’s household, i. e. his father, Baba Umma, Bintu, Awalu and Babangida were the people who were most important to him. Their greater importance to Musa was reflected in the greater importance of his interactions with them. The content of these interactions covered the themes of living together, caring for one another, working together, helping each other and they generally implied intimacy. However, this description would again be incomplete from Musa’s perspective, as God figured among the most important entities, and praying, being conscious of him and obedient to him were also among the more important activities of the day. I was not clear, however, about the status of Musa’s brother in Nigeria. He was absent and I could not observe interactions between Musa and him. Other people figured less prominently in Musa’s world. His kinsmen, friends, and neighbours were less relevant to him than his family. He stood in a different relationship to them and the kinds of actions and interactions between him and them were different. Nearly all villagers were linked to Musa through kinship or affine ties, but his kinsmen in Kimoram who belonged to the southern kinshipgroup were also his closest kinsmen. They also provided solidarity and mutual help, although less than his direct family. They satisfied his need for conversation and were an important interest group in the village through which Musa could participate in the political process in Kimoram. But they were also a very diverse group of people, whose different members had very different relationships to him. Musa enjoyed the company of some of its members, whereas others were rather ‘imposed’ company for him. Most of his neighbours were also close kinsmen. Due to their vicinity, they also played a role in the everyday exchange of items of daily use. They and Musa’s family offered each other help with minor tasks, they supervised each other’s children, lent a hand in repairing a roof and exchanged ingredients for sauces. They also satisfied the need for conversation. However, exactly like the group of close kinsmen, neighbours were a diverse set of people to whom different forms of relationship existed. Their company was also partly desired, partly tolerated. Friends are always chosen. However, Musa did not have many close friends. Instead, he had acquaintances with whom he maintained friendly relations and with whom he liked to share in some common activities. Some of them were from Kimoram. But he also became friends with others who lived in other places, while he was travelling, participating in the peripatetic tradition or while he was on labour migration. Thus, they were scattered, so to speak, over a wider area. Musa was related to the other villagers through more distant ties of kinship and affinity than the ties that united him with the members of the southern kin-

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ship group. Some of these like Bala were among his well-liked friends or acquaintances. However, there were some villagers in this group with whom he did not like interacting. If he met them, he interacted with them as custom and social ideology demanded it, but he did not seek their company. However, Musa’s relationships to others were never really fixed. Relationships begin, develop, change, and sometimes, they also end. This also pertained to Musa’s relationships to others.

D. Musa – Relationships and Activities In chapter C., I explained the composition of Musa’s family and the structures of his household. Moreover, I gave an account of Musa’s life history and of his daily routine in the rainy season. At the end of chapter C., I described how Musa shifted between different social settings and different interaction partners throughout the day. Then, I showed that these different interactions partners also stood in different social relations to Musa. How could it be otherwise? In this chapter, I will describe these interaction partners and the social relationships which Musa maintained with them in greater detail. I will start with those he considered more important and end with those he considered least important. Finally, I will describe his relationship to God (D. VIII.).

I. Mariama Musa was married to Mariama. As we have seen, Mariama was his fourth wife. At the time of research, Mariama and Musa had two children, Idris and Ya’u. Mariama and Musa lived together in Musa’s compound and they interacted with each other every day. When Musa went to Nigeria, however, they would not see each other for a longer period of time. What kind of relationship did Musa have with Mariama? 1. Having a wife Marriage was an important step in the life of men in Kimoram, as it was a pivotal step towards attaining the status of a fully mature male person.1 The status of a mature person implied a number of characteristics, among them certain traits of character, as well as social and economic features. With respect to character, for instance, a mature male person showed reasoning skills, i. e. he was able to control his behaviour in accordance with the local standards of what was good. These traits of character might also be achieved without marriage, but marriage was a necessary condition for the acquisition of the social features that one needed in order to count as a mature person. Among these social features was, for instance, the status of a married person. Furthermore, more and more social 1 Cf. Fortes (1973) for the Tallensi. Smith ([1954] 1981: 25): “A girl’s first marriage is established by a rite de passage, and this is also carried out for a man’s first marriage. By means of this rite, an individual exchanges the status of a youth or girl for that of an adult. To be an adult, it is therefore necessary to have been married.”

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responsibility was assigned to a person after they married. Step by step, the husband would take over responsibility for his wife. He would become a father and occupy this prestigious role as well. He would also take over more and more responsibility for his children and grandchildren. Equally, marriage was also needed to acquire the economic characteristics a person needed to count as a mature person. A married person would establish his own household and slowly grow independent from his parents’ household. Hence, a mature person would become the head of an independent household and he would be able to sustain himself as well as his family. Marriage was, therefore, a central element in acquiring the status of a mature person and also a decisive criterion for the attribution of prestige in the village context. As we have just seen, marriage enables the marriage partners to have children of their own and this was one of the preconditions for attaining the status of a full person. Beyond this, however, children and, by the same token, marriage were important to the villagers in other respects. Parents in Kimoram got children, for instance, because they expected children to make life easier. Once children were old enough to participate in daily work, they could take over part of the responsibilities, and if parents were too old to work themselves, they could rely on their children to do it for them. I will describe the value of children in the next section (D. II.). Suffice it to say here that the value of children contributed to the importance and meaning of marriage, as marriage was a pre-condition for having children. Moreover, a married man did not suffer from loneliness. Unmarried men entered an empty hut in the evening and stayed alone all night, they came home from the market and nobody waited for them, nobody prepared food for them and there was nobody whom they could give a small present from the market. An unmarried man was, thus, far more lonely than a married man would be. All these factors contribute to explaining why marriage was so important to the villagers and why the desire to marry seemed natural to them. Musa largely shared this general attitude, even though not entirely. As he said, marriage was important to him as a means of getting children. In 2006, for instance, he said that he wished to have at least seven boys and if his wife was sterile, he would rather seek a divorce or a second wife. Musa also saw the utility of marriage as an antidote against loneliness. Marriage was also important to him as a means of acquiring prestige in the village. He knew that marriage was a precondition for being respected in the village. However, he did not endorse this view wholeheartedly, as he had learned that many people in Nigeria did not hold the same attitude towards marriage and ascribed prestige to others even if they were not married. A certain distance towards the importance of marriage also seems to be reflected in the way Musa responded to the conflict in marriage and his desire to pursue Qur’anic studies. As noted above, he had dissolved his first marriage because he could not bridge the gap between his interest to pursue reli-

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gious studies and his obligations towards his first wife. After he had divorced his first wife, he spent some years as a bachelor in order to have the freedom to pursue his studies. He only married his second wife when he felt it increasingly harder to be a bachelor among his married peers. Musa, therefore, saw marriage as a precondition for gaining respect in the eyes of others, but he did not wholeheartedly endorse the view that marriage was a legitimate precondition for deserving respect. 2. Rights and duties Much, if not most of Hausa ethnography discusses the marital relation mainly in terms of the husband’s and the wife’s mutual rights and duties (Hill 1972: 24– 26, Raynaut 1972: 81–89, Smith 1981 [1954]: 24–7).2 The same consideration applies to the relationship between father and son (Hill 1972: 38–56, Raynaut 1972: 90–2). This might be due to the researchers’ strong interest in the economic and normative framework of society or it might be due to the way Hausa society speaks about the marriage relationship (cf. Verne 2007: 225–6). Nevertheless, this seems to underestimate the role of the emotional side of the relationship between husband and wife.3 Love is or has become a major reason for marriage in Hausa society4 and always is a major issue for the people who fall in love. I will thus try to integrate this aspect into the discussion of the relationship between Musa and Mariama. First, however, I will deal with their relationship in terms of rights and duties. Husband and wife are interdependent statuses that confer rights and duties to the incumbents of these roles. As has been pointed out many times before, the relationship between husband and wife in West Africa has a strong contractual element. In Kimoram, the economic responsibility to supply all material goods the family needed was incumbent on the husband (for a similar distribution of duties in rural Hausa society, see Verne 2007: 57–9). Musa had to supply the raw material for the food, i. e. millet, rice, cowpeas, and the ingredients for the sauce. Moreover, he had to supply new clothes for his wife every year and pay the annual taxes for himself and for her. Musa summed up this idea by saying that his main duty was to resolve the problems for his household. This responsibility implied, at the same time, that Musa controlled these material goods. He sold the 2 Cooper mentions other aspects of the relationship, but attributes a subordinate status to them (1997: 165–7). 3 Clough (2014: 151) makes the same point, but does not expand on the topic. A notable exception is provided by Riesman (1977) for the Jelgob’e-Fulb’e in Burkina Faso. For a more recent discussion of the subject see Cole (2009). 4 Raynaut (1972: 83), however, argues for the village of Soumarana: “Fruit d’une stratégie familiale, l’union des conjoints ne semble que rarement marquée du sceau de la spontanéité affective”.

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cowpeas after the harvest. It was Musa’s exclusive right to open the granary and to take millet out. By contrast, Mariama was not allowed to open the granary and to ascertain independently from her husband how much millet was in it. Mariama had to do the cooking. Musa usually took greater portions of millet out from the granary to cover his family’s needs for some days. Once he had given Mariama the millet, it was her prerogative, however, to portion the millet. Musa was not supposed to intervene and tell her how to divide it up over the next few days. Mariama also had to keep the house tidy and she had to supervise the children throughout the day. Mariama was also entitled to an own plot of land (gamana or gayauna). Musa had to set aside for her a small part of his own fields and Mariama cultivated this plot. (Before the Imam’s household was divided up, the Imam set aside a plot of land for Mariama.) The plot of land cultivated by Mariama still belonged to her husband, but the revenue from this land belonged to her exclusively and she could decide on what to do with her harvest.5 In general, women could add their harvest or part of it to the family supplies or they could sell it. Often women used their money to buy goats or sheep or enamel ware for their huts (cf. Platte 2004) or to participate in ceremonies. When they attended a naming ceremony, for instance, they gave money to the mother of the new-born or they prepared a dish to be consumed by the participants of the ceremony. Mariama, however, did not gain a substantial amount of money from her field. She contributed to the family supplies and she used the rest of the money in order to participate in ceremonies. In contrast to Mariama, Musa had the right to marry a second wife. Moreover, he had the right to divorce Mariama whereas she could not divorce Musa. If she had sought a divorce, she would only have had the option to ask Musa to grant her a divorce. She could have made herself unbearable to live with to incite him to divorce her, she could have asked her relatives to intervene on her behalf or she could have turned to the chef de canton. But even the sarki could only have tried to convince the husband, he could not have forced him to agree to a divorce.6 Part of Mariama’s role as a wife was to ensure that Musa felt good and was satisfied with her, much more so, than it was his duty to care for her feelings or contentment. Mariama strongly identified with this aspect of her role. She seemed to be struck, for instance, when Musa opened the lid of the food bowl 5 Hill (1972: 249–51; entries gandu and gayauna) shows that a great variety of arrangements for the use of land and the harvest in different parts of Hausaland exist or existed. 6 At the time of my field stays, one of the villagers had two wives. One of his wives sought a divorce which her husband did not grant her. So she remained married to him, lived in a separate compound and received her food supplies from her husband.

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that she had put in front of him and showed his disappointment over the small quantity of food in the bowl. That comment weighed on her. Musa also knew about Mariama’s desire to make life agreeable to him. When Mariama had washed many clothes, I mentioned that to Musa and Musa explained to me that Mariama did that in order to satisfy him. In a similar vein, Musa was very surprised when I told him that my Muslim friend in Niamey did not urge his Christian wife to convert to Islam. For Musa, the fact that she was still a Christian indicated that she might not have liked him and not have desired to satisfy him by converting to his religion. In Kimoram, marriage partners had to control their relations with members of the other sex. Before marriage, men and women could have relationships based on friendship and mutual trust with members of the opposite sex. After marriage, however, none of them could continue these relationships or build new friendships with members of the opposite sex. To my knowledge, Musa and Mariama adhered to this rule, although I was in no position to verify this. Thus, Musa and Mariama both had their own duties and it normally did not befit them to perform the other’s tasks. Therefore, Musa did not exactly know for how long the millet would last before he had to take some more out of the granary, because it was Mariama’s prerogative to portion it. Musa and Mariama did normally abide by these gender-specific rules, although they accommodated their behaviour to circumstances. Musa would not have done the cooking, if Mariama was around. But if she had left the village to participate in a ceremony elsewhere and there was no cooked food left in her hut, Musa occasionally cooked for himself. Moreover, when Mariama had left the compound, Musa supervised the children and even cleaned them after they had defecated. Similarly, Mariama also deviated from the norms and contributed millet from her field to the family supplies. The property in the compound was strictly divided between the marriage partners (cf. Verne 2007: 252–3). The bed in the hut, for instance, belonged to Mariama, the working tools to Musa. As both of the marriage partners had their own property, they also traded goods between themselves. Mariama e. g. traded in small amounts of cola-nuts from time to time and Musa had to buy them from her. Similarly, although Musa owned the millet from the granary, once the millet was pounded and winnowed, the bran belonged to Mariama and she sold it to him. He needed it to feed his animals. Moreover, when Musa wanted to move from the centre of the village to the outskirts of the village, he needed to build a new hut and Mariama gave him a credit of 7500 Fcfa. 3. Power and authority The distribution of rights and duties between Musa and Mariama implied an authority-based relationship between them (cf. Raynaut 1972: 84). Each of the

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marriage partners had his or her own field of action wherein they could decide and wherein they could expect the other to abide by the rules. Musa’s prerogatives, however, were larger than Mariama’s. When Musa came home from the field, he told his wife to bring him some food. When the children were crying, he could command her to take care of them. He sent Mariama on errands. When he once needed some information, he told her to inquire in the village and find out. He controlled where Mariama stayed during the day. Once he did not want her to pay visits to other women in the evening and forbade it. When he wanted her to go the fields, although she wanted to stay at home, he could tell her to leave. Mariama had the right to pay a visit to her home village from time to time, but she had to ask Musa for permission to leave and he allowed her to spend a night in her home village only once a year. One day, for instance, Mariama wanted to go to Samia, where her family lived. Musa allowed her to leave, but he did not agree with her plans to stay there overnight. Similarly, Musa explained that he would not allow Mariama to participate in dancing activities in other villages, he would only allow her to participate as a spectator in dancing activities in Kimoram. Gestures expressed the authority relation between Musa and Mariama. For example, Mariama squatted in front of Musa when she handed over to him a cola-nut or a bowl of food. Musa’s authority over Mariama had its limits, however, within her scope of rights. The cooking hut, for instance, was Mariama’s realm. She determined the order in the cooking hut, and Musa had to respect that. Musa also owed obedience to Mariama, although in a more restricted sense than she owed obedience to him. When Mariama had done the cooking one day and he was not at home to eat it, she came to look for him in my hut, found him there and Musa followed her back home, as he – this is how he explained his behaviour – owed her obedience when she has done the cooking. Similarly, his authority had its limits in what was defined as k’a’ida, i. e. the rules of legitimate behaviour. Musa had to respect, for instance, her feelings, her desire to see her family of origin and the burden that her work meant to her. Yet, Musa’s position of authority towards Mariama was reflected in the fact that he sometimes overruled Mariama’s desires or point of view. When Mariama was once lying on the ground, for instance, because she was tired, he told her to get up and do what he expected her to do. Several mechanisms stabilized the authority Musa had over Mariama. Firstly, men married women who were younger than them. The age difference between Musa and Mariama thus underpinned their authority relationship. Furthermore, people generally agreed that the right to marry a second wife also served to exert control over a wife’s behaviour. A disobedient wife could be punished by bringing a co-wife into the compound. Moreover, the husband took over economic responsibility and controlled the resources. Correspondingly, Musa construed his position as that of a person who gave to the wife, whereas Mariama – in his eyes – received. He gave her food, shelter, clothes, and money and she depended on him

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in all these respects. Material goods were – in his view – exchanged against a higher status, recognition and obedience. Religion also served to stabilise the relationship. Musa, for instance, explained, that women were aware of the fact that their obedient behaviour pleased God. As we have seen, Mariama owed obedience to Musa in more instances than he owed obedience to her. However, Mariama largely identified with her role. One of Mariama’s favourite themes, for instance, was what and how to cook. Moreover, Mariama did not show any signs of reluctance when she carried out her tasks. When, for instance, Musa asked Mariama to ascertain if my water container was in Mamman’s compound, she did so, as if that was the natural course of action. Similarly, she openly spoke about her wish to be a good wife, i. e. she asserted that she wanted to perform well as a wife and that she took pride in her good performance. An example shows how Mariama’s actions corresponded to this. She once had already left the compound to attend a ceremony in another village. On her way, however, she turned around and came back to Kimoram. A thought had come to her mind. Musa had left the hut before her and wanted to come back before her arrival. Mariama thought he might have forgotten his key in their hut and would not be able to enter it as she had left. So she came back and handed over her key to me. Furthermore, when she once cooked food which did not please Musa, her face showed that she was disappointed by herself. The family hut was the most private sphere in village life. Yet most of village life occurred in the open and thus was on public display. Musa and Mariama were sensitive to this fact and Mariama had to behave in a way that protected Musa’s reputation. For that reason, Musa said, Mariama would not ask her neighbours for food, but rather settle for what they had. Impression management was also his reason not to allow Mariama to stay overnight in her parents’ village. He feared to appear as a husband without authority. At times, Musa and Mariama did not agree upon what had to be done, however. In these situations, Musa’s position of authority was also reflected in his ability to sanction Mariama. When he thought that Mariama had not properly carried out her tasks, he would complain to her or even scold her. If he disliked the taste of the food Mariama had prepared because the food lacked pepper and had a bitter taste, for instance, he told her so. On the other hand, if Musa did not respect Mariama’s rights, Mariama could complain and reprimand him, as she once did, when Musa used the cooking hut, but did not clean it up properly. However, Musa had to transgress the limits more severely than Mariama to become the object of admonishment. He could also more easily ignore her comments or what might ensue from them. When Mariama scolded him for having left her cooking hut in disorder, he simply kept quiet, he acknowledged his fault thereby, but he did not tidy up the cooking hut.

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Yet, Mariama disposed of her own means to show resistance or discontent.7 Several times, she was doing her work and felt over-burdened by Musa’s demands. Then she carried out her task, but she also openly showed her discontent, i. e. she showed k’ewuya, reluctance. In a sharp way of pronunciation that Hausa women master, she would say, for instance: “Don’t you see that I am already doing it” or “I am doing this and I am doing that, how can I do this task, too?” If Mariama felt that Musa was completely unjustified in what he demanded from her, she also defended herself. Once, for instance, Musa and Mariama met in front of “my” compound. Musa started to reprimand her because she had left the house and the children alone. She, however, defended herself, saying, that he had still been at home when she had left. On another occasion, she simply ignored his instructions. When she came to the field one day to bring food, she complained about a headache and lay down in the shadow of a tree. She and Musa assumed her to be pregnant. Musa did not want to accept her resting, however, and told her several times to get up. Mariama did not care about his command, she simply kept on lying under the tree. Finally, Musa gave in, put his bags onto the branches in order to make the shadow more comfortable for her, touched her forehead and prayed for relief. Mariama’s discontent also once led to her withdrawal from interaction. When Musa did not agree with Mariama’s plans to leave for Samia, she was disappointed. When I entered the compound, she did not reply to my first greeting and only parsimoniously replied to my second greeting, i. e. with a single phrase and without looking in my direction. Due to her inferior position with respect to Musa, she did not oppose him directly, but withdrew and rendered herself partly invisible through reduced participation in interaction with me. Given Musa’s superior position, Mariama at times took care to forestall Musa’s criticism. When a plastic cup got stuck in Musa’s tea kettle, she gave him the kettle to remove the plastic cup. Musa carefully removed it and proudly said that he was better at this task than his wife. Mariama, however, looked at me, thus indirectly excluding Musa from our conversation, and said that she gave him the kettle, because she did not want to be criticised for damaging the cup. Similarly, once Musa wanted Mariama to go to the field. Mariama, however, saw that it was about to rain. Instead of staying at home, she decided to go to the field and return home wet, in order to show that she was really willing to leave for the fields. But Mariama could also choose to seek Musa’s forgiveness, when she had made a mistake. After Musa had left for the Sunday market in Garin Gabas, she

7 Mariama thus seems to dispose of lesser means to acquire independance from her husband than the women from Soumarana in western Niger about whom Raynaut (1972: 84) writes: “. . . de gagner une indépendance effective. Pour atteindre ce but la femme dispose d’une certaine autonomie économique et, ensuite, la pratique d’activités rituelles exclusivement féminines”.

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set out for Samia without asking him for permission. In the evening, she approached him and asked him to be patient with her. I took the opportunity to urge Musa to pardon her and so he had to agree. I did not experience any open argument between Musa and Mariama. However, Musa admitted that they did also quarrel. If it was a severe quarrel, he said, he would sleep on a mat in front of their bed, whereas Mariama would stay in it. In extreme conflicts both sides could have had access to stricter sanctions. According to my knowledge, however, Musa and Mariama did not need to resort to such sanctions, but they were available in principle. Musa could chasten his wife, for instance. He could have drawn the sleeve of his shirt beyond his hand and strike Mariama into her face. Or he could have put pressure on her by marrying a second wife. A different mechanism would have protected Mariama against Musa if he transgressed the boundaries set by what was legitimate, k’aida. Even after marriage, the wife’s parents protected their daughters’ rights. If Musa had transgressed the boundaries, his parents-in-law would have intervened and would have held him accountable for his behaviour. Anyway, if Musa and Mariama had been at odds with each other, they would not have allowed me access to their daily life. 4. Man and woman Musa was aware of the different rights and duties that pertained to the different statuses of husband and wife and of the authority relationship between them. However, he also knew about or believed in the different personality traits that existed between men and women. According to Musa, men had more zuciya, willpower. They were more ambitious, reached decisions earlier and were better in carrying out their actions with determination, whereas women needed more time to reach decisions and were less firm in holding on to them. Moreover, as Musa saw it, women easily felt shame, when they dealt with men. However, he did not see these differences as rooted in female nature. He rather explained them by the fact that women were not exposed to the world to the same degree as men were. Another difference Musa perceived between men and women was that men wanted to experience the wider world and gain something, whereas women preferred to stay at home and receive from men. I do not know whether Musa perceived this difference as one that is given by nature. A natural difference he saw between men and women, however, was the greater bodily strength of men over women. 5. Intimacy and love In Kimoram, boys married when they were about 18 years old, whereas girls married at the age of about 15 (cf. Smith ([1954] 1981: 25)). Fathers had to pay for their children’s first marriage and they had the right to choose the first mar-

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riage partners for their children.8 The marriage partners’ relatives could be implicated in the process of selecting a marriage partner and were also expected to contribute financially to the marriage costs.9 Both sides, the bridegroom’s and the bride’s side had to raise substantial amounts of money.10 The marriage process was complex and stretched over a longer period. The bridegroom’s side paid for the sadaki (the money to be paid to the bride), gifts – pecuniary and other – for the bride’s side and for the festivities, whereas the bride’s side invested into the bride’s dowry and gave, at a later point in time, a substantial amount of money to the bridegroom’s side.11 Roughly summarising the economic aspects of marriage, Musa said that the bridegroom’s father had to provide about approximately 70,000 Fcfa to be divided up in the following way. If the bride was a budurwa, a young girl, who had never been married before, she received an amount of 10,000 Fcfa, the sadaki, which became her personal property. The bride’s parents received 40,000–50,000 Fcfa. They added money then and bought the dowry, i. e. a bed, a mattress, bowls and three times six yards of cloth. Sometime after the marriage, according to Alhaji Menau, the bride’s side would pay an amount of approximately 30,000 Fcfa to the husband’s side. Some fathers availed themselves of their right to choose a marriage partner for their children. Others left the choice to them. When the children married spouses chosen by their parents, the villagers called this form of marriage auren dole, a marriage of necessity. When children divorced and wanted to marry again, they would ideally choose their marriage partners themselves, but the male divorcés would also have to pay then. However, this is a rather normative model. In reality, men whose earlier marriages had broken up could still ask their fathers for a financial contribution when they wanted to re-marry. Similarly, some parents still urged or forced their children into auren dole, even when they had already been married before. When they forced their children into marriage, however, parents always had to pay. The younger the children, the easier, the villagers said, it was to force them into mar8 Cf. Smith ([1954] 1981: 25): “The first marriage is always arranged by the bride’s parents, her consent being purely formal, and later marriages may often be made at their behest also.” Verne (2007: 225) seems to have found a less rigid system in Berberkia: “Kennzeichnend ist aber, dass Liebe nicht unbedingt auch zur Ehe führen muss, und zwar nicht nur deshalb nicht, weil Eltern bei der Gestaltung der ersten Ehe meistens ein Wort mitsprechen und dazu neigen, die äußeren Umstände wichtiger zu nehmen als die Befindlichkeiten ihrer Kinder . . .”. 9 Cf. Verne (2007: 243–4) on the nexus between marriage-expenses and financial support by kinsmen in Berberkia. 10 Clough (2014: 179) found that in Marmara village, in the northern of Nigeria, “the expenditure of the boy’s parents was much greater than that of the girl’s parents”. 11 For more detailed information on marriage processes and expenses incurred by the two parties in different parts of Hausa society, see Cooper (1997: 94), Hill (1972: 150– 2), Khilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 131–4), Spittler (1978: 164–8). For a criticism of Cooper’s position, see Verne (2007: 244–9).

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riage, as they still felt obliged to be obedient to their parents. The older the children were, the more difficult it was. The difference between a marriage arranged by the parents and a marriage of choice was not, however, as clearly defined as it might seem, because, even in the latter case, parents did still need to give their consent to a marriage if the prospective marriage partners were still young. Moreover, they also had other possibilities of influencing their children’s choice. To cite an extreme case, one villager who did not agree with his son’s choice sent him to Nigeria for a whole year in order to make his marriage difficult. His son then divorced his wife and later married another woman. Musa had gone through both types of marriage, the compulsory as well as the voluntary. Musa’s third marriage, for instance, was an auren dole. When the Imam arranged for Musa’s marriage, the Imam wanted, as Musa explained it, to prevent him from settling down in another village, while pursuing his Qur’anic studies there. Musa knew about the difficulties of a married life with a partner one did not choose to live with. On the basis of his own experience, he pointed out that the marriage partners in an auren dole had to endure each other much more than in a voluntary marriage because mutual affection between the marriage partners did usually not exist. The absence of mutual affection in a marriage, he explained, rather triggered anger and imposed upon the marriage partners the duty to control their anger. As Musa saw it, what bound marriage partners in an auren dole together was rather their obedience towards their elders. In order to exemplify his view, he referred to a couple in Kimoram. The fathers of bride and bridegroom had arranged a marriage between their respective children in order to strengthen their mutual bond. The couple had, Musa said, children, but they did not love each other. Musa did not, however, take a critical stance towards auren dole, as he considered biyayya, obedience, as more important a value than soyayya, love. At the same time, Musa did not think that auren dole and loving marriage necessarily excluded one another. He explained that a bride and a bridegroom should fit together with respect to their ways of life, their habits and mutual expectations or – in a nutshell – their family backgrounds. Moreover, he thought that love sprang from people’s characters. If the character of a bride and a bridegroom fitted together, they would fall in love with each other. In his view, the choice of an adequate marriage partner therefore demanded a certain experience in life that younger people did not yet have. If parents carefully chose a bride for their son, and the bride had a suitable family background and the right kind of character, then this auren dole could develop into a loving marriage in time. He added that, as he had become older, his position towards auren dole had also changed. He had already been involved in decisions about a bride for his nephew, Babangida. He thus had come to understand that auren dole, as Musa put it, was also a means to secure an appropriate marriage partner for one’s dependants long

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before they would reach marriage age. The parents promised each other to marry their respective children and prevented others from marrying the candidate who was suitable for their own children. Both Musa and Mariama had entered into an arranged marriage before. Musa was her third husband and she had previously experienced two auren dole. Musa and Mariama, however, had chosen each other and lived in a love marriage. However, Musa and Mariama’s path towards marriage was not without its complications. Their earlier auren dole had collided with their wishes to marry each other, as Musa and Mariama wanted to marry long before they actually did. When Mariama was married for the first time, she ran away from her husband as soon as the night began. In the bush, she accidentally met Musa. The next two months Musa paid her visits. He went to Samia where Mariama was at that time and came back to Kimoram in the evening, lying awake all night. They liked each other and, after a while, they wanted to marry. Musa then left for Qur’anic studies. In the meantime, however, Mariama’s parents forced her into her second marriage which lasted some years. Auren dole thus intervened into Musa’s and Mariama’s marriage plans. Both, however, kept on to their plan to marry and finally did when Mariama’s second marriage broke up.12 When they married, Mariama was a bazawara, a divorced woman. After marriage, she could thus move into Musa’s compound immediately. Newly married women who were still young and not yet experienced housewives stayed with their parents for some years before moving into their husband’s compound. This did not apply to Mariama. She moved in, got a field of her own and cooked for Musa. In Hausa, ‘love’ translates as soyayya. Soyayya literally means ‘mutual liking’ and the basic idea behind the notion is, as far as I can see, that people tied together through soyayya like each other and want to be together. Soyayya thus refers, for instance, to a relationship between two friends who, as they are friends, like each other and want to be together. In a more narrowly defined sense it refers to a relationship of love between a man and a woman, be it in its incipient state of ‘having fallen in love’ or in its more ‘habitual’ sense of ‘love’. Musa was convinced that soyayya may last some years or even a whole life and he said that he and Mariama were still in love after their third year of marriage and that he wanted Mariama “to be around”.13 12 For an account of a love-based marriage relationship that the couple held on to against all odds, see Riesman (1977). 13 Soyayya needs to be differentiated from k’auna. In contrast to soyayya, k’auna designates a form of liking that is based on mutual understanding. Its characteristic feature is the absence of argument between those bound together. Musa pointed out that soyayya could develop and exist between people who did not understand each other well, i. e. between people who quarrelled with each other. In a marriage, so he said, soyayya could persist, but it could also disappear and leave the marriage partners bound by k’auna only.

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As gestures and actions reflected the authority-relationship which existed between Mariama and Musa, gestures and actions also reflected the emotional part of their relationship. In many instances, Mariama’s behaviour showed that she liked Musa. Once, for instance, Musa lay on his mat and Mariama had some candies. She gave one candy to Musa and he held the candy in his hand. She went away, suddenly turned around, came back to him, snatched the candy away from him and looked cheekily into his eyes. Moreover, Mariama who dealt in small amounts of cola-nuts, sometimes gave Musa a cola-nut for free. Furthermore, both teased each other from time to time. When Musa wanted to repair his radio one day, Mariama tried to take it. Musa said: “Don’t touch the radio! Does anybody touch a radio before the repairer touched it?” and joyfully refused her the radio. Musa then repaired the radio, but some minutes later, the radio needed mending again. In Musa’s presence, I said: “He spoiled it completely” and Mariama joyfully replied: “Jan, he spoiled it completely!”. As a final example, another day, Musa prepared a potion using Qur’anic verses. He was dressed in a white gown as it befitted a pious man and wanted to leave the compound to deliver his potion. Mariama, however, saw that he had not closed the bottom of his gown, approached him and gently closed it while he patiently let her do so. Musa did not show his affection for his wife as openly as Mariama showed her affection for him. However, I also witnessed instances which revealed his affection for her. As I have mentioned before, Mariama seemed to be pregnant, got a headache and lay down under a tree on the field instead of pursuing her work. Although he first did not want to accept her decision to rest, he then covered the branches of the tree with his bags in order to protect her from the sun. Moreover, he once told me that Mariama and he had spent the whole night talking to each other. Furthermore, when Musa once came back from the Sunday market in Garin Gabas, he had bought earrings for his wife. But also the playful way in which Musa and Mariama traded their goods from time to time showed affection between them. When both once bargained about the price for one of Mariama’s cola-nuts, Mariama burst out laughing, moved her head close to Musa’s and told him the price so silently as if it was a secret. Musa decided to participate in the play. He bought a cola-nut, but then he wanted to return it in order to get a cheaper one. Mariama, however, refused. She argued that the cola-nut had been exposed to the air in the meantime, had become dry and lost in value. Musa couldn’t avoid laughing. The mutual affection between Musa and Mariama also became evident when Musa was once sick. I stayed in the compound adjacent to Musa’s. Musa leaned against the fence between both compounds and was evidently suffering. Mariama took a look at him and started laughing because, I suppose, she thought he was exaggerating. Then Musa joined in and started to laugh as well. Moreover, one could read the affection between them from the way they talked to each other in the evenings. Often their voices

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had a relaxed and confidential tone which was particular to their relationship and different from their voices when they talked to other people. Mutual affection interfered with the authority-based relationship between Musa and Mariama. As love makes it difficult to disappoint the other, Mariama could succeed in making Musa change his decisions when they contradicted her own wishes, although my presence might also have played a role in the following example. Once Mariama, Musa and me spent the afternoon on the field. Mariama had already told me that she wanted to attend a ceremony in Samia and stay there overnight.14 In Mariama’s presence, I told Musa about her plans. Musa made it clear that she would have to come back on the same day. Mariama started to laugh and, as she was sitting behind his back, showed me two fingers. I told Musa that she intended to stay for two weeks. He repeated that she does not stay anywhere without his permission. Mariama burst into laughter and her laughter ‘infected’ Musa who then had to agree with Mariama’s plans. In order to re-establish his authority, he sought a reason to justify his decision. He remembered that a visitor from Samia had recently stayed in Kimoram overnight and so there was now an obligation to return this favour. When I spent my time with Musa and Mariama at the beginning of my stay, the conversation would focus on me. Later, they sometimes turned me into a mere bystander to their conversation. I was, of course, never able to experience a private conversation that Musa and Mariama had with each other alone. Yet, Musa told me that he often discussed economic decisions with Mariama. When he wanted to ask Alhaji Menau about a credit, he first discussed this with Mariama. However, Musa did not discuss all topics with Mariama, at least not at the beginning of their marriage. At that time, Musa was torn between leaving Kimoram for Nigeria and staying in his home village. Yet, as he told me, he did not discuss this issue with Mariama for a long time. As Musa was in love with Mariama, he also appreciated her personally. Mariama, he said, shared his ambition to extricate the family from poverty, she did not demand gifts he could not afford, she contented herself with what the family owned, she did not suspect him of withholding goods from her, she was thrifty and she cared well for his animals when he was not at home. Moreover, she discussed his economic plans with him and she was willing to support his plans. Moreover, he appreciated that Mariama knew how to treat guests well and that she liked to cook and that she was not reluctant when she performed her duties. Moreover, he valued her proneness to feel ashamed.

14 Before I spoke about Mariama’s attempt at getting Musa’s permission to let her stay in Samia overnight. What I refer to here is an attempt at getting permission for another journey.

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Despite the many advantages Mariama brought to Musa and despite Musa’s appreciation of her, the relationship to Mariama was not as central to Musa’s life as Westerners might expect. Musa held a rather sober (if not realistic) view of matters of love and marriage. One could court a girl, but others proved more successful and married her. One was forced into marriage or the girl one courted could be forced into marriage. One wanted to marry a girl and she agreed, but her relatives did not agree and they coaxed her towards withdrawing from the intended marriage. One married and, later on, one would seek a divorce. A love would thus often not find its fulfilment or might also end at any point in time. If a love could not be fulfilled or ended, one had to look for a wife elsewhere and, in his eyes, it was not very difficult to find a new love. One should thus not invest too much effort in a loving relationship in its incipient state. When he once wanted to marry in Nigeria, for instance, the family of the bride wanted him to wait for another two years. He, however, considered this to be too long a period of time and looked for another marriage partner instead. Musa did also not believe that Mariama was the only appropriate person to love in his life – ‘the one and only’. He considered wives to be interchangeable. In his view, there were always other women who one might love and who were nearly as good as one’s own wife. Moreover, love was far from being a supreme value to Musa. He thought that there were other matters in life that outweighed love and marriage relationships. If, he said, his father urged him to divorce his wife, he would do so, because he could count on his father’s financial assistance when he would want to marry another wife. His father’s authority and the financial means the father would put at Musa’s disposal would outweigh his affiliation to his wife. Musa did thus not conceive of marriage as a life-time project, but rather as temporary and, hopefully, long-lasting project and he did not understand, he said, why people in the Christian part of Nigeria were able to commit suicide because they lost or could not gain a woman’s love.

II. The Children At the time of research, Musa had three children, Bintu, Idris and Ya’u. As I have said before, the wife Musa had before he married Mariama gave birth to Bintu, and Mariama gave birth to Idris and Ya’u. After I had left Kimoram in 2009 and before I met Musa again in Nigeria in 2010/11, the family had become more numerous again. In 2010, Musa and Mariama had twins, Assana and Hassana. 1. Custody To start with a truism, in contrast to adults, children are unable to care for themselves. The process in which children learn to take care of themselves stretches over many years. Children therefore need to live in somebody’s custody.

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This was the same in Kimoram as anywhere else. However, rules applied to the question of whose custody a child should be in. After birth, the child stayed with its mother and its father. In case of divorce, however, a mother would take a baby with her, but, once it had been weaned, a father could claim his child and transfer it from its mother’s place to his own. At the same time, grandparents could claim a grandchild. They could expect their own children to hand over their first-born to them (cf. Smith [1954] (1981: 21)). This was a matter not only of rights, but also of respect towards a couple’s parents.15 These decisions depended, however, on many considerations. One problem could arise, for instance, if the wife’s father was no longer married to the wife’s mother. If he had married another wife, the child’s parents might expect the wife’s new stepmother not to treat their first-born well and they would be reluctant to hand it over to the wife’s father’s family. The child could influence the process as well, albeit rather indirectly. Some children did not agree to their transfer and the grand-parents, tired of quarrelling with the child, would prefer to give it back to its parents, waiting for a child to be born that would be easier to handle. Sometimes, the parents would thus not give their first-born into the grand-parents’ custody but rather the second- or third-born. Musa lived together with Idris and Ya’u. His first-born, Bintu, lived in the Imam’s compound. The Imam’s first wife, Baba Umma, took care of her. The Imam formally acted as the child’s new father. He provided for food, shelter and care, and he would finance the first marriage of his grandchild. But the childfather relationship between Bintu and Musa was not denied. Bintu knew who her father was and regularly spent some time with him. She came to Musa’s house in the morning and in the afternoon to see him and Musa said that he would also contribute to her marriage costs later, an obligation which would be his anyway, as he was the Imam’s son. In Kimoram, parents could also place children into a kinsman’s custody, either for a certain period of time or for good. They did this for a variety of reasons. When Musa was young, for instance, his mother died. In order to cope with his new situation, his father temporarily gave Musa into a kinswoman’s custody. Later, the Imam transferred Musa back into his own household. Another example was Balkisa. She was Mariama’s cousin, the daughter of Mariama’s paternal uncle. Her uncle gave Balkisa into Mariama’s and Musa’s custody, because Mariama needed help with both her children. Balkisa then lived with Musa and Mariama, but she remained closely tied to her father’s household. When her father needed help on the fields, she returned home and she also repeatedly stayed with her family for some days or weeks. If she has stayed with Musa and 15 For Sumarana, Raynaut (1972: 91) relates this “custom” to the fact that there is a shame-relationship between parents and first born child.

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Mariama permanently, Musa would gradually have started to take over her father’s responsibilities, i. e. he might eventually finance her marriage.16 Placing children temporarily under somebody else’s custody could thus also develop into a more permanent practice in the course of which the responsibilities for the child shifted from one household to the other. However, children born to someone else, but living in one’s custody, did not acquire inheritance rights. Balkisa would not inherit from Musa, but keep her rights of inheritance within her family of origin. Yet, there was also the option of placing children under somebody’s custody permanently, right from the beginning. A father might, for instance, give a child to his childless sister to alleviate her condition.17 The practice of handing over a child to someone else’s custody was called cirewa, meaning “pull out”. Be it permanent or temporary, it was an emotionally demanding practice for the child, as it separated it from the people to whom it had developed strong emotional ties. Bintu, for instance, lived with the Imam’s first wife, Baba Umma, and came into Musa’s compound in the morning and in the afternoon. In spite of the fact that she spent most of her time with Baba Umma, Musa was the person she wanted to be with. If she was in Musa’s compound, she wanted to be close to him, liked to cuddle up to him and evidently enjoyed being with him. When Baba Umma later came to pick her up again, she cried and tried to resist. Similarly, Balkisa had once spent some months in Samia where she had lived with her family and played with her friends. When Mariama wanted to take her back to Kimoram, Balkisa resisted so strongly, that Mariama left her there to bring her back only after a second visit to Samia some days later. Musa had the same experience. When he was a young boy and stayed with his elder sister, he said, he always cried when the Imam left him after having paid him a visit. Yet, Musa did not think of these separations as emotionally demanding for the children. It was after we discussed this theme that he saw the pain involved. He had rather thought of these separations as something normal and unproblematic. 16 The same holds for Sumarana (Raynaut (1972): 91): “Ces tuteurs se chargent de l’entretien et de l’éducation jusqu’à l’âge de la circoncision . . . pour le garcon, jusqu’à celui de la nubilité pour la fille. Cependant, il arrive souvent que l’enfant demeure chez ses parents adoptifs jusqu’à l’âge de marriage, ceux-ci pregnant alors à leur charge les dépenses que cette cérémonie provoque.” The responsibilities adopted by the father who takes care of a child thus seem to go further in this case than among the Wodaabe. As Dupire (1996: 138–9) explains: “Il faut semble-t-il, considerer l’adoption, telle qu’elle se pratique chez ces nomads, comme un véritable prêt de services. Elle n’entraine en effet aucun effet juridique sur le statut des enfants adoptés dont la main d’œuvre est simplement prêtée, jusqu’à leur mariage, à un parent ou à un ami qui en sont dépourvue.” 17 Cf. Smith ([1954] 1981: “The normal expectancy is, of course, that a married woman will have children of her own; but where, as in Baba’s case, this does not occur, her kinsfolk or husband will provide her with children to foster and adopt, and she fulfils the role of their mother throughout their life.”

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For this reason, he had not paid much attention to Bintu’s repeated attempts to resist when Baba Umma grabbed her to bring her back to the Imam’s compound. Instead, he had scolded her resolutely and told her to stop crying. 2. The value of children The villagers wanted to have children for a variety of reasons. As I have said before, children were instrumental for attaining the status of a full person. An adult without children was somehow considered incomplete. He was an adult and he took over the social role of a married man, a brother, a kinsman, a friend and so on. But lacking the status of a father was detrimental to his standing. Moreover, a person who was not a father did not carry the burden of a family, he did not feed his family, he did not take responsibility for a family, he did not resolve a family’s problems. He generally led an easier life, accomplished less and his character could not ripen as much as that of a responsible father. Thus, children significantly added to one’s prestige. There were more practical reasons for having children as well. A household with children was likely to be better off than a household without children because children helped with the work. When they were about seven years old, they participated in the daily work, cared for their younger siblings and herded animals. At the age of 12, they helped in the fields. At the age of about 20 they could leave for Nigeria during the slack period. Thus, a father of able-bodied sons would expect not to suffer from hunger, but to feed and dress his family or even to accumulate some wealth. Being more prosperous, he also gained more prestige. But a man with children was also better off when he had grown older and had withdrawn from work. Then he could count on his children’s help in providing money, food and assistance in practical matters. Furthermore, grown-up children conferred power on their father. Having children was a way of building an interest group in the village. One’s voice would always be heard, decisions which contradicted one’s own interests would be less likely to be taken and one could always rely on a solidarity group to protect one’s own interests. Children also contributed to a person’s prestige in this way. Abdu was in such a position. His offspring were so numerous that he was held in high respect in Kimoram. But children were also much desired by everyone in the village for the mere sake of having them. Having children added significantly to one’s quality of life. This was also Musa’s attitude. He liked to have children because of the prestige it brought with it and because he could expect being taken care of when he was old and frail. For him, another important reason for having children was the social and emotional component involved in the parent-child relationship. He did not say this explicitly because, I assume, this was an idea which he took rather

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for granted. Linguistically, however, this idea found its expression in certain utterances. So Musa said, for instance, that children made one’s household or compound a lively place and he likened a compound without children to a graveyard. Children also played an additional role for Musa in a way which I have not yet mentioned and which was not necessarily shared by other villagers. Musa perceived himself as a ‘children’s friend’ (abokin yara). This could be read in his behaviour. Once, for instance, I saw how another peasant rode on his ox-cart to go to the fields. He made his nephew follow the ox-cart on foot to teach him endurance. Yet Musa let children who had to go to the field climb his ox-cart to save them the long trip. To give another example, I once entered his compound on two different days and observed the following scene. Musa had kindled some charcoal and fried some eggs to distribute them to the five or six children surrounding him who were eagerly awaiting their share. It struck me that Musa wanted to be a ‘children’s friend’, and when I told him this, he smiled like a person whose hidden aspects of his personality had (finally) been understood and appreciated. However, children were also a financial burden. Once they had reached marriage age, the father had to finance their marriage and a marriage was expensive. When Musa’s nephew, Babangida, married in 2008, the bridegroom’s side invested 93,000 Fcfa in the marriage, 91,000 Fcfa which was Musa’s responsibility, as the Imam did not have any money at that time, 2000 Fcfa were provided by Aminu, another kinsman. Alhaji Menau, whose daughter Babangida had married, told me that her marriage had cost him 200,000 Fcfa, including the 30,000 Fcfa, which were due when the bride was taken to the bridegroom’s house. Marrying a divorced woman, a bazawara, was cheaper. She received a sadaki of approximately 10,000 Fcfa and the bridegroom would pay about 20,000 to 40,000 Fcfa to the wife’s parents. However, after two to three years, the bride’s side would also have to pay a certain amount of money (Musa spoke about 60,000 Fcfa) to the bridegroom’s side. Musa was aware of the financial burden of marriage costs. He had also experienced that marriage costs were an obstacle if one tried to advance economically. The 91,000 Fcfa he had to invest into Babangida’s marriage was the equivalent of money he had earned a year earlier when he was in Nigeria. Nevertheless, at the beginning of my stay, he did not consider the pros and cons of having children. He was convinced that having sons would pay off and he gave expression to his wish to have about 10 children, among them at least 7 sons, because they would be economically more beneficial to have than daughters. However, when I met him again in Nigeria, he had changed his mind. He had spoken to Mariama and was convinced that he would not be able to liberate himself from poverty if they had any more children.

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3. Providing for the children Children were not only a matter of advantages and disadvantages, costs and benefits, parents also had obligations towards their children. When Musa thought of his obligations towards his children, first and foremost he thought about feeding them and covering their marriage costs. This also increased his motivation for working. One of his main incentives for working was that it served to sustain his family and children (and, if possible, other kinsmen as well). Moreover, his work was meant to provide the means to meet other necessities, including the settlement of marriage costs. Yet, he also saw it as his obligation to teach his children their gender-specific occupational roles. As husband and wife had different tasks, the aim or purpose of socialisation were different for boys and girls. In Musa’s eyes, boys had to learn to work hard on the fields and, ideally, they also had to learn a craft. Girls were supposed to learn how to cook and how to do domestic work. Moreover, he also thought of his children’s religious education. During my field stays, his children were still too young to go to Qur’anic school but they would, he said, receive religious education later on. Furthermore, Musa explicitly pointed out that his children also needed to receive a moral education. A 13-year-old boy he knew from Kimoram, for instance, was rather naughty and presumptuous. Musa explained that this was the result of his father having failed to educate him properly. When the boy was still very young, he had been very sick for a long time, and according to Musa, his father had taken pity on him and, consequently, failed to raise him properly. Similarly, a young girl from his immediate kin group was disobedient too. Her mother had given birth to seven children, all of whom had died, only the eighth child, the girl, had survived. Now, the child’s father took pity on the mother and did not, as Musa saw it, raise the girl properly. This was why she had become disobedient and impolite. Hence, for Musa, raising children was also about shaping their personalities according to values. This was achieved in daily interaction. As far as I could see, the children here were socialized according to three main values or social orientations. This was rather subtly included in the education process and could be observed in their behaviour and interactions. An important element in education was the creation of social cohesion between the children and their kinsmen and neighbours. When Musa or Mariama held their children in their arms, for instance, they often made them face another person. Then they designated the other person calling him, for instance, father, baba. The child was thus supposed to learn how to relate to that person. Making the children spend time with others was another strategy to achieve social cohesion. After Bintu was returned to Musa’s custody, for instance, he allowed Bintu’s mother to come to Kimoram and see her daughter from time to time. However,

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he did not allow her to take her daughter with her to her new home in Garin Adam. He would, he said, allow her to do so only later on when Bintu was older and had developed a strong feeling of belonging to his household. Similarly, he once gathered Bintu and some other children in his compound. He had lit some charcoal in front of him and prepared some fried eggs for the children. When the eggs were ready, he gave each child their share. I have mentioned this example above as an expression of Musa’s wish to be a children’s friend. Yet, this also served to make Bintu feel at ease in his house and to integrate her with the other children. Another important element in raising children was to teach them endurance. The children learned how to endure hardship when they worked on the fields, as the labour was physically taxing. When I spoke to the children, I also noticed that they took pride in being able to cope with this kind of hardship. But the value Musa and other adults attributed to endurance was also visible in their interactions with children. Ali had once fallen from Musa’s bull and a splinter broke off his elbow. Musa treated his elbow, but the splinter did not heal in its original position. Thus, Musa took Ali to Garin Gabas to see Ibra, a specialist in bone – treatment to whom God had granted the gift of being able to treat bone problems successfully. Ibra broke the splinter off Ali’s elbow again and pushed it back into its proper position. Throughout the treatment, Ibra and Dahiru, who were accompanying Ali, did not show any pity with Ali who was writhing in pain. Instead, they held him tight, continuously told him to be quiet and to think of his desire to be healthy again. When Musa came after the treatment, he, too, told Ali to be quiet and to stop crying. Ali was educated here to endure hardship. Moreover, Balkisa once cut her finger on the edge of a tin, when her family was working in the field. She wanted to cry, but she suppressed her tears. Neither Musa nor Mariama referred to her pain or tried to comfort her. Instead, Musa told Ali to fetch a certain type of leaf and bandaged the wound with the leaf. Thus, Balkisa was also taught to endure hardship. Moreover, when in the slack period a malam would take children on a journey to instruct them in Qur’anic knowledge, the parents also wanted their children to undergo hardship and make them learn endurance and patience. Another important element in raising children was obedience. Not only the frequency of commands in everyday interaction pointed to this fact, but also the clearly structured hierarchies in the family based on gender and age, and the institution of auren dole, which implicitly valued obedience towards one’s parents over love between the marriage partners. When Musa thought of providing for his children’s future, he also thought of schooling, although he desired school education more for his sons than for his daughter. However, there was no public school in Kimoram. The administration had already come to Kimoram several times and had proposed to the villagers to build a school, but the majority of the village population was opposed to this

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idea and so no school had been founded in Kimoram. Musa therefore worried about his sons’ school education. Hence, when he was thinking about leaving Niger and moving to Nigeria, the availability of schools in Nigeria was one of the criteria he took into account. His wish to provide a future for his children also made him generate support for the establishment of a school in Kimoram. On several evenings, he spoke to other villagers to persuade them that a school was needed and to make them promise that they would send their children to school if there was one. He also asked me to write a letter of intent in the name of those villagers, and he asked his maigari to sign the letter and handed it over to the maire. However, Musa cared for his family in another way as well. Musa protected his family by using magic. I will come back to this point later when addressing the role of magic and religion in Musa’s life. Suffice it to say that Musa regularly prepared Qur’anic potions, and that he repeatedly boiled roots and leaves and administered those concoctions to family members in order to ensure their wellbeing and to protect them from witchcraft and snake bites. Similarly, Musa was responsible for warding off physical dangers from his children. When a snake entered the village, the villagers following the snake, lost track of it and it reappeared in Musa’s compound. He borrowed my torch (which was brighter than his torch) and struck the snake dead with a wooden stick. Taking care of the family also meant to provide medical care as we have seen with Musa’s attempt to cure Ali’s broken elbow. Musa did not, however, worry fundamentally about his children’s well-being in the long run. He saw that rain had become scarce and the harvests had become smaller over the years. However, this did not give rise to general concern about his children’s future. When I drew his attention to the scarcity of land around Kimoram and asked him whether his children would be able to make a living under these circumstances, he did not answer immediately. He did not seem to have thought about this in greater detail, but rather to implicitly assume that they would be able to provide for themselves in future. It was thus only after some reflection that he told me that there was uncultivated land to the north-east of Kimoram which his children could use, and that it was possible to combine field cultivation with animal husbandry in order to augment the harvest. Furthermore, there would always be ample opportunities in Nigeria. 4. Interaction with the children Musa and Mariama had to take care of the toddlers Idris and Ya’u, and sometimes also of Bintu, all of whom needed intensive care because they were still very young. This was different for Ali and Balkisa, both of whom were older and therefore more responsible and autonomous than the three younger children. I will first describe the parents’ interaction with the smaller children.

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The main burden of caring for the youngest children fell upon Mariama and Balkisa. They cleaned the children, fed them, carried them around, kept them company, protected them against the harmful consequences of their own actions, put up with their continuous desire for attention and interaction, tried to cheer them up or distract them if they were in a bad mood and motivated them to play with each other. They did this mainly as a supplementary activity while they were carrying out another task like cooking, pounding millet or sweeping the courtyard. Sometimes, they devoted their full and undivided attention to the children, but this was rather rarely the case. Balkisa did this more often than Mariama. As Balkisa was still a child herself, playing was still part of her nature. Sometimes the children were occupied with themselves, and Mariama or Balkisa did not need to interact with them. Musa was by far less involved in the interactions with the small children than Mariama or Balkisa were. In the rainy season, he spent time with them only in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening. When he was at home, he had breakfast, rested or conversed with visitors who stopped by his compound, while Mariama and Balkisa took care of the toddlers. They would sometimes be in his vicinity ‘minding their own business’ sometimes try to interact with Musa directly. When the children approached Musa, he liked to cuddle with them. His children climbed up onto his lap or sat next to him. However, Musa rarely played with them. One day, I saw him holding a coloured thread and tear it away from Bintu, whenever she tried to grab it. But this kind of playing was the exception. He never engaged in a role play with his children, as this did not befit an adult man. Sometimes, Musa encouraged his children to engage with each other in order to create bonds of mutual belonging between them. Especially when Bintu came into his household, he consciously directed the children’s mutual attention towards each other. He told Bintu to stroke Idris’s head and to call him k’ane, ‘younger brother’. Sometimes, however, the children were just there, occupied with their own activities and Musa did not interact with them at all. At the end of my last stay, Idris rapidly developed his linguistic skills and repeatedly wanted to know the name of the things he saw and to find out which objects belonged to whom. Musa gave him the appropriate answers. Moreover, Musa often had to tell his children what to do, because they did not yet know how to behave. When he interacted with his youngest children, Musa’s affective gestures were rather restrained. When he cuddled with his children or sat with them on a mat, he stroked them, but he did not embrace his children, hug them, praise them or talk to them tenderly, at least not in public. He showed his affection for them through physical contact and by giving them food. He had the conviction that children liked the person who gave them food. When he separated Bintu from her mother, for instance, he bought spaghetti and sweetened milk to make her feel that there was a lot of delicious food in his house and that he liked her. When he came from the market in Garin Gabas, he brought his children some-

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thing to eat from the market. It was a general rule that a visitor to the market should bring something for the members of his family and Musa took delight in following the rule, but he also tried to show his affection in this way. In a nutshell, Musa enjoyed being with his children, was very patient with them, but restrained his emotions, at least in public. At times, however, he also had to set boundaries for their behaviour, for instance, when Bintu cried and refused to her be carried to the Imam’s household or when Idris did not step back from the charcoal which Musa had just kindled. Then his generally patient attitude towards the children gave way to rather explosive intervention. He shouted at the children, commanding them with an angry voice. In a staccatolike manner, he would for instance say: “Don’t put sticks on the fire, the smoke gets here!” (Kar ka sa kara, kana mana hayak’i). At times, Musa also used abusive language to scold the children who had misbehaved. He called them “bastard” (shege), for example, but, as far as I could see, this did not scare the children. I never saw him punishing his children physically, beating a child or pushing it around. I only saw the children being physically punished in his household once. Idris tried to grab a knife, although he was not allowed to do so in case he injured himself. Mariama got angry with him and she took a bundle of dried leaves from the goriba-tree and beat him. Idris began to cry and, in an attempt to take revenge, he wanted to beat Mariama. Mariama did not tolerate that behaviour and beat him again. When Idris began to insult her verbally, she ignored him. Sometimes, the children did not obey Musa’s orders. As I mentioned before, Idris often did not wait until it was his turn to eat, when Musa was having his meal. Instead, he often approached Musa to try to get a mouthful of food. Musa tried to set him limits by sending him back to where he had been sitting, but Idris did not always obey. A tug-of-war ensued and initially it was not clear who was going to win. From time to time, the children got on their parents’ nerves. Idris and Ya’u sometimes quarrelled among themselves and annoyed Musa relentlessly. If they became a burden to Musa, he usually told Mariama or Balkisa to take them away. One day, he ran away from home and sought refuge with me. The day before, Mariama had been to Samia with both children, and now they were tired and difficult. Musa made a quick exit. Sometimes Mariama left the compound and, if Balkisa was not there either, Musa was left alone with the children for a while. He had to carry out the women’s tasks then. If, for instance, one of the children defecated on the ground, Musa would take a piece of broken calabash, push it into the sand below the child’s faeces, lift it and leave the compound to deposit it outside. After that he would clean the child’s bottom with a piece of stalk removing any leftover traces of faeces.

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Interaction with the older children, Balkisa and Ali, was easier. Awalu and Babangida who lived in the Imam’s, but often stayed in Musa’s compound, fell into the same category. As Ali, Awalu and Babangida were boys, Musa spent much more time with them than with Balkisa who spent most of her time with Mariama. In contrast to Idris and Ya’u, the older children partly behaved like independent and responsible people. They could thus be sent on errands. When the Imam came back from a journey from Nigeria, for instance, Musa sent Awalu to Garin Gabas on horseback. Awalu was supposed to leave the horse there and return to Kimoram on foot, so that the Imam could ride back to Kimoram. When he wanted to prepare a Qur’anic potion on a wooden slate, Musa sent Babangida to his neighbour to borrow a wooden slate and a pen. The smaller children could not yet perform tasks like these, although they were also told to bring items that were within their reach, like a knife or a cup. One major difference between the younger and the older children was that the older ones could be set to work. Ali, for instance, weeded the fields, drove the sheep to the fields, cleaned the area where the animals were kept and fed them. However, when Ali and Awalu had been set to work, they often lost themselves in games or did not carry out their work diligently. When both of them were once supposed to weed the fields, Awalu began to sing and then stopped working altogether when he started to dance. Ali did not join him in singing and dancing, but enjoyed the scene, working more slowly than before. When Ali and Dahiru’s son were told to go through the fields and beat their empty plastic containers in order to chase away the birds, both boys sat down under a tree after a while and invented new rhythms. Sometimes, when Musa could not go to the fields, the boys were supposed to work there on their own. The next day, when Musa went to the fields, he could see the amount of work the boys had done the day before. Sometimes, they had done a lot of work, on other days, however, the results were meagre indicating that the boys had not been working diligently. When the boys were about to lose themselves in playing games and Musa was there, he ordered or encouraged them to continue working. At times, the boys would forget their duties or try to avoid doing them entirely. One day, for instance, Awalu wanted to accompany some women to a neighbouring village and to participate in the festivities there. He had already dressed in his beautiful white shirt and was about to leave when Musa met him in front of the Imam’s compound. Musa scolded the boy in front of the others who were there as well, and Awalu had to change back into his work clothes and leave for the fields. When Musa set the boys to work, he had to make sure that he would not overburden them. He did not expect them to work as much as an adult. Musa said that if he overburdened Ali, he would develop a reluctance to work in later years.

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Musa did not need to supervise Balkisa as she was with Mariama most of the time. He rarely told her to carry out a task. He might occasionally tell her to take care of a crying baby, to catch a goat which had escaped from the compound or to chase away the chickens that stole food from the toddlers. The older children not only differed from the younger ones because they could be set to work and carry out tasks independently. They would also play differently. The older children were already able to imitate adults. Although I never saw Ali play such a game, Balkisa sometimes did. She joined with other girls and imitated the weeding process on the field. The children grabbed millet stalks which represented hauyoyi, weeding tools, and pushed them forward into the ground, as workers did on the field. Balkisa and her female playmates also imitated the life of women. Balkisa took halves of the peels of the goriba-fruit which resembled small bowls and piled them up like women piled up enamel ware in their huts. She took empty sardine tins, turned them into beds and placed empty matchboxes onto them as pillows. A small wooden stick became a pestle and a plastic jug a mortar. She pretended to pound millet with these instruments, filled imaginary millet-gruel into a half of a goriba peel and pretended to bring the millet gruel onto the field. Musa said that he took great joy in watching his children indulge in this sort of game. Musa observed the children and formed ideas about their personality, desires and beliefs. In Idris, for instance, he recognised a strong will to assert himself, whereas Ya’u was much more anxious. He considered Balkisa to be very intelligent and he liked Ali for his modesty and peacefulness. Once, however, he found it difficult to “read” Ali. In Nimari, he told me that he had observed Ali closely. Ali, he said, was an orphan and did not feel the same support in life as other children did whose parents were alive. Yet, he found it difficult to know what was going on inside Ali. Ali was interested in Qur’anic learning, Musa said, and he was always considerate with the other children of his household. However, Ali would not speak about his sorrows. Whenever Musa thought that Ali felt a burden and he asked him about it, Ali would reply that there was no problem. Sometimes, Musa also learned to “read” his children anew. As we have seen, Bintu neither stayed with her mother nor with Musa, Mariama or the other children. Instead, Baba Umma took care of her. Baba Umma brought Bintu to Musa’s house every day. When she returned to fetch Bintu, Bintu resisted and cried. However, Musa, did not perceive the pain she felt to be a strong pain and he did not give it much attention. He said that he himself had not been raised at home either, nor Mariama, Balkisa or Ali who was also an orphan. Only after we discussed Bintu’s condition did he remember his own pain in the past and changed his view of Bintu. Musa thus interacted with the children in a variety of ways. He cuddled them, played with them, set boundaries for their behaviour, reprimanded them, set them

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to work, monitored their behaviour. Moreover, his relationship with the children went beyond mere interaction. He felt he would also benefit from them in the long run, he felt responsible for them and he liked them. The intensity of Musa’s interaction with them reflected his strong emotional identification with his children. This became evident when, as I have mentioned before, Ali had broken his elbow and Musa brought him to Garin Gabas where the ‘bone-doctor’ Ibra treated Ali. Both Dahiru and me accompanied Ali and Dahiru held Ali tight during the painful treatment. Musa, however, was not there. Later I met Musa again standing under a tree, holding some of its branches. He had tears in his eyes, because, he said, Ali had had to suffer such pain. He seemed to have escaped because he doubted to be able to bear the situation.

III. The Father Mariama, Bintu, Idris, Ya’u, Balkisa and Ali lived in Musa’s compound. He spent his time with them, he worked for their well-being and felt close to them. There was another person of similar importance in Musa’s life: his father who also was the Imam of the southern mosque in Kimoram. The relationship between Musa and his father was a parent-child relationship in the way as the relationship was between Musa and Idris, although the relationship between Musa and his father represented, of course, a later step in a parentchild relationship. As both Musa and the Imam had spent many years together, their mutual relationship had become very close. Their relationship could hardly be understood by the actors themselves, let alone by myself, as the observer. Understanding was further complicated by two factors. Firstly, the relationship changed between my different stays in Kimoram. During my first and my second stay, Musa was still integrated into his father’s household, whereas he had already set up an economically independent household during my third stay. Secondly, I could only rarely observe the interaction between them. Nevertheless, I had to investigate this relationship, no matter how incomplete the results of this attempt might be. 1. Splitting up the household To recapitulate, during my first two stays, Musa was, as I have mentioned before, integrated into his father’s household. The Imam lived in his own compound. Musa had already moved out from his father’s compound and had established his own compound. He had married Mariama, who lived with him, while the Imam lived together with his two wives. At this time, Babangida, Awalu, and Ali stayed with the Imam. The Imam owned two fields, one in the north and one in the south of Kimoram. As is customary in other parts of Hausa society (Hill 1972: 38–56; 249–50, Clough 2014: 148–151), these fields were divided into a larger gandu part and several smaller gayauna parts. The gandu was under the

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Imam’s control. Under his supervision, all the male household members worked there, the harvest was stored in the Imam’s granary and the Imam controlled the harvest. Every dependant (male and female) had one of the smaller gayauna fields at their disposal, which they worked themselves and whose harvest exclusively belonged to them. The Imam had also put a gayauna at Musa’s disposal as any dependant householder could expect. Musa worked his gayauna and the produce belonged to him. It might be noted, however, that Musa and his father did not have such a strict nor bureaucratic definition of rights and duties as Hill (1972) found , for instance, in the village of Batagarawa.18 At this time both households, the Imam’s and Musa’s, cooked their own meals separately. Mariama cooked for Musa, while the Imam’s wives cooked for the Imam. As both units lived from the same granary, the Imam handed over part of the harvest to Musa as need arose and Mariama used it for cooking. The Imam had some additional income as a provider of religious services. When someone asked the Imam to pray for him or when the Imam was leading collective religious rituals – such as the village community’s prayers for rain – the Imam received some money from the beneficiaries. Far more important for the household’s income, however, was Musa’s work in Nigeria. During the slack period, Musa went to Nimari in Plateau State and sold tea and bread in the streets. He brought the money he had earned in Nigeria back to Kimoram. Quite similar to the differentiation between the work on the gandu fields and the work on the gayauna fields, Musa handed over most of this money to the Imam and kept only a minor part for himself.19 As the Imam was already too old to work on the fields himself, Musa cultivated the fields together with the other male dependants of the Imam’s household, Babangida, Awalu and Ali. They, however, were only small boys. In contrast to them, Musa could carry out heavier physical labour and take on more responsibility, and was therefore the main worker. However, his father was the ultimate head of the household and owner of the fields. He had, therefore, the last say in matters regarding field cultivation. Later, Musa told me that he and his father had different opinions about field cultivation at this time. Musa was also the only migrant worker in the household. Babangida, Awalu, and Ali were still too young, and the Imam was too old to go to Nigeria to work. Musa was thus the economic backbone of the joint household. Control of resources, however, still lay mainly in his father’s hands. It should be mentioned, 18 See Hill (1972: 38–56) for a very detailed enumeration of the respective rights and obligations of fathers and sons in gandu in the village of Batagarawa; Hill (1977: 138) presents the case of the village of Dorayi where the lack of land renders it impossible to attribute gayauna plots of land to dependents. 19 Cf. Hill (1972: 47): “Earnings for morning work are probably handed over to the father ‘except for 3d. or so’ . . .”.

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however, that the Imam also tried to contribute to the household’s income. Thus, he went to Nigeria twice when the household suffered severely from hunger in 2007. He went there to see relatives and friends in order to request some financial assistance from them. His first journey was successful, whereas he came back from his second nearly empty-handed. Before my third field stay, however, the common household had split up. The Imam handed over a part of his field in the north and a part of his field in the south to Musa.20 Musa thus had two fields of his own, a smaller part of which he then gave to Mariama as her gayauna. At the same time, Musa had built his own granary where he stored the harvest he brought in from his own fields. From now on, he had to feed his family with the millet from his own granary. Moreover, the male children were redistributed between the two households. Ali came to live with Musa. Babangida and Awalu stayed with the Imam, both of them were then the backbone of the working force in the Imam’s household. When Musa went to Nigeria now, he earned his own money and was no longer obliged to hand it over to the Imam. After the separation of the two households, the Imam did not have the last say in economic matters anymore. Musa was responsible for field cultivation on his own fields, he was responsible for his work as a labour migrant and he controlled the resources generated from these sources. In the course of this re-arrangement, Musa thus gained in autonomy vis-à-vis his father and in responsibility vis-à-vis his own family. This was also reflected in the processes of decision-making as they pertained to economic matters. When Musa, so he said, wanted to make a major investment before the households separated, he had to ask his father for the money or he had to wait until his father suggested giving him some. In 2007, Musa would have liked to buy a bull for instance. He could not, however, go to Nigeria to earn the money for a bull, because he would have had to hand over the earnings to his father (cf. Hill 1972: 47). Instead, so he added, he had to talk to him about the usefulness of a bull to the household and to see if the Imam liked the idea.21 Similarly, the Imam once received three sacks of food. Musa, however, felt disappointed because his father had only handed him three bowls (kwanuka) from the food he had received. However, Musa decided not to speak about the issue with his father, but kept quiet. After the separation, Musa could decide autonomously on the use of his 20 Cf. Hill (1972: 251): “. . ., as nowadays sons-in-gandu often buy or otherwise acquire farms for themselves, it is often impossible to sustain any distinction between their various private farms, especially as fathers often secretly sell farms to their sons.” 21 This correponds to Clough’s findings in Marmara village (2014: 148): “Abstractly stated, gandu among the Muslims of Marmara is a customary economic relationship based on kinship between two or more married men, in which they form a joint unit of production and consumption and accept the decisions of one with regard to the allocation of labour and other resources between different crops and fields on the land jointly used.”

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own labour and and he was also able to decide by himself how to cultivate his fields.22 The separation of the two households was thus a decisive change in Musa’s life and in his relationship with his father. However, the impact of this change was mitigated through certain social institutions. First of all, both households remained linked through strong ties of solidarity and mutual identification. These ties of solidarity were of various forms. The households helped each other, for instance, with some minor tasks in the organisation of labour. For instance, when Musa wanted to go to the northern field to sow sorghum, he could not take his bull there, because there was no grass. Instead, Awalu (although he was a member of the Imam’s household) drove the bull to the southern fields and took care of it there. More importantly, however, both households supported each other in case of food shortage and material needs. In 2009, for instance, when the Imam’s as well as Musa’s granaries were already empty, Musa could procure some millet from elsewhere. He divided it up and gave, he said, two thirds to his father and kept one third for his own household. Similarly, when Babangida attained marriage age, the Imam was responsible for financing his marriage, he did not, however, dispose of the means to support Babangida. Instead, Musa invested the money he had earned in Nigeria in Babangida’s marriage. The new economic independence of Musa’s household, based on his autonomous control of his household’s resources, was thus mitigated through ties of solidarity and identification that implied claims to his resources. However, as solidarity was reciprocal, Musa could also count on his father’s support. When the Imam left for Nigeria to visit friends and kinsmen and brought money home from this journey, both households benefitted. Yet, the solidarity between the two also had its limits. When both households were short of food in 2007, the Imam asked Musa to sell his young ram in order to buy millet. Musa, however, turned his father’s request down, since he preferred to keep his ram as a means to pay back his debts. When I met Musa again after the separation of the households, I found that he had changed due to his newly acquired autonomy and responsibility. His own aims suddenly seemed to be within reach and seemed to depend more than before on his own efforts. He had more motivation and was more self-assured than before. His previous concerns of being slowed down or obstructed seemed to have vanished. He had a clear goal in mind now and seemed eager to attain it. However, his new ambitions and the new responsibilities weighing on his shoulders also made him more grave. I noticed this change after some days. I told him that he was on his way to become a fully mature person, a babban mutum, and that he no longer laughed as easily as he had before. He replied: “You have understood. Laughter belongs to the youth and is incompatible with greater responsibility.” 22 It seems as if interaction between father and son, and, at the same time, decisionmaking between them has, for obvious reasons, hardly been observed among Hausa.

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2. Power relations With the re-allocation of resources, the power relations between Musa and his father changed, his father’s power weakened, whereas his own power increased. Musa switched from a position of economic dependency to one of economic equality. Both households disposed of the same resources now and could – theoretically – have sustained themselves independently from each other. However, as the Imam was becoming older, weaker, and one day could even become destitute, it was already clear that he would increasingly depend on Musa. The Imam expressed this concern when he explained to me that the two households had split up and that, in such a case, the son would still contribute to his father’s welfare when he, the son, was kind in nature. The Imam was thus saying that he would neither have the physical strength nor the authority over his son to sustain himself in the future, but that he would rather depend on his son’s willingness to contribute to his household’s livelihood. However, the power relations between father and son were not only defined by the disposal of material means and physical strength. Both were responsible for the same set of people and they needed each other, in this respect, as providers of mutual help. Although formally the Imam had the custody for Babangida and Awalu, Musa remained responsible for them as well, as could be seen from the fact that Musa paid for Babangida’s marriage. Moreover, the relationship between Musa and the Imam was also an authoritybased relationship (cf. Raynaut 1972: 92). In Kimoram, a son owed respect and obedience to his father throughout his life. The Imam’s authority over Musa found its outer expression in several forms of behaviour. Musa squatted, for instance, in front of his father when he greeted him in the morning and in the afternoon. When the Imam came to the field on horseback, Musa unsaddled the horse and brought it to the pasture. Similarly, Musa ironed his father’s clothes from time to time. This kind of authority relationship did also imply that the inferior person was not able to speak his mind and had to swallow his objections. Once, for instance, the Imam received three sacks of food. Musa, however, felt disappointed because his father had only handed him three bowls (kwanuka) from the food he had received. However, Musa decided not to speak about the issue with his father, but kept quiet. In spite of a father’s authority over his son, the Imam did, however, show respect for Musa too – in accordance with his age and status. He did not, for instance, pass via the tsai da bak’i (“stop the guest”) fence when he entered his son’s compound.23 23 Authority relationships are often not uni-directional. This also applies to the relationship between parents and children in Kimoram. Both sides had their duties towards the other side and both sides had to follow the rules which pertained to their statuses. Parents had more rights than children, but children also had their rights towards their parents. Against this backdrop, the Hausa word biyayya makes sense. It is generally

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Sons in Kimoram differed in how they treated their parents and in how far they accepted their father’s authority. Malam Keli and his son, for instance, were members of the same household. The old man cultivated the garden, whilst the son worked the fields. According to local rules, Malam Keli had the right to divide up the harvest between his own family and that of his son. However, the son no longer respected his father’s authority, appropriated the right to divide up the harvest and allegedly did this to his own advantage. Eventually the old man left for Nigeria when he no longer knew how to survive. Musa also recounted about a similar development in another family. Here one of the sons allegedly had appropriated the right to divide up the harvest as well. However, no such attempts at reversing the authority relations in the family occurred in the Imam’s and Musa’s relationship. As conflict between village members was considered not to be of my concern, I could unfortunately not inquire further into the matter. In Kimoram, the parents’ authority over their children was also secured by magical and religious sanctions. If a child failed to fulfil his obligations towards his parents, the parents could curse their child. A father’s or a mother’s curse could make a child fail in life. Moreover, the children’s duties towards their parents also had a religious dimension. Obedience towards their parents belonged to their most important religious duties (cf. the novel Ruwan Bagaja by Alhaji Abubakar Imam (1989)) and a lack of obedience towards one’s parents would result in divine punishment. On the other hand, a child could curse his parents if they failed to fulfil their duties towards him and the parents could be punished by God too. However, a parents’ curse was stronger than a child’s curse. The relationship between a father and his son was also fostered by a cultural interpretation that defined the relationship between father and child as one based on debt (cf. Marie 1997: 73–80). As Musa said, he owed his life to his father and would thus be obliged to be patient and obedient towards him. Musa did not revolt against his father and he did not appropriate his father’s rights, neither did he feel threatened, as far as I could see, by his father’s curse or think of cursing his father. Yet the idea of a debt proved relevant to his life. When Musa was considering leaving Kimoram and moving to Nigeria, thus leaving behind his father, he tried to discard this idea by remembering that he owed his life to his father. 3. A valued relationship and mutual affection So far, I have described the relationship between Musa and his father as a relationship characterized by rights and duties, control over resources, authority translated as “obedience”. The suffix -ayya, however, indicates that the relationship is a mutual one (cf. Mijinguini 1994: 8). “Bi-” means “to follow”, biyayya therefore literally designates the activity of “mutual following” which seems to capture the idea that I have to obey the person who has to obey me, although perhaps with respect to a different set of rules.

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and cultural sanctions. But there were more aspects to the relationship between them. We have seen that not all sons paid much respect to their fathers. However, Musa did not choose to overthrow his father’s authority. This was partly due to the fact that he valued a good relationship with his father. He explicitly said that he wanted to be on good terms with his father. Later, when I write on their common history and the history of conflicts between them, I will cite examples that render this thesis plausible (see D. III. 4.). Suffice it to say here that their interaction showed signs of mutual identification and affection. The father, for instance, still maintained a caring attitude towards Musa, even after the separation of their households. As I have said before, Ali had broken his elbow and Musa tried to solve the problem by treating Ali’s arm. Later, when Musa wanted to bring Ali to the bone specialists in Garin Gabas, the Imam advised him to see Malam Awwal and gently added that one should react faster to a problem than Musa did. Similarly, Musa said that his father would still be prepared to help him financially if he needed to marry again. Also Musa identified with his father. This was evident when I bought them some millet to make up for their food deficit. Musa expressed his gratitude by saying that I prevented him and his father from feeling ashamed. Babangida had just married his wife and Musa feared that she might go back home as the Imam and Musa did not have enough food in their granaries. Thanks to my assistance, however, they were able to feed her. Similarly, when the Imam discovered that a bull had encroached on his field and had eaten up some of the millet shoots, he first thought that it would have been Musa’s bull. He quietly and calmly told Musa so. Musa, however, quietly and calmly responded to him that it was Garba’s bull who had done damage to the Imam’s field. I could sense no emotional confrontation or aggression. I do not know what Musa and his father were talking about when they were alone. Musa reported that they spoke about their daily tasks, about ways to earn money, to get access to food or to finance marriage, about divorce, about the way in which the village population responded to Islamic teaching, about their plans to migrate. However, I do not know what the thematic limits to their conversations were. Musa did not discuss all subjects with his father. That became evident when Musa said that he wanted to ask Alhaji Menau for a loan. He added that he had discussed this issue with Mariama, but not with his father. 4. Diverging interests and conflicts As I have described the relationship between Musa and his father so far, both father and son largely abided by the rules which applied to their statuses, they provided help for each other, discussed a variety of issues and they liked each other. Some minor problems between them also emerged. As I have said, once

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Musa felt disappointed because his father gave him a smaller quantity of food than he had expected. However, the relationship was not without its more severe problems either, which were due to divergent interests between them. One way of looking at this situation is to see it as a temporal extension of the tug-of-war that exists between parents and children and existed between Musa and his children, as well. Time and again, the interests of Musa and his children diverged and each side tried to impose its own will on the other side. A similar conflict of interests also applied to the relationship between Musa and his father. Musa could report several instances when his father got, as Musa saw it, in his way and thwarted his will. I should mention, however, that I knew these problems only from Musa’s perspective: (1) When Musa was a boy, he bought a radio and drank a Coke. When the Imam saw that, he feared for Musa’s future development as a well-behaved person. He gave Musa a beating and pushed the radio into the fire. Later, the Imam understood that the Coke had been a non-alcoholic beverage and apologized to Musa. (2) When the family still lived in Nigeria, the Imam married Musa’s two elder brothers off. However, he did not try to find a wife for Musa. Instead, he postponed Musa’s marriage until they would have arrived in Niger. In Niger, he finally let Musa marry. In this way he wanted to bind Musa to his household and the village. (3) When the Imam and Musa already lived in Niger, Musa married. However, Musa was so interested in Qur’anic scholarship that he regularly spent the slack periods in other villages and neglected his wife. He eventually divorced her. When the Imam began to fear that Musa would finally settle down elsewhere, he made him marry under the institution of auren dole in Kimoram. (4) Once Musa spent his slack period in Diffa. He sold fried wheat balls at the motor park. He invested his benefit in dried paprika. He bought it after the harvest when paprika was still cheap and wanted to keep it until the market price for paprika would have risen. However, his father sent him a message to come back home. Musa had to sell the paprika at a cheap price and came home with the little money he had earned. He bought two animals with the money, although both of the animals later died. (5) When I was in Kimoram, Musa wished to buy a bull in order to advance economically. However, he was unable to pursue his aim as his father controlled the household’s resources and he had to wait until his father would come up with the same idea. (6) When I was in Kimoram, Musa told me that his own and his father’s opinion about how to cultivate the fields had diverged. Whereas his father wanted to cultivate a smaller field diligently, Musa wanted to extend the field as far as possible.

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(7) Musa and his father diverged in their ‘general outlook’. Several times, Musa complained of a difference between the old generation and the young generation with respect to economic thinking. He said the older village population thought ahead for a shorter term. Their main interest was to gain food for the year and eat. Accordingly, when I heard the Imam talking about his economics, he always spoke about work and rain. He did not seem to think about developing his household economy further. The younger ones, as Musa put it, thought ahead for a longer term. They thought of acquiring ‘means of production’ (kayan aiki) and building up wealth and prosperity. Or, as Musa put it shortly, the older ones thought of eating (ci), the younger ones of advancing (ci gaba). (8) A father had to finance the marriage of his son. As I have said before, Babangida and Awalu lived permanently in the Imam’s custody and so the latter took over the responsibility of financing their marriage. However, the Imam was unable to finance Babangida’s marriage. Moreover, as the Imam and Musa identified with each other and were bound together through ties of solidarity, Musa had to carry the burden of financing Babangida’s marriage, as well. He spent the slack period in Nigeria and invested the money he had earned in Babangida’s marriage. During the following cultivation period, however, he did not have the necessary means to buy millet and make up for the harvest deficit of the year before. When he explained the situation to me, he concluded that Awalu and Ali would have to wait for a good harvest or to earn money themselves if they wished to marry in the future. This statement bespoke, as far as I can see, the predicament between social obligations and economic needs that Musa felt and his resentment over his obligation to pay for Babangida’s marriage. However, when I listened to the Imam, I sensed a different attitude. The Imam spoke to me about the most urgent problems he had to solve in the recent past. He said that he had split up his household and that he had married off Babangida. I am not able to prove it but, when I listened to the Imam, it appeared to me that he considered his duty to marry Babangida off as taken for granted and unconditional. It thus seemed to me that his stance towards the marriage differed from Musa’s and that this was indicative of the different attitudes both had towards the relation between economic wants and social obligations, or, to put it differently, the weight of economic progress in their lives. The differences of opinion between Musa and the Imam thus seemed to revolve around three issues: consumer goods (see 1), the control of Musa’s whereabouts (see 2, 3) and their economic progress (see 4–8). The conflict about consumer goods had become obsolete. The Imam who demonstrated a rather conservative outlook in the example mentioned above had changed his convictions. In the past, he was opposed to Western goods as presumed facilitators of social and moral deviation and he even moved from Nigeria to Niger in order to exempt his children from school. During my stay in Kimoram, however, he enjoyed listening to the news on the radio and was strongly in favour of the opening of a school in

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Kimoram. The second problem was resolved as well, as Musa now lived with Mariama and his children in Kimoram. However, the third issue remained contentious between Musa and his father. Throughout my three stays in Kimoram, Musa was torn by a conflict between his father’s needs and expectations on the one hand and his own desire for economic progress, a conflict which, one might assume, might nearly always be part of father-son relations when the father possesses the means of production on which the son depends. Dupire (1996: 128), for instance, reports on the Wodaabe (see also Fortes (1983: 11–14) on the Tallensi): “. . ., les vieillards survivraient difficilement s’ils ne restaient associés avec un de leur fils. [. . .] Que de fils qui haïssent secrètement leur père et l’accusent finalement de sorcellerie parce qu’il ne se décide pas assez tôt à leur abandonner leur part ou de pères qui se plaignent de l’ingratitude de leurs enfants.”

On the one hand, the Imam needed Musa in Kimoram. He depended economically on him as Musa was the main worker in both households. But he also depended socially on him, as there were no other close family members in Kimoram. Musa knew about his father’s wish to keep him in Niger. These expectations weighed on Musa as he identified with his father and wanted to maintain good relations to him. On the other hand, Musa wanted to advance economically. Formerly, he said, he had not been very interested in his economic matters. Then, however, all his peers married and acquired goods. Moreover, harvests became bad and he got children. His preferences changed and economic well-being became important to him. In Kimoram, however, it was difficult to advance economically. Harvests did not allow the families to sustain themselves and money earned on labour migration was spent on marriage and food. No economic advance seemed to be in reach. From an economic perspective it seemed, Musa said, to be wiser to leave Niger and return to Nigeria, where the family still owned fields and where there were close kinsmen to live with. Harvests would also be better in Nigeria. Additional money earned would not need to be spent – at least not to the same extent – on making up for a shortage of food. The farmers would slowly but successfully build up wealth. Throughout the three years that I knew Musa, he was constantly pondering how to solve this dilemma. Staying with his father meant poverty. A decent living, however, implied leaving his father behind. Within the three years, he came up with a preliminary solution for the problem, but the deliberation process went through several stages. (1) When I first came to Kimoram, Musa lacked food and he was seriously considering leaving for Nigeria. However, he was conscious of and heavily felt his moral obligations towards his father. As he had just married Mariama, he did not yet discuss these issues with her. At the same time, being a member of his

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father’s household meant he could not independently own resources and build up an economic existence of his own. He did not have a solution for his problem and stayed in Kimoram. (2) During my second stay, Musa had started to discuss these issues with Mariama. Mariama did not like to stay in Kimoram, as she found village life harsh, the slack period boring and did not find it easy to make friends in Kimoram. Mariama, therefore, would have favoured the idea to move to Nigeria. At the same time, Musa had become aware of the importance of the fact that the family held written land titles for their fields in Nigeria only, and did not own written land titles for their fields in Niger. If all the family members left Kimoram, others, he assumed, would take advantage of the family’s absence and appropriate the fields. Therefore, part of the family would be obliged to stay in Kimoram, while the rest could move to Nigeria. There seemed to be only one solution. The Imam would have to stay in Kimoram and Babangida would work the fields, whereas Musa and Mariama would leave for Nigeria. This solution would, however, have implied physical separation from the father. During my stay, however, the Imam had changed his attitude towards migration. From his perspective, he felt that he was not sufficiently successful in disseminating the standards of Islam in Kimoram. He agreed with leaving to Nigeria then. Apart from this, Musa also developed another idea. Instead of staying in Niger and working as a labour migrant and instead of moving to Nigeria, he built on his earlier idea of buying a bull. He then also wanted to acquire an ox cart and engage in petty trade.24 On market day, he would carry goods to the markets just like every other ox cart owner. On other days, however, he would also tour the villages of the area as a petty trader and sell ‘consumer items’ like soap, salt, rice, and the like. As Musa was still dependent on his father, he would have needed his father’s consent to buying a bull, however. The father would have had to supply the money. There was thus no solution to the problem yet. (3) Before my third stay, the situation had changed again. The Imam did not consider moving to Nigeria anymore. At the same time, Musa had realized that his father would become destitute and would depend on him even more in the future. Moving away was no longer an option. Musa would not leave his father alone. However, he was also tired of labour migration to Nigeria. Then, the father split up the households and Musa gained more economic freedom. With the money I had left him in the year before, he had also bought a cheap male calf at the market so that it may become a bull one day. He could now realistically 24 As Trond Waage and Sara Merdian have rightfully suggested, this idea might have come up because I was in Kimoram and evidently had the means to buy or at least contribute to the buying of a bull and of an ox cart. When I left Kimoram after my second stay, I also left some money with which Musa bought a male calf.

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conceive of becoming a petty trader in the future. Mariama, Musa said, supported this idea, although she would still have preferred to move to Nigeria. The new solution thus brought both desires together; on one side, his desire to stay with the father, to support him and to comply with his wishes and, on the other side, the desire for economic progress. However, this was merely a plan at that time and Musa added that he would try to achieve his aim within approximately two or three years. Two points seem to be noteworthy about this process of reflection and deliberation. Firstly, much of Musa’s life consisted of processes of reflection and deliberation of a more restricted scope. To provide an example for such a process of a more restricted scope, when both households lacked food, I bought a sack of millet for them. The habitual scheme of sharing food with the Imam’s household, required that Musa keep one third for his own household and hand over two thirds to his father. However, he felt that his father’s household would consume the millet too quickly. He thus decided to hand over the Imam’s share step by step. When I spoke to him, he had handed over food to the Imam’s household five times, once one bowl (tiya), and twice two bowls. However, these rather simple decisions did not make up the sum total of processes of reflection and deliberation in Musa’s life. In contrast to this, the reflection process through which Musa found a preliminary way of reconciling his father’s wishes with his own desires was a protracted one. This was due to the ‘objective’ difficulty of reconciling the wishes of the diverse agents. But it was equally a consequence of the fact that it concerned the basic desires of being able to feed oneself and of living together with one’s family members, and that it thus would reorganise the agents’ lives as wholes. Secondly, the process of reflection and deliberation involved a process of mutual adaptation that seems to have been negotiated tacitly, implicitly and indirectly. Of course, I could not personally participate in discussions between Musa and the Imam, but Musa never reported on any open conversation on these issues between himself and the Imam, let alone a confrontation between them. But Musa reported that the Imam had autonomously decided to separate the households. Similarly, when Musa reflected on how to ameliorate his condition, he temporarily conceived of the possibility to leave the Imam behind in Niger and work in Nigeria. He said, however, that he could not take this decision on his own, but he would rather have to wait for the Imam to understand that Musa was not advancing in Kimoram and to send him to Nigeria. Moreover, when he was not yet independent of his father and wanted to buy a bull, he could not, he said, ask his father to buy one but had to wait until the Imam suggested this himself. The tacit, implicit and indirect way of negotiation thus also carried the imprint of Musa’s attitude of being obedient and patient towards his father; furthermore, it reflected his father’s attitude of remaining alert to Musa’s development, age and needs, at least to a certain extent.

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All in all, the relationship between Musa and his father thus appeared as a relationship that was ordered by a large variety of factors. It comprised rights and duties, means of exerting power over each other, mutual dependency and solidarity, authority, felt obligations and affection. The impression emerges that this relationship was a close and reliable one that also had a trustful character. Yet, it was also structured by diverging interests and conflicts. These were dealt with in a long-lasting process of continuous reflection and mutual adaptation that carried at the same time the imprint of the authority relation that existed between both of them.

IV. Other Household Members The persons who were closest to Musa were his wife Mariama, his children, his father, Ali and Balkisa. He also had a close relationship with the other members of his father’s household. There were, for instance, his nephews Babangida and Awalu as well as the Imam’s first wife, Baba Umma. However, he had a more distant relationship with his father’s second wife. He also maintained close relations with Zainabu, the Imam’s and Baba Umma’s common daughter who was married to Sani. I will not talk about these relations at length, because I do not have much information on Musa’s interaction with them. As Babangida and Awalu were Musa’s nephews, his relationship with both boys was similar to the relationship he had with Ali. However, Babangida and Awalu stayed with the Imam after the splitting up of their joint household. Musa was aware of the fact that he had obligations towards all three of them and accepted these. However, I had the impression that Musa got along better with Ali than with the other boys. Ali was more obedient than the others and always tried to do his best. Musa liked that. Awalu was responsible for too much ‘nonsense’ and needed closer surveillance and Babangida seemed to be less diligent than Ali. I knew about two instances when Musa harshly rebuked Babangida for his mistakes. Once, for example, Babangida had taken Musa’s bull to the field. When coming back from the field, he forgot to take the bull back to the village. Given the high value of a bull, this was a rather severe mistake. Consequently, when Musa came back from the market in Garin Gabas on the same evening, he had to return to the fields. Fortunately, Musa met the bull on the way to the fields as it had already set off for the village of its own accord. Musa told me that he severely scolded Babangida then. He expected him to squat in front of him, acknowledge his fault and ask for forgiveness. In another instance, Musa went to his own field, passing by the Imam’s fields on which Babangida was working. Musa noticed that Babangida had kept Musa’s hauya that he had borrowed the day before and that he had failed to bring it back to Musa’s field. Again, he scolded Babangida harshly. When Musa’s mother died, his father gave him into the custody of Musa’s paternal aunt (kamu). When the father married again, he married Baba Umma.

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After the marriage he brought Musa back. So Baba Umma had been taking care of Musa since he was about 7 years old. As Musa said, Baba Umma was like a mother to him. It became evident that he identified with her when he said that he did not like anything to spoil her mood. His identification with her could also be read from the fact that Musa squatted down every morning in front of her hut in order to greet her, and also from the fact that he gave Bintu into her custody. Some other observations confirmed the closeness between Musa and Baba Umma. She did, for instance, see herself in a position to claim money and food from Musa. When she once came into Musa’s compound, she cheekily asked him where ‘the money was’ and ‘what she was to do without money’. Musa replied that he had no money. Whereas Musa remained serious, Baba Umma couldn’t help laughing, presumably because the scene had a rather comical aspect to it. On another occasion, Baba Umma entered Musa’s compound and she called upon him to provide some money for her. Musa denied the legitimacy of her claim by pointing to the fact that both households had split up and that her need of food was not his problem anymore. She, however, started to insult him, shouted “uwaka” (your mother!), “shege” (bastard!) and showed him an open hand with five fingers stretched, probably thinking that he was keeping food for himself on purpose and was violating the bonds of solidarity towards her. Musa later considered these suspicions as evidence of her old age, which would give rise to a certain measure of distrust, and was not angry. To bring the story to its end, Baba Umma did not give up. When Musa had left the house, she came back and urged Mariama to give her some food. Mariama gave her half of the rice which was left in her hut. For the next day, no food was left in Musa’s house anymore. The Imam also had a second wife, Bintu. Musa’s relationship with her was, however, a rather distanced one. Finally, there was Zainabu, the Imam’s and Baba Umma’s daughter, Musa’s younger half-sister. Zainabu lived in an auren dole with Sani, one of Abdu’s sons. Sani had built a hut which was close to Musa’s house. Zainabu and Sani had two children. Zainabu owned some sheep and goats which she kept in Kimoram. In the long run, she wanted to build up a herd of goats. Zainabu came to Musa’s house from time to time. They were bound together in a variety of ways. Mariama and Zainabu coordinated their work from time to time. If one of them could not bring food to the field for her husband, the other would replace her. I thus saw Zainabu bringing food to Musa’s field two or three times. Once, Mariama and Zainabu also came together with their small children and spent the day on Musa’s field. Moreover, Musa helped Zainabu in looking after her own interests. In 2007, for instance, Musa kept one of Zainabu’s goats in his compound. Nobody should know that the goat was hers, lest others would exert pressure on her to give loans or presents. Similarly, when Zainabu wanted to buy a small goat for 4000 Fcfa, Musa went to the market in Garin Gabas and bought one on her behalf. Furthermore, when Zainabu needed the metal blade of her

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hauya to be sharpened, Musa carried out this task. When Zainabu’s child was ill, Baba Umma told Musa to take the child to the doctor and so he did. As such, Musa and Zainabu trusted each other. In 2007, Zainabu gave Musa a goat that was worth 6000 Fcfa and asked him to bring her enamel ware from Nigeria in exchange. Against the background of relationships in Kimoram, this was a sign of trust, because Musa could also have invested this money in his own projects. They also exchanged presents from time to time. In 2007, for instance, Zainabu presented Musa with a goat. Musa also said that he had brought enamel ware for Zainabu from Nigeria in recent years because he did not want her to have less enamel ware than her friends. Over and above that, each of them could consume the other’s property if its value did not exceed a certain amount of money. Once, for instance, a thorn had pierced Musa’s foot; the foot began to hurt and he bought some antibiotics. When Zainabu entered Musa’s hut, she saw the last capsule and, suffering from a similar problem, swallowed it. Musa did not have objections. As he said, Zainabu could feel free to take any of his belongings as long as their value did not exceed about 300 Fcfa. This, he said, was a privilege of his half-sister and somebody who did not belong to the family would not be granted such a right.

V. Kin and Affines So far, I have written about the people Musa was closest to. Closeness expressed itself in different aspects of the relationship Musa maintained with these persons. He spent, for instance, the major part of his time with them. He was bound to them by strong mutual moral obligations. He cooperated with them to meet basic necessities, i. e. they worked together to produce food and they were sociable. Moreover, they were linked to each other through emotions of affection and love, but also through power and authority. Decisions taken by one of them often had repercussions on the other and vice versa, such that their common life had a densely knit, systemic character. The other relationships Musa maintained were more distant and of lesser importance to his life. They could be divided into several categories. There were the members of his own kinship-group, his affines, the other inhabitants of his village as well as his friends and casual acquaintances. I will write about these categories of people now. 1. Dangi Every villager was related to other people in the village as well as to people beyond the village through blood or kinship. The sum total of people he was related to through kinship was called his dangi. It encompassed all relatives he was connected with through agnatic as well as uterine links. If someone who was not a member of one’s own dangi married a woman who belonged to one’s dangi, he was not yet a member of one’s own dangi. However, if the woman gave birth

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to a child, blood relations between oneself and the man came into existence and he became a member of one’s dangi. Among the members of one’s dangi, those members stood out who related to ego through ascending and descending male ties and through close uterine ties. One could also use the word dangi to refer to this category. Furthermore, some of the members of one’s dangi in this narrower sense lived close together in the village and formed a network of closer interaction and a group of common interest in the village context. If one spoke of one’s dangi, one could also have this smaller circle of interconnected relatives in mind. This analysis is in line with Raynaut’s (1972: 69–70) earlier analysis of the notion of dangi as denoting a variety of social referents.25 The term dangi was thus a rather fuzzy concept meaning something like ‘my kinsmen who are relevant in this context’. Dangi did not denote a group of people with fixed membership as kinship terms for corporate groups in societies with clan and lineage structures might do. Moreover, it did not confer on its members a set of well-defined rights and duties, for instance the right of residence or access to fields and pastures. When the term dangi was used as a term for kinsmen in a wider sense, membership of a dangi conferred onto its members a general obligation to behave in a friendly manner towards each other. In a narrower sense, membership implied stronger obligations of solidarity, mutual help and altruism. The exact scope of the term dangi and its normative implications thus became clear in its context of use. In a wider sense, Musa’s dangi comprised people who lived in different places. His mother’s relatives, for example, lived in Nigeria, to the west of Damaturu. Those members of his dangi who lived farther away or whose genealogical relationship with him was more distant did not play an important role in his life – although they could, of course, become important under specific circumstances, such as if he were to move into their vicinity. The members of his dangi, however, who lived in Kimoram and belonged to his dangi in a narrower sense were his daily interaction partners, and thus were part of his daily life. The group of Musa’s dangi members who lived in Kimoram was mainly composed of all the descendants of Limam Nuhu, one of the founders of Kimoram (see diagram 4). This group of people was divided in three smaller groups (group 1, 2 and 3 in diagram 4) who were more closely related with each other through male links. The Imam shared a common mother with Abdu and was not part of this latter group through male ties but through uterine ties. By virtue of kinship, age and religious status, however, he represented this latter group together with Abdu. The other groups were represented by their eldest living male members. At the time of research, group 3 was represented by Malam Keli (y), whereas group 1 was represented by Mamman (y). 25 The term dangi does not denote the same social referent in all over Hausaland. Cf. Nicolas (1975: 66–77) for its meaning among the non-Islamic Hausa in the region around Maradi and (1975: 179–80) for its meaning in an urban setting.

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2. Abdu’s and the Imam’s kinship group Among all members of Musa’s dangi in Kimoram, the descendants of Abdu and the Imam played a special role for a variety of reasons. This group of people consisted of two half-brothers, i. e. the Imam and Abdu, the latter’s numerous sons, and the Imam’s son, i. e. Musa. Kinship relations between them were thus fairly close. It was a group of fathers, sons and brothers. The integrative figures of this group were Abdu and the Imam. Their decision to stand together resulted in the alliance of their children. The commonality of the group was expressed through the fact that its members came together in the evening in order to eat dinner in front of the Imam’s compound, that they shared the food with each other on such occasions and usually stayed together to engage in conversation later.26 I also call this group ‘the southern group’ as they settled in the southern part of Kimoram. The Imam and Abdu were the oldest members of the group. They thus had to be respected. This respect was expressed through the way they positioned themselves when the southern group met for dinner in the evening. As I have described before, the Imam and Abdu sat on their own, individual mats a little distance from the other members of the kinship group. As the oldest members of the group, they had a caring attitude and duty towards the younger members. Thus Musa said that he would first turn to his father and then to Abdu if he needed to ask somebody for financial assistance or food. Abdu also provided him with a garden plot. He was one of the “richest” inhabitants of Kimoram. As he owned many fields, gardens and had numerous offspring, he said that there was never hunger in his house. Kinship relations connected Musa to the members of this group. These kinship ties partly structured their common social life. Abdu’s twelve children, for instance, were Musa’s cousins and, therefore, a joking relationship existed between them.27 The joking relationship offered them a rule or model they could choose in order to interact. Most interaction between them did not draw on this rule, but if they based their interaction on it, they could tease each other. As we have seen, when Garba met Musa he could make fun out of him and allude to his poverty. 26 Verne (2007: 303–67) dedicates a whole chapter to the question of food consumption in the village of Berberkia, but does not report about communal meals. However, commensuality plays an important role in Sumarana (Raynaut 1972: 49–50, 257–8). Yet, in Sumarana, neigbourhood, not kinship, plays the decisive role in constituting groups of commensuality (1972: 273–4). A similar picture is drawn by Nicolas for the region around Maradi (1975: 185–6). 27 A joking relationship existed between grandparents and grandchildren, among grandchildren of a common grandparent, cousins, a husband and the brothers and sisters of his spouse, ego and one’s elder brother’s wife, ego and one’s elder sister’s husband, ego and one’s younger sister’s husband; not, however, between ego and his younger brother’s wife. Cf. Raynaut (1972: 94), Nicolas (1975: 89, 194) who designate some of the above-mentioned kinship-relations as joking-relationships.

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Similarly, Aminu could enter Musa’s hut. This behaviour would be considered shameless as others, except for family members, were forbidden to enter the private space of one’s hut, but those involved in a joking relationship were also allowed to do this. Musa’s joking relationship with Dahiru was even stronger, as he was related to Dahiru through a woman, Amma, his father’s sister. Musa said he could even tell Dahiru’s wives that Dahiru had died in order to make fun. Some members of the group closely cooperated with each other. Abdu’s sons, Aminu and Bunu, for instance, worked together. Aminu owned three camels, bought garden products in Kimoram and its vicinity and brought them to the markets in the region. Bunu helped him when they collected the cassava and the dates in the gardens and they took turns when they brought the produce to the markets. Moreover, Garba and Aliyu, both brothers, established their own households independently of Abdu’s, but they held a common field on which they worked together and the harvest of which they divided up among themselves. Nevertheless, so Musa said, economic cooperation and solidarity within the group were in decline. In former times, he could avail himself of grain in the others’ granaries. These days, nobody was permitted to do this anymore and everybody had to look out for himself. Apart from that, the members of the group shared a common interest in property. Abdu was by far the owner of the largest fields and gardens in Kimoram. He provided the fields and the gardens for all his children and still owned some fallow land. When Salifu moved from Nigeria to Kimoram in order to settle there and take the position of the imam, Abdu had also given the northern field to the Imam under an aro-agreement and, later, a garden plot to Musa. Moreover, as all the members of the group settled in the same part of Kimoram, they were also neighbours. This implied, for instance, that they would lend each other a hand if need arose. When someone was repairing the roof of his house and needed someone to assist, a neighbour would join in. If someone ate food in his compound and others dropped by, they would share the food. If a household lacked some food item for making a sauce, such as a Maggi cube, the women would collect it from a neighbouring household. The group was also a faction in village politics. As I have already described, there was a controversy over my presence in Kimoram. This reflected a deeper gap in the village between a northern and a southern part. My presence was, however, not the only contentious theme between both groups. The southern group took a different position with respect to several issues. It favoured, for instance, the construction of a school in Kimoram, whereas the northern group was opposed to it. Moreover, the Imam of the northern mosque gave advice to reject food aid and he contested the supreme leadership of the southern Imam. At least that is what I was told. As tensions in the village were not considered to be of my concern, I could not investigate into the underlying reasons for the

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tensions between both groups. They correlated, however, with the different geographical origins of the groups and could thus possibly have reflected a controversy over the question of who owned the village and its leadership. The village founders, who were the ancestors of many members of the northern group, came from Garin Adam, whereas those of the southern group were of Manga origin. The difference in origin was still reflected in the fact that many members of the northern group had fields around Garin Adam and were affiliated with masu gari from Garin Adam. The group of kinsmen ‘presided over’ by the Imam and Abdu seemed to be sufficiently densely knit together to resolve their conflicts among themselves without having recourse to external authorities. Members of the group also acted as intermediaries or representatives on each other’s behalf. When, for instance, the wife of one of the group members left him and returned to her parents, Musa and some other members of the group sought her out to persuade her to come back. Similarly, Dahiru took care of Ali when Ibra treated his broken elbow. As Musa partly grew up with the members of this group, they had a common history. They had spent much time together and knew each other well. Musa thus had clear ideas about their living circumstances, personalities and character. There was, for instance, Issu, whom he liked. There was Dahiru, whom he considered as having some good qualities as well as some characteristics which could have been improved. For instance, Dahiru proved helpful when Musa brought Ali to the bone doctor, but talked, as Musa saw it, ‘plain nonsense’ from time to time. However, he also ascribed to some members of the group identities which made them appear in a less favourable light. From Musa’s perspective, one kinsman, for instance, tried to evoke the impression that he was poor. He dressed poorly in worn-out gowns and his compound was in a state of apparent neglect. The rain had destroyed a hut and he did not repair it for a long time. Moreover, he never repaired the fence around his compound. Similarly, he took care, as I noticed, not to carry money with him; I assume this was in order to pre-empt requests for loans. According to Musa, however, this kinsman was quite affluent. Musa found, however, that he violated the norms that were valid between kinsmen and did not provide as much support to others as he should. He thus considered him to be greedy. To support his thesis, he said that this kinsman did not provide millet for his wives when the grain had run out. He rather waited for a number of days before he provided new millet, thus saving grain. In such cases, his wives had to use their own supplies. Furthermore, Musa claimed that he had once lent 10,000 Fcfa to him. However, the kinsman gave Musa only 50 Fcfa from time to time to pay back the loan. He thus protracted the period of paying back the money, probably also hoping that Musa would at some point desperately decide to do without the rest of the money.

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I was unable to receive equally detailed portraits of all the members of Musa’s kinship group, but these examples should nevertheless illustrate the fact that Musa had a detailed idea about the members of his kinship group. Yet, they also showed that his kinship group was not a harmoniously integrated social body. The close kinship relations prescribed an attitude of mutual help, solidarity and friendliness between them. However, the members of the group did not follow these norms in all relations within the group. Musa had, in fact, cooperative and trustful relationships within this group, but he also had relations of animosity towards some of its members. Contrary to the local kinship ideology of friendliness and solidarity, his relationships towards his kinsmen varied, from friendly to adverse. As the members of Musa’s kinship group interacted closely and were mutually dependent, they could not avoid each other. If Musa and another member of the group liked each other, interaction did not pose any problem. Then they would talk to each other, joke, etc. However, if they disliked each other, they had to find a way to cope with each other. In interaction with the above-mentioned kinsman, for instance, who allegedly provided less help than was expected from him, Musa applied a strategy of concealment. When he dealt with him, he hid what he thought about him. One day, Musa sat together with him. Both of them were talking about bows, arrows and rifles. They told each other about their own experiences with these weapons. The conversation ran smoothly and was interspersed with laughter from time to time. It seemingly corresponded to the values associated with kinship. Given the identity Musa ascribed to his kinsman, however, his behaviour was rather a concession to conflict avoidance and kinship-related behavioural virtues. In order to avoid problems with other group members, Musa not only concealed some of his thoughts, but also some of his living circumstances. He thus kept secret from the group the fact that he had taken a loan from Alhaji Menau. He expected some members of the group to react maliciously if they knew about his debts. Musa combined his strategy of concealment with a strategy of caution with respect to material goods. He thus explained to me that he always took care not to let others get hold of his possessions. If he kept them away from his own goods, he said, he would not incur a loss, no conflict would arise and interaction could continue smoothly. These strategies were, however, not only important to Musa because he wanted to avoid conflict with a single person, but also because he wanted to avoid a proliferation of conflicts. He knew that conflicts within groups could develop dynamics which were difficult, if not impossible, to control. The latter strategy to prevent others from gaining control over one’s possessions was, of course, known to both participants to an interaction and they triggered counter-strategies. One of these counter-strategies was to create an impasse for the other from which it would be difficult to escape. Alhassan, for instance, one of Abdu’s sons, fell

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severely ill and wanted to see the medical staff at the healthcare centre in Garin Gabas. However, the costs for the consultation amounted to 1000 Fcfa and Alhassan did not have the money. As he was already quite weak, he asked Musa to accompany him to Garin Gabas. Musa was morally obliged to accompany him, especially as Alhassan had evidently already lost much weight and had weakened. However, Musa expected Alhassan to ask him about the 1000 Fcfa, once they were nearing the healthcare centre. Musa would have been in a trap. And according to Musa that was what actually happened then. Kinship norms of solidarity, mutual help and altruism thus rather seemed not to determine behaviour in the group but rather to provide guidelines for behaviour, and each person seemed to have a certain freedom to decide whether they wanted to abide by them. Musa was convinced that behaviour that would correspond to kinship ideals and norms could not be taken for granted, even within one’s own kinship group. For Musa, an ambiguity of the term kinsman ensued from this, as a kinsman could also exploit kinship norms to his own advantage. Musa once expressed this idea jokingly. Maigari Dengi had borrowed 4000 Fcfa from me, but Dengi did not pay back his debt. When I met him by chance and urged him to give me my money, he gave me 2000 Fcfa. After some days, I told Musa that I would go and see Dengi in his village and urge him again as he was not my kinsman, and as such I was not obliged to avoid a conflict with him. Musa, however, said: “Wait a while, you will soon have a kinsman here.” He alluded to a form of behaviour that he considered to be not uncommon for kinsmen. A kinsman might take a loan from another kinsman because the latter was obliged to help him. At the same time, the debtor would not pay back the money as he could count on his kinsman not to let the conflict escalate. In spite of the partial irrelevance of kinship norms to social action, members of the kinship group could nevertheless judge each other according to kinship norms. Musa’s description of the above-mentioned kinsman testifies to that. He characterized him as affluent, but criticised him as providing less help than a kinsman was expected to provide. Similarly, Musa once said that he would not choose one of his sons, but rather a nephew if he were to succeed in building up a trading business and needed someone to help him. The reason would be that he would thus avoid being called selfish. Moreover, kinsmen could also feel disappointed if others did not meet their expectations. Musa, for instance, felt let down when he had asked a kinsman to lend him some millet. The kinsman gave him millet for 2000 Fcfa, but Musa had to pay 1000 Fcfa immediately and was allowed to pay 1000 Fcfa later. At times, kinship norms could, however, also be denied validity. When Alhassan did not have anything to eat in his household anymore, he visited his various kinsmen. I happened to be around when he spoke to Musa, his cousin Kanta, to his full brother Aminu and to his father Abdu. None of them responded to his request and they denied him assistance. The rea-

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sons for the denial were not known to me as I could, of course, not inquire into the reasons for rebuffing a kinsman. The members of the southern kinship group thus seemed to be tied together in a variety of ways. They shared a common interest in property, they depended on each other as neighbours and they formed a faction in village politics. These factors also tied Musa to the group. Moreover, as we will see later, he also needed the kinship group in order to pursue one of his projects, that of becoming an Imam. Musa largely identified with the group. For instance, he often used the pronoun “we” when speaking about it. However, there were also tensions between Musa and some other members of the group. Musa did not get along equally well with all the other members of the group (see the examples of Dahiru and the above mentioned kinsman). He was aware of the fact that kinship norms were of different value to different members of the group and that their validity could not be relied on. He thus felt that he should be cautious not to be taken advantage of by some of his kinsmen and he also deployed strategies of concealment to prevent problems from arising. Musa’s relationships with the members of his own and the Imam’s household thus differed from his relationships with the members of his kinship group. One even perceives a great gap between both sides. His family was by far a more integrated locus of trust, solidarity and emotional binding than the kinship group – despite all kinship rhetoric that prevailed in the village. Musa’s case might, however, be a special case, as he did not have any brothers or sisters in Kimoram. If he had had brothers in Kimoram, one might expect a denser network of relationships and economic cooperation between Musa’s and their households as it existed, for instance, between the full brothers Bunu and Garba who jointly worked a field, or between the full-brothers Bunu and Aminu who cooperated in trading. 3. Other kinsmen from Musa’s dangi The family as well as Abdu’s and the Imam’s kinship group both formed a nucleus of trust and cooperation for Musa, the former more so than the latter. As Musa was related to most villagers through some form of kinship and the other villagers nearly all formed part of his dangi in the wider sense of the word, one might expect that the village was a locus of trust and cooperation for Musa, too. This was, however, hardly the case, and I will come back to this later (see D. VI.). Suffice it to say for the moment that some individual persons from among the villagers, who did not belong to Abdu’s and the Imam’s kinship group, stood out in importance for Musa. I describe Musa’s relationship with them in rather cursory remarks here as Musa did not interact with them often and I thus do not have much information. One of them was Malam Yakuba. I could not, however, really grasp the meaning Malam Yakuba had for Musa. Malam Yakuba belonged to Malam Keli’s kin-

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ship group. Malam Yakuba had pursued Qur’anic scholarship to a level that allowed him to act as ladan at the southern mosque. Musa also mentioned him as a potential successor for the position of Imam, once his father did not fulfil this position anymore. Judging by his clothes, the interior of his compound and the harvest on his fields, I believe it is safe to say that Malam Yakuba was very poor. Even Musa did not know where Malam Yakuba got his food from. When he once passed by my house, I offered him some roasted peanuts; he came in and, instead of calmly eating them, he devoured them. Over the four years I came to Kimoram, the importance of Malam Yakuba for Musa shifted. During the first years, Malam Yakuba seemed to be an authority figure for Musa. When the three of us were sitting together, I sensed the rather obedient attitude Musa had towards Malam Yakuba several times. He eagerly listened to what Malam Yakuba said and never objected. In the last year, however, they did not have much to do with each other anymore. Malam Yakuba came into Musa’s compound from time to time, but I could no longer sense the same attitude towards him, he was rather treated like any other guest to Musa’s compound. Another important person was Dengi. Musa and Dengi were both descendants of Limam Nuhu. Dengi was a mai gari and lived in neighbouring Garin Dengi. He was not Hausa, but Pullo. He thus did not follow the Chef de Canton de Garin Gabas, but the Sarkin Fulani in Zangon Fulani. He often had to travel far to collect the taxes to be paid by his followers as the Fulb’e who followed him were dispersed over a wide territory. His whole appearance was that of a selfconscious person or, as Musa put it, ‘chieftainship has permeated him’ (sarauta ta ratsa shi). At the same time, Dengi was widely known to behave in a way that could be criticised on moral grounds. Once, for instance, Musa said, Dengi claimed someone else’s field and the owner of the field needed to call upon the chef de canton to defend his property rights. Similarly, one of Dengi’s sons gave loans to peasants in need. He demanded to be reimbursed with cowpeas after the harvest. The amount of cowpeas he demanded equalled, however, an interest rate of approximately 30%. Musa thus had a critical distance towards Dengi. I described above how I tried to make Dengi pay back the loan I had given him. Later, Dengi was angry with Musa and blamed him for having instigated me. Musa then sought medicine in order to protect himself against Dengi’s bak’ar magana (‘black/evil speech’). Nevertheless, or perhaps even because of that, Musa always tried to be on good terms with Dengi. Dengi’s field was adjacent to his own and when Musa went back from the field to the village after work, he often passed by Dengi on the latter’s field. Their interaction ran smoothly and provoked benevolent smiles on both sides. My – superficial – impression was that Musa and Dengi also liked each other. A third person was Mamman. Mamman also was a descendant of Limam Nuhu (see diagram 4). Mamman was the eldest member and head of his own kinship group. Mamman was thus among the eldest and most important people in Ki-

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moram. He also had a special position in the village as he filled the position of a village representative if the need arose. The chef de canton, for instance, called upon Mamman when he needed to send a message to the villagers of Kimoram. Similarly, when development agents passed through the region and the elder men gathered to reply to their questions, Mamman served as the village spokesman. According to village rumour, Mamman would have liked to become a mai gari himself but lacked the means the chef de canton would expect if he recognized one of his subjects as a mai gari. Mamman was also a member of the steering committee of the cereal bank. He kept the key to the bank and, according to Musa, Mamman availed himself of grain if he needed it or sold the grain for his own benefit. However, Musa considered Mamman a person to whom he might turn if he needed food. For these reasons and maybe also others I was not fully aware of, Musa tried to maintain a good relationship with Mamman. He paid him regular visits and never failed to greet him in the morning. During the harvest, Musa also regularly lent Mamman a hand on the field. A fourth important person was Sani. Sani was the leading figure of another kinship group in Kimoram. In contrast to the kinship groups Malam Yakuba, Mamman and Dengi belonged to, the members of Sani’s kinship group were not descendants of Limam Nuhu. They lived in the northern part of Kimoram. As I have explained in the section on methods, I could not register all villagers from the northern part and I am not fully aware of their mutual genealogical relationships. Of the inhabitants of the northern part of the village, Sani was the most visible in public. Before Mamman became the intermediary between the village and the chef de canton, Sani regularly informed the chef de canton about what happened in Kimoram. As I was told, Sani once informed the chef de canton about stretches of land that allegedly did not belong to anyone. This land, however, belonged to Abdu and some other villagers. The chef de canton then conferred rights over this land to some Fulb’e and Manga. Sani supposedly became angry as the chef de canton did not confer any rights onto him. It became clear after a while that the land had been owned by the above-mentioned peasants. The chef de canton then punished Sani by confiscating part of his land. He did not, however, compensate the original owners for their loss.28 Similarly, when the village gathered because a development agency wanted to restock the cereal bank, the village community discussed how to prevent embezzlement in the future. Some villagers wanted to use the Qur’an in order to inflict some harm on possible wrongdoers.29 I witnessed then how Sani appeared in front of the cereal bank. He was irritated and shouted loudly to prevent the Qur’an from being used. According to Musa, this was due to his fear of being harmed because of his prior 28 Cf. Lund 1998 for a systematic investigation of land disputes in two cantons in the vicinity of Zinder. 29 Cf. Lund (1998: 76–77) for the use of the Qur’an in legal procedures in two cantons in the vicinity of Zinder. Lund refers to the colonial period.

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attempts to embezzle. Among the members of Musa’s kinship group, Sani was thus the epitome of an ill-mannered and troublesome person. Musa was aware of Sani as a representative of his kinship group in the village, but he neither paid Sani a visit in the morning to greet him nor attempted to establish permanent contact with him. Musa knew, of course, every villager in Kimoram, but Malam Yakuba, Mamman, Dengi and Sani stood out among the villagers who did not belong to his own kinship group. They all had in common that Musa paid special attention to them, be it by maintaining good relations with them or by avoiding them. In the case of Mamman, Dengi and Sani this attention seemed to be at least partly due to their structurally prominent position. As I have said before, I did not know, however, why Malam Yakuba gained prominence for Musa for a certain time. 4. Affines As a married person, Musa had affines.30 He had married Mariama from Samia31, a village about 11/2 hours to the west of Kimoram. Mariama’s family lived in Samia where the family also had its fields. Mariama’s grandfather, her father and his four younger brothers had, however, left Samia and lived in Zinder. They ran a shop for food items and engaged in trading. Two of her father’s younger brothers still stayed in Samia and cultivated the family fields. During the slack

30 Affinal relations are difficult to study as they can hardly be observed by outsiders. The short length of Raynaut’s characterization of “les rapport avec les beaux-parents” (1972: 89–90) testifies to this as does the fact that Nicolas (1975: 180, 185) hardly mentions them at all, although both monographs deal with social relations (Raynaut) or the organization of society (Nicolas). 31 Samia was a Kabirawa village. The Kabirawa were a branch of Muslims whose way of performing prayers diverged from the mainstream. They held their arms crossed in front of the body whereas the others held their arms straight on both sides of the body (Andrea Brigaglia (personal communication) pointed out that the crossing of arms is a sign of adherence to the Fadya-Tijaniyya branch of the Tijaniyya brotherhood; cf. Nicolas 1975: 201–2 for information on the ‘yan Kabaru in Maradi and the difficult relationship between them and the older branches of the Quadiriyya and Tijaniyya brotherhoods, cf. Meunier 1998: 87, cf. Launay 1992: 88 for a similar dispute in Côte d’Ivoire, where the Wahhabis distanced themselves from others by praying with their arms crossed). Samia had divided over the religious dispute and those who performed their prayers in the conventional way left the original village and moved further to the west. This religious dispute might, of course, be emblematic for a non-religious dispute in the village. Whereas in Kimoram most people did not seem to take a heightened interest in religious questions, this was thus different in Samia. There, I saw many people engaged in karatu (studying the Qur’an). Furthermore, the villagers took great care to treat me as an honourable guest, which also indicated their heightened religious awareness as they thus emphasized the importance of moral aspects to their lives. The more prominent role of religion also found its expression in other aspects of social life. The village had a larger mosque with a loudspeaker and a fence surrounding it. However, Mariama followed the ‘traditional’ religious rites.

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period, they went to Zaria, Nigeria, to hawk tea and bread in the streets. Mariama herself, however, did not grow up in Samia. Her grandmother married Alhaji Menau and Mariama moved together with her to Garin Lulu, a small hamlet between Kimoram and Samia. She grew up in Alhaji Menau’s house. Alhaji Menau took care of her, married her off and financed her marriage. Musa thus had affine relations to the family Mariama was born into as well as to the family which had raised her. An avoidance relationship existed between Musa and Mariama’s ‘real parents’. In the presence of his parents-in-law, Musa had to refrain from certain activities and vice versa. When he met his parents-in-law, he was, for instance, not allowed to eat, he had to refrain from joking and he avoided talking about his wife’s pregnancy. Similarly, when Mariama’s mother came to Kimoram, she did not pay a visit to Musa, but always stayed in someone else’s compound. In this way, both sides to the relationship paid each other respect. Musa also consciously tried to maintain good relations with his parents-in-law and their kin. This might partly have been due to his acknowledgment of the rule about treating one’s affines respectfully, but it might also partly have been due to the importance of his affines for his own marriage. Mariama had a close relationship with her parents, and they could still intervene in his marriage by exerting influence on Mariama. He thus knew that his affines partly determined whether his marriage would last. He did not suspect that any of Mariama’s relatives would interfere in his marriage in a way that would be detrimental to him. But the possibility existed, and Musa was aware of that. As I have described before, Musa already had a wife when he married Mariama. After Mariama moved into the common compound, problems arose. One day, the parents of his first wife came to Kimoram and wanted to speak to him. Shortly after that, the marriage with his first wife broke up. At that time, Musa was afraid that Mariama’s parents would also summon him or be discontent with him. In order to satisfy them he went to greet them and gave them a present. Similarly, when Mariama’s uncle unexpectedly came to Kimoram, he treated him exceptionally well. Her uncle had attended a ritual event in a neighbouring village. On his way back, he decided to pay Musa and Mariama a visit. He met Musa on his field. Musa stopped working and accompanied his guest to his house. Musa served him some of the millet gruel Mariama had left for him. He provided tea and sugar. Both stayed together and engaged in conversation. Finally, he accompanied his guest some kilometres to see him off, gave him some money and kola nuts. On their way, they continued their conversation and Musa continuously confirmed his guest’s points of view. Moreover, Musa also had to lend his affines a hand from time to time. Once, for instance, he helped them to construct a granary. Alhaji Menau was thus not a ‘real’ father-in-law to Musa, but he had raised Mariama in his house and family. This meant that Musa did not have an avoidance relationship with Alhaji Menau. Babangida, Musa’s nephew, married one of

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Alhaji Menau’s daughters. Musa was thus linked to Alhaji Menau through marriage in two different ways. If Mariama or Babangida’s wife ran away from their husbands, they would return to Alhaji Menau. Therefore, Musa not only needed to maintain good relations with Mariama’s family in Samia, but also with Alhaji Menau. Moreover, the members of Alhaji Menau’s household also maintained a close relationship with Mariama, who grew up among them. They could also try to intervene in his marriage by influencing her. The relationship with Alhaji Menau comprised yet another component. Alhaji Menau owned cattle and was engaged in market trade. He was said to be a rather affluent man and granted loans of up to 30,000 Fcfa. When Musa needed credit, he first turned to Alhaji Menau. In contrast to other moneylenders, Alhaji Menau would not expect him to pay interest on the money.

VI. The Village, Friends and Relations in the Wider Region Musa’s kinship group did not combine with other kinship groups of the same order to form a similar group on a higher level. There was a stronger sense of belonging together and a loose association in village politics between all the descendants of Imam Nuhu, i. e. the groups headed by Abdu and the Imam, by Malam Keli and by Mamman, but this stronger sense of belonging together did not result in the formation of a larger kinship group with functions that were comparable to those of its constituent parts. The kinship groups which were headed by Sani and by Malam Magaji did not share patrilineal links with each other or with the descendants of Imam Nuhu. In Kimoram, there were thus several core kinship groups whose members were recruited through close patrilineal links, sometimes also through uterine links, one of which was the kinship group headed by Abdu and by the Imam. However, these core kinship groups did not combine with other core kinship groups to form similar collectives of a higher order. Yet, even though the villagers belonged to different patrilineally “staffed” core kinship groups, they were all linked to each other through ties of patrilineal kinship or marriage or through uterine links. Virtually all villagers were thus kin to each other and formed part of each other’s dangi. The village did, of course, also have an age structure. In village ideology, all the older male villagers were in a parental position towards the younger ones. For the younger generation, this implied respect towards the older generation. For the older generation, it implied equality of rank among each other and an attitude of helpfulness towards the younger generation. As they were kin to each other, the members of the village should ideally behave according to the norms of friendliness and solidarity and they also used kinship terms to refer to each other and kinship ideology to describe their relations. As we have seen, these moral injunctions sometimes were, however, rather a mere exigency even in the core kinship group to which Musa belonged and did

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not necessarily determine or inform actual behaviour. The same observation held for the moral implications of the age structure. Whereas Musa, as we have seen, largely accepted his position towards his father, as we have also seen another peasant turned the authority relations towards his father upside-down. Age structure and kinship structure only informed the process of organizing behaviour; other factors intervened and also had an influence on social behaviour. Among these factors were, for instance, divergent interests and different attitudes towards morals and values. The cohesive tendencies of kinship and age structure could thus be overcome by other elements of the social process. This was evident within the core kinship groups but even more so in groupings that were less neatly knit together than these. As I have said before, Kimoram knew a divide between a northern and a southern section. The southern section roughly comprised the descendants of Imam Nuhu, whereas the section around Sani constituted the northern section. The group around Malam Magaji occupied the middle ground. As I have said before, the opposition between both sides found expression in the affiliation with different imams. Musa’s father was the imam of the southern mosque whereas Isaya was the imam of the northern mosque. The “northerners” prayed at the northern mosque whereas the “southerners” prayed at the southern mosque. Malam Magaji also prayed at the northern mosque. This did not, however, imply an affiliation with the “northerners”, as one of his sons explained, it was merely more convenient for him to pray there. Moreover, Malam Magaji was also a close friend to Malam Yakuba, who was the ladan of the southern mosque. I did not know what lay behind the division of the village. However, Isaya was a former disciple of Musa’s father and Musa said that they later became estranged and that Isaya claimed to be the leading imam of the village. At the same time, the members of the northern and the southern quarters were, as I have said before, of different origin. The “northerners” partly came from Garin Adam whereas the “southerners” came from the south-east and were of Manga origin. Both imams also differed in their outlook towards the world. Isaya was strictly opposed to food aid and recommended that the villagers reject it as it was of Western origin. Nor did he agree with the establishment of a primary school. Musa’s father, however, welcomed help from the outside and favoured the establishment of a primary school. Similarly, Isaya was also opposed to my presence in the village whereas Musa’s father welcomed me. I would have liked to speak with Isaya directly but he did not want to have a conversation with me; although he did not hesitate to greet me joyfully in public, he once showed me his contempt directly through a gesture. While we were shaking hands, he only grabbed my fingers, not the palm of my hand. Besides its kinship and age structures, the village had institutions and mechanisms which, among other things, maintained or “negotiated” the social order.

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Among these were communal prayers, family rituals which involved at least part of the village community and village assemblies. Furthermore, I will describe two formal organisations which had been implemented by development agencies and thus become institutions that triggered processes of communal decisionmaking and of reshuffling the social order. However, besides these more formal institutions, the village also had informal means of self-regulation, aspects of which will become clear in the course of the chapter. At the end, I will come back to Musa’s place in these structures and events. 1. Communal prayer The most important common interest which united the villagers for common action as one group was rok’o, a communal prayer for a good to be solicited from God. When some villagers saw a need for a common prayer to solicit God to grant a good rainy season32, a good harvest, peace and general well-being, all the villagers should come together in front of one of the village mosques and pray. At the time of research, the villagers saw the need for such a prayer at the beginning of the rainy season when little rain had fallen and the scarcity of rain endangered the harvest. For illustrative reasons, I will describe a rok’o here. Some villagers came up with the idea to perform a prayer and to seek God’s assistance. The villagers discussed the idea and later reached an informal consensus that such a prayer should be held. Next, someone collected money from the villagers. The money served to pay the Imam, Musa’s father, for leading the rok’o and to distribute money among the participants of the ritual. When enough money had been collected, the villagers bought a goat that would later be slaughtered and the meat of which would be distributed among the participants. Then, the male adult members of the village community, mainly those who were older than about 35, gathered at one of the mosques. The Imam sat in front of the mosque. The villagers who wanted to take part in the ritual actively sat down close to the Imam whereas those who only wanted to attend the ceremony without playing an active role stayed a little distance away. The Imam praised the prophet and his friends, the sahabai. The community ratified this praise by uttering amin. The central part of the rok’o was a recitation. While performing rok’o, the actively participating villagers would recite formulae which the participants knew by rote and/or a section of the Qur’an. In the latter case, templates on which these sections were written were needed. The Imam and those villagers who owned the templates would distribute them among the villagers who wanted 32 Cf. Nicolas (1975: 393–398) for rites de pluie which are situated, however, in different social structures and comprise other actions. He describes, for instance, a rite which is performed only by women.

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to take an active part in the ritual. Which sections and formulae were chosen depended on the specific purpose of the ritual. In the observed case, the participants recited each of the formulae ‘Astagafirula’ (‘We ask God for forgiveness’), ‘Subhanallahi’ (‘There is no might but him’), ‘La-illaha-illalahu’ (‘There is no God but Allah’) 99 times. After that, the community recited the formulae ‘Yaladihu’ (one of the 99 names of God: ‘The compassionate’) 27,000 times. Each of the participants recited this formula and their recitations added up to the required number of 27,000 recitations. Then, the Imam praised the prophet and his friends again. The Imam said ‘Awa annabi salati’ (‘Pray for the Prophet!’) and the community replied ‘Allah musali, Allah saydena Muhammadu musali’ (‘May God increase his trustworthiness’). Then, the Imam urged the community to pray and each community member immediately prayed for parents, grandfathers and ancestors, for the sick and the healthy, for those without food and those with food, for protection against troublemakers and for those in need of God’s help. Finally, the community collectively performed the fatiha. The rok’o was over then. In the meantime, a villager had slaughtered the goat and some women had cooked its meat. At the end of the ceremony, some villagers distributed the meat, kola nuts and money among the participants. The amount of money a participant received depended on his status. The Imam received 100 Fcfa, an active participant 20 Fcfa and a passive participant 5 Fcfa. 2. Ceremonies on the occasion of birth, marriage and death Besides common prayers, life-crisis rituals made the village population, or at least a part of it, come together and carry out a common activity. If a new baby was born, a marriage took place or somebody died, the families concerned held the appropriate rituals and the other villagers were obliged to attend. These ritual occasions were, of course, not a joint effort by the village community like a rok’o. Nevertheless, when a family organised such an event, kinsmen, neighbours and friends were supposed to participate and it also befitted all other villagers to attend these rituals. There was, however, a stronger obligation to participate in the rok’o than to participate in the life-crisis rituals, as a rok’o was a joint effort by the village community, whereas the life-crisis rituals were held by families. Who would actually attend the ritual ceremonies thus depended on many factors. Whether a villager would attend a life-crisis ritual depended, for instance, on his relationship with the family involved. A ceremony in a mai gari’s household or in a family with many members attracted more people. When, however, Fatima gave birth to a child, hardly anybody participated. The child’s father had divorced her, lived in Garin Gabas and did not arrive in time. So everybody had to wait for him and after a while most peasants left for the field. When a bikin suna, a naming ceremony, was to take place in the northern quarter of Kimoram, I actually had to remind Musa and Malam Yakuba of the event, because both of them had forgotten it. However, when somebody had died, the event required all villagers to

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step back from their occupations, to attend the funeral and to offer their condolences. For purposes of illustration, I will very roughly describe a communal ritual performed after childbirth, the naming ceremony bikin suna.33 Such a ceremony takes place one week after the child has been born. If it is the first-born child, the ceremony takes place in the house of the husband’s father. If it is a second- or third-born child, the ceremony is held in the husband’s house. The mother’s side, i. e. her father, contributes groundnut oil for the preparation of waina (fried millet cakes) and soap. The father’s side, be it the child’s paternal grandfather or the baby’s father, contributes a ram, kola nuts, money and pays for the barber. At the beginning of the ceremony I participated in, the Imam arrived at the compound. Separately from the community which came together to attend the party, he bestowed the name onto the baby, the ram was slaughtered and the barber shaved the boy’s head. In the meantime, the men who had come to attend the ceremony gathered in front of the compound and under a tree. The women who wanted to attend the ceremony gathered inside the compound. They brought millet gruel, fankasu (fried wheat cakes) or money. However, the women came later because they first had to prepare the food at home. Having performed his duties in the compound, the Imam left the compound and joined the men. They collectively uttered the fatiha and the Imam informed the men of the child’s name. The family then distributed the waina, the kola nuts and the money among the participants. Only the more important office holders and the elder members received a waina. Money and kola nuts were distributed according to social status. The father’s family received the major part of the ram’s meat, but the women who came to participate, the child’s grandparents and some older people also received a share. In the meantime, the father received money contributions from kinsmen and friends. 3. Self-regulation Despite the lack of a village head, the village had mechanisms of self-regulation. I will briefly illustrate this point. At the end of the rainy season, when people harvest the cowpeas on their fields and have some money, musicians begin to tour the area. They stop by in different villages. In the evening, the musicians play the drums at the dandali, the dancing place of the village where they happen to be. One day in 2009, a group of musicians stopped by in Garin Dengi. Adolescents, younger married men and women from Kimoram and neighbouring villages attended the occasion. The musicians beat the drums and the girls danced while the young men watched them. If a younger man is looking for a girl, be it 33 On the financial aspects of bikin suna in Gomba village, see Kilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 135–6). For the description of the rite as it was carried out in the 20ies in Northern Nigeria, see Smith ([1954] 1981: 140).

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for marriage or for some other reason known only to him, he can call her. She decides then if she wants to talk to him or not. She can talk to him directly at the dancing ground or they can go for a walk in the bush in order to have their conversation in a place where nobody disturbs them and to do things known only to them.34 However, boys compete for girls and tensions can arise that set the youths of different villages against each other. Moreover, the musicians can play a role in aggravating the tensions. They accept money from young men and drum a take, a rhythm that serves to allude to another person and thus to mock him. The person being mocked might be completely unaware of what is happening, but he might also know. According to some youths from Kimoram, this is what happened in Garin Dengi. In the evening, the musicians played the drums and also take to the detriment of some participants. This resulted in open shouting and insults between two groups. Fortunately, so the young men from Kimoram said, these tensions did not result in a wooden war (yak’in icce), with people being beaten with wooden sticks. The next day, the young men in Kimoram discussed the outburst of emotions and a consensus developed among a large proportion of them that the musicians should not come to Kimoram to play their music in the evening. The consensus was endorsed by the adult men as well. In this way the village hoped to prevent tensions between the younger men, and thus safeguarded peace through public discourse. Similarly, as I have mentioned before, the different core kinship groups discussed issues of common concern in the evenings, and their members could also join other groups and bring up their issues or points of view. This was equally conducive to finding a common stance among the villagers (cf. Raynaut 1972: 257), and part of the process of self-regulation in the village. Nevertheless, the offices of the Imam and mai gari also played a role in selfregulation. Musa told me, for instance, that Sani and Malam Magaji once had a severe conflict which resulted in violence. The Imam then tried to reconcile them. In case conflicts arose, the villagers could also rely on the village headmen to find a solution. As I have described before, a mai gari once decided that a fine had to be paid after a woman had beaten a young girl. 4. Village assemblies The village could also meet for a village assembly.35 This, however, seemed only rarely to be the case. The only village assemblies which I witnessed took 34 Cf. Smith ([1954] (1981: 25): “Unmarried girls are courted privately and at public ceremonial give-aways, over which certain praise-singers and drummers preside, both with a view to marriage and the institutionalized pre-marital love-making known as tsarance.” 35 Neither Kilani and Waziri Mato (2000) nor Raynaut (1972) who wrote monographs on villages report about village assemblies.

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place when an entity from outside the village demanded a response from the village as a whole. Development agents working for the Irish development agency Goal appeared in Kimoram one day and wanted to ask the village community what they needed most for their village economy. Thus an outside “stimulus” had been created to summon the villagers. However, as the development agents had not announced their arrival, only the men who happened to be in the village at that time came together for an ad hoc village assembly. Similarly, when school agents came to Kimoram to propose to the villagers the foundation of a school there, a village assembly should have taken place. This was not convened, however, as a villager approached them and spoke to them, as I could witness, on behalf of the village community while the other villagers were on their fields. Although he was not authorized by the other villagers, he told the functionaries that the village did not want to have a school and the functionaries left. Not all villagers were entitled to participate in village assemblies. This right was a privilege of the adult male household heads who were at least about 35 years old. 5. Formal organisations: cereal bank and water pump If one counts the existence of written rules as a sign of formality, the village did not have formal organisations of its own.36 However, a development agency had created two formal organisations and staffed them with village members. I could not find out, however, the name of the development agency as the villagers did not remember it and could only find a part of the written documents which the agency had given them. Some years before I came to Kimoram, a development agency proposed to build a cereal bank and install a water pump. They requested that the villagers meet and organise according to the agency’s guidelines. The villagers who wanted to participate in the cereal bank had to become members and pay a fee. They also had to elect a steering committee. The same applied to the water pump. Anyone who wanted to participate also had to become a member, pay a fee and elect members for the steering committee. The development agency then built the bank and installed the pump. This created two organisations in Kimoram, that of the cereal bank and that of the water pump. In the later part of the rainy season, a large proportion of the village population usually ran short of food. As this was a general phenomenon in the region, the demand for food on the market rose while supplies diminished. As a corollary of this, food prices rose as well and it became more and more difficult for the needy to buy food. The cereal bank offered an alternative. It was stocked with

36 On the intervention of a development project in rural Hausaland see Kilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 143–159).

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millet and the villagers who had joined the initiative could take millet from the bank as a loan. After the harvest, they had to pay back a slightly larger amount of millet than they had received. The millet supply in the cereal bank would thus rise over time and the village community would become more and more independent from market supply. The steering committee administered the cereal bank. The water pump was organised in a similar manner. Those who wanted to use the water paid a small contribution every month. The steering committee of the water pump collected the money and would use it if the pump needed to be repaired. The steering committees comprised several members who served different functions and were to control each other. In the steering committee for the cereal bank, one member was, for instance, responsible for keeping an account of the loans given and the grain returned. This office was held by Issubu. Another one measured the millet given out to the members. Issubu also held this office. A third one should keep the money that belonged to the cereal bank. Again, this was Issubu. A fourth one kept the key to the cereal bank and the project documentation. This was Mamman. A fifth one functioned as the head of the steering committee. This was Halilu. The members of the water pump steering committee were other villagers, although some villagers held offices in both committees. The development agency which had established the cereal bank in Kimoram had founded nine cereal banks in the region and set up a supervising committee in Zangon Fulani. Its members had to supervise and give advice to the members of the steering committees in the villages. Two members of each steering committee had also received training in Garin Gabas, where they were taught how to successfully run a cereal bank or a water pump. When I first came to Kimoram, however, both institutions had largely ceased to work. The water pump had broken down after some time and the steering committee did not have enough money to have the pump repaired. After a while, children had thrown stones into the water tube and development workers who came to repair the water pump said that it could not be mended. The villagers then drew their water from their wells again. The cereal bank had also stopped working. Many peasants had taken loans until the stocks were rather depleted but they did not pay back the millet. So the millet supply in the cereal bank diminished. Moreover, one of the villagers, Issubu, who was responsible for keeping the record, measuring the millet and taking care of the money, had embezzled a major amount of money and disappeared to Potiskum in Nigeria. He had opened a bakery there and now served as a relay for villagers from Kimoram who went to Potiskum during the slack period. He did not come back to Kimoram but sent his wife to Kimoram to cultivate his fields. As one man in the village told me, others had also embezzled money and millet. When I came to Kimoram, not much millet was left in the cereal bank.

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During my second stay, some villagers wanted to open the cereal bank at the end of the rainy season and give out the remaining stocks as loans. Before the cereal bank opened again, the members of the cereal bank met and discussed the procedure. The idea came up to use the Qur’an as an efficient remedy against those who would not abide by the rules. The Qur’an should be laid out while loans were taken. However, some villagers were opposed to this idea and, as I have mentioned before, I witnessed how Sani argued loudly against this idea. Musa supposed that Sani was afraid that the Qur’an’s power would not differentiate between the former and a future breaking of rules and that the Qur’an would possibly strike him because he had previously embezzled millet. At the end of my second stay, in 2007, the members of the supervising committee in Zangon Fulani summoned the heads of the steering committees of the cereal banks to Zangon Fulani. They told them that a development agency wanted to fill their cereal banks again, but they also spread the news that they were able to persecute whosoever had embezzled money and left for Nigeria. Halilu was evidently afraid of this, as I saw in his face when he spoke to me. Mamman announced that he wanted to figure out who owed millet and money to the cereal bank. The members of the cereal bank also held a meeting. In the course of the discussions, they spoke about the use of the Qur’an as a remedy against misuse, they made fun of Halilu, they discussed the possibility of excluding elder members from the cereal bank and Halilu defended himself by attributing the decline of the bank to the difficult environmental conditions. Finally, some members ironically gave Halilu the advice to extricate himself from his difficulties by talking. After his next journey to Zangon Fulani, Halilu reported that he had told the supervisors that the cereal bank was working well. Shortly after that, the supervisors made a tour through the region’s villages. They also came to Kimoram. They said that they wanted to collect information about the state the cereal banks were in. They asked about the name of the members of the steering committee, about the amount of millet in the cereal bank and the outstanding debts. When they heard that Issubu held three offices in the steering committee, one of them concluded that he must have moved to Nigeria. After that, two of the supervisors disappeared from my view, while one continued to converse with me. After a while, the three of them left Kimoram. According to Musa, the supervisors received answers to their questions, although the answers were wrong. Halilu and Mamman pretended that the outstanding debts were far lower than they actually were. Moreover, Mamman had given each of them 5000 Fcfa out of the savings of the cereal bank – for their efforts. The supervisors had not even glimpsed inside the cereal bank. Fears about the prosecution of embezzlement did not seem to have disappeared after the supervisors’ visit to Kimoram. Mamman urged Musa and Dahiru to pay back the 1000 Fcfa debt each of them had with the cereal bank. Musa discussed the issue with me and finally refused to pay because he expected Mamman to spend the money for his own purposes.

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When I came back to Kimoram for my third stay, I was told that the development agency had, among other things, filled the cereal bank again and also repaired the water pump. Two new steering committees had also been elected. After some days, two members of the new steering committees went to Garin Gabas to be trained in administering a cereal bank. A lorry arrived and left sacks of rice in front of the cereal bank. After that, Halilu said, the development agents sold the villagers the official documents of the cereal bank for 1000 Fcfa. Some days later, a car passed through all the villages which had received rice and collected a contribution of 70,000 Fcfa. This was meant, a villager said, for the political authorities like the maire and the sous-préfet.37 6. Self-regulation again The villagers had different relations to the cereal bank. Some had taken greater loans and had not reimbursed them, others were due smaller loans, and others had paid back their loans. The steering committee had not done its job properly. Everybody deplored the demise of the cereal bank and some even accused other villagers, whose names they did not tell me, of having ruined the cereal bank. However, no open conflict ensued. When the members held their meeting before Halilu went to Zangon Fulani, they did not start to quarrel or to openly criticize other participants to the assembly. People made fun of Halilu, but nobody was accused. The members rather laughed together from time to time. However, self-regulation at the village level occurred again. Some villagers saw the need for reform. They conceived of two initiatives, one of which was later implemented. Both projects were based, however, on an interpretation of the situation which Musa explained to me in the following manner. According to Musa, the major flaw of the cereal bank was that the elder members of the village participated in it, as ordinary members as well as members of the steering committee.38 The elder members, he said, grew up together and would not sanction each other when breaking the rules. And nor would anyone else in the village, the younger men or the women, dare to criticize or sanction the elder 37 For a description of a cereal bank that was run successfully, see Khilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 150–4). Both authors seem to collect their information, however, through the interview. Against the backdrop of the experiences in Kimoram, it seems as if it had been advisable to complement this approach with other methods. Verne (2007: 236–47), however, describes how and why a cereal bank in Berberkia-village failed. 38 Correspondingly, Kilani and Waziri Mato (2000: 158–9) identify the interlacing of the generational structure of the village and the egalitarian structure of the fishing cooperative in Gomba village as a major problem in the functioning of the latter: “C’est ainsi que l’on peut comprendre l’attitude des six coopérateurs les plus anciens qui, en contre-partie de leur savoir-faire qu’ils font partager aux novices, ont estimé être en droit de bénéficier en premier du matériel technique de pêche dont le projet a doté la coopérative et d’avoir un regard plus direct sur le déroulement des affaires de la coopérative.”

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villagers. In his view, the involvement of the older generation and their position at the apex of an intricate net of relationships in the village thus seemed to be at the root of the problem. Another young villager gave me the same interpretation independently from Musa. The first initiative brought together some younger men. They had met shortly before my third stay to discuss the project of establishing an independent cereal bank run by the younger ones only. The young men wanted to contribute 1000 Fcfa each. They wanted to use the money to buy millet at a low price after the rainy season and to store it until the dry season began. They would then sell the millet at a higher price and thus generate a surplus. The capital earned would be invested in new millet, but also in an ox cart and a bull. By running the cereal bank successfully, the young men further hoped to attract development agencies to intervene in their village. Musa wanted to run the cereal bank without elder men, as younger villagers would not shy away from criticizing and sanctioning each other. To supply further evidence for his thesis, that the involvement of the elders would prove detrimental, he pointed out that neither young men nor any women were indebted to the cereal bank that already existed. Ultimately, the younger men’s initiative did not take off. One reason for this might have been that the older cereal bank had been refilled by the development agency in the meantime and had already started to work. However, the idea that the elders should not participate in the cereal bank was implemented in the organisation of the newly stuffed cereal bank, too. The members of the newly established cereal bank thus excluded Mamman from the steering committee. This coup had been prepared by Musa and other young men. A first sign of what would follow was that Baba Mai Gatari came to Musa’s house one day and told him that he thought it better for the old men not to participate in the cereal bank anymore. Shortly after that, Mamman was actually dethroned. This happened when the members of the cereal bank gathered to put the newly delivered sacks of rice into the bank. Mamman was there as well. I can’t remember who brought up this idea, but Mamman was suddenly confronted with the suggestion that he should step down. He became angry and argued that it was the elder men who guaranteed reason and patience in administering the cereal bank. However, the members did not change their mind and Mamman finally accepted that his time as a member of the steering committee was over. After Mamman had resigned, only members of the younger generation held offices in the steering committee. No members held several offices and Musa was a member of the committee as well. It was his duty to investigate if problems arose, and Musa had to remove any member from the cereal bank if he committed a serious error. The villagers also tried to find divine protection for their cereal bank. They held a rok’o and asked God to ensure that whoever embezzled goods from the cereal bank would vomit and would have the body of a badly nourished person.

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7. School and self-regulation As noted above, state functionaries had come to Kimoram several times to ask the villagers if they agreed with the establishment of a primary school. As some villagers said, the village was divided over this question along the north-south divide and could not reach a consensus. As such, no school was established. This gave rise to another process of self-regulation. A part of the village population was not content with this situation. Villagers who lived in the southern part of Kimoram wanted a school to be established. As I have said before, my presence and my ability to write letters incited Musa to launch an initiative for the establishment of a school during my second stay. He first inquired into the official procedures a village community would have to follow if they wanted to apply for a primary school. After that, he repeatedly toured the village in the evening and asked the household heads if they were willing to send their children to school. Next, he asked me to write down the names of these children and to write a letter to the maire. He took the letter to mai gari Adamu in Kanobo, who signed it, and Musa finally took it to the maire in Garin Gabas. Later, so Musa told me, he had asked the maire if he had forwarded the demand. The maire, however, only assured him that he had stored the demand safely on a shelf. 8. Musa’s community work Musa was, as we have seen, involved in a number of ways in village life. He participated, for instance, in communal prayers. Musa considered it obligatory for each member of the village to contribute to communal prayers as they served the well-being of all villagers. In his view, any villager who did not participate gave God a reason not to provide the goods that the praying villagers asked God for. Musa also participated in life-crisis rituals. However, his participation in ceremonies of birth and marriage depended on the relationship he had with the parents or couple. Furthermore, Musa engaged in the communal project of the cereal bank. Here, he did not simply assume responsibility for an office. Instead he was one of the major agents who tried to reform the cereal bank and develop an institution which would function properly. He was thus one of the younger men who developed a plan for an independent cereal bank, and he was involved in the coup against Mamman, in the course of which the latter had been removed from the steering committee. Musa then became a member of the steering committee himself. Musa also worked towards the establishment of a primary school. His selective participation in life-crisis rituals reflected the scope and weight of his social relations as well as his own interests. However, Musa’s commitment to the communal prayers, the school and the cereal bank was also motivated by another wish that served as a kind of undercurrent for his behaviour in community-related matters. Musa was the son of the Imam of Kimoram. As he took great interest in Islamic scholarship and pride in his religion, he would have

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liked to follow his father and take over the office in due time. As a potential candidate for the office, he had to qualify by showing his concern for the community, by strengthening community ties and by furthering the community’s wellbeing. Musa could not, however, admit openly that he actually had the wish to become Imam one day. He was not the only aspirant to the office and he had to defer to those candidates who were older than him. When Musa once enumerated the aspirants who preceded him, he put himself in fourth place and told me that he felt this order was right. Once, however, he entered his compound where I already was. He had paid a visit to several households in the village. Birds had come to Kimoram and were feeding heavily on the millet. Musa wanted to collect money and invite a malam from the north who was famous for his ability to chase away birds. The malam would perform a ritual on a bird and, as soon as the bird took off, all of the birds in the vicinity would fly away as well. Musa had won support for his idea and entered his compound like a person who was relieved, happy and victorious. He forcefully uttered commands to Mariama, as if he felt no constraint anymore. I told him that the idea of becoming a community leader was evidently on his mind. From then on, he did not pretend anymore to be only a modest potential candidate for the Imam’s office when he was speaking with me. This episode showed that the motive of becoming Imam of Kimoram also lay behind Musa’s commitment to community matters. Musa’s commitment to community matters seems, at first glance, to have been for the sake of the village community’s welfare. However, other motives more closely related to him and to his family also played a role in explaining his behaviour. It is difficult, though, to measure the respective weight of the different motives in inducing his behaviour. It is, at the same time, not possible to put his behaviour in community related matters down to his more narrowly defined selfinterests. Musa’s attempts at extricating himself and his family from poverty also contained an altruistic element, as they were a form of taking care of his children. So commitment to the community might well have been a value sphere for Musa which did not derive its validity for him from the personal advantages he might draw from it. The hypothesis that his role in communal prayers and in launching the communal projects also reflected his willingness to assume responsibility for the community would still be further corroborated by what I would like to say on Musa’s value orientation and the status and role of values in Musa’s life in chapter E. III. Without being able to prove it, I would thus strongly argue for the plausibility of the hypothesis that he was a person for whom the community’s well-being counted irrespective of his own benefit, and that this informed his behaviour, too. As we have seen, the village was not a neatly knit community but one with strong dissipative tendencies. Musa characterized this situation by saying “the village is a market” (gari kasuwa ne). The metaphor highlights a lack of mutual binding between the members of the village. By comparing the village with a

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market, Musa not only pointed out the lack of mutual binding in the village, but also deplored it. His vision of a village implied greater cooperation among the villagers than could actually be found among them. This wish for greater integration of the village corresponded with Musa’s identification with his village. Despite all the difficulties of living together in the village, Musa defined himself as a villager from Kimoram and took some pride in being from the village of Kimoram. Correspondingly, ‘being from Kimoram’ was one of the first things he mentioned when I asked him what he would answer if somebody asked him who he was. 9. Friends and relations in the wider region Musa lived together with Mariama and his children, had a close relationship with his father, maintained relations with his parents-in-law and was a member of his home village and engaged in village affairs. Moreover, he had friends and a wide array of different contacts in the wider region. Hausa, as it is spoken in Kimoram, differentiates between different kinds of friends.39 Firstly, there are friends, a word for whom does not seem to exist or I do not know, people whom one simply knows and is happy to see or meet. When such friends meet, they greet each other cheerfully and engage in conversation, but they do not play a substantial role in each other’s everyday life. Such friends are rather well-liked acquaintances. Secondly, a soba (pl. sabai) is a friend with whom one likes to do something together, such as travel. What binds the sabai together is not so much the purpose of socializing. It is rather the fact that doing things together is convenient and enjoyable for them. The third category is that of aboki (pl. abokai). An aboki is similar to what is denoted by the term friend. Whereas being a soba implies some form of common activity, being an aboki is a less aim-oriented kind of socializing. One enjoys spending one’s time with an aboki for its own sake. However, there are also limits to trust and closeness in relations between abokai. None of the participants in an aboki relationship knows everything about the other; they still have secrets which they hide from each other. The participants in an amini (pl. aminai) relationship, however, do not keep secrets from each other. Aminai tell each other the truth and trust each other completely. The two latter Hausa terms also place an emphasis on the emotional side of being with a friend. If one spends a long time with an amini, this is deeply felt and his departure creates a feeling of loss (kewa). This may be the same for abokai who separate, but not to the same extent. An aboki or amini relationship also implies solidarity, the exchange of gifts and mutual help, albeit to different degrees. This does not exclude lending or borrowing money either. In fact helping 39 Cf. Nicolas (1975: 185 ff.) and Raynaut (1972: 205–6) for the region around Maradi.

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the other financially might even be the epitome of friendship. As an aboki might, however, still have secrets, one cannot be certain that one’s aboki is really in need of money, if he asks for it. If one’s amini asks for money, one knows that he really is in need. Musa had friends in and around Kimoram who belonged to the first category of friends. One day, for instance, when Musa and I went to the field, we met a buzu who lived in the vicinity of Kimoram. They met each other by chance, greeted each other cheerfully and exchanged news about their families and their fields. Later on, when we came back from the fields in the afternoon, we met the buzu again. Musa and the buzu engaged in conversation. The buzu told us some evidently invented or distorted stories about his work in a European’s house, he gave Musa a melon and we continued on our way back to the village. The buzu belonged in the first category, as Musa never made an effort to pay him a visit or to travel together with him. Their interactions took place during accidental encounters only. Issu, however, was among Musa’s sabai. Issu also regularly went to Nimari and they were part of the same group of migrants there. When they were both in Kimoram they did not pay each other visits, but occasionally spent time together in the village lane in front of their huts when circumstance brought them together. Musa also had abokai, but less so, as far as I could see, in the village than in the region. Musa spoke about an aboki whom he got to know in Nigeria and who lived some kilometres to the west of Kimoram. When Musa once had to go to a village nearby in order to participate in a ritual, he took a detour on his way back and paid his aboki a visit. Similarly, he once told me about a friend whom he got to know in Nigeria. They felt, Musa said, at ease with each other and wherever they went, they went together. This friend once paid him a visit in Kimoram, but they have lost contact with each other since then. However, I did not know about any amini of his in Kimoram. Once, Musa said that Adamu and Ali were his aminai in Kimoram, but I never saw them spending time together. So I did not understand why he classified both of them as aminai. When I asked him, he replied that they spent much time in his compound during the slack period. I do not know if Musa had an amini outside of Kimoram. Whereas Musa seemed to have been well integrated into his close family circle and his kinship group, his network of relations thus showed a remarkable lack of friends in the village. Relationships with friends are elective relations and can thus be created and dissolved over time. In contrast to a husband-wife relationship, they do not necessarily imply density of interaction and strong mutual binding. Instead they offer a wide array of possibilities to live them. They can easily develop, quickly

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change their features and just as easily vanish, but they can also last and deepen. Musa had much experience of building up relationships with friends, seeing the relationships change and seeing them vanish as well. An example is his relationship with Mu’azu. Some years ago, Musa and Mu’azu went to Diffa together. Both of them sold fried wheat balls at the market. However, he said that after a while he noticed that Mu’azu enjoyed it when he made a greater profit than Musa or if Musa was unable to sell all of his wheat balls. Since this journey, Musa had not left for labour migration with Mu’azu anymore. Mu’azu ceased to be his soba. Musa’s relationship to Kyari was shifting as well. In former times, Musa said, he and Kyari had been closer to each other. But after a while, Musa had the impression that Kyari, although a moral person, ‘only talked’. Relationships with friends in the village could be explored, developed or neglected on the basis of day-to-day interaction. Friendships in the wider region were more difficult to maintain. When Musa went to Nimari, he could reasonably expect to meet his friends and acquaintances there. Others, however, were simply out of reach for many years, as was his friend with whom he had worked at the motor park in Diffa in previous years, and whom he had once met by chance at the market in Garin Gabas. Musa was aware of the fact that relationships that were not maintained through continuous interaction would erode over time. Musa took a conscious stance towards this ‘danger’. He held on to these relationships and assumed that, if he met his friends again, both sides would be eager to continue their relationship. He said that he would give up the relationship only if it turned out that both sides had become alienated from each other. But he would not discontinue a relationship just because he did not see and meet the person for a long time. However, as the networks of mobile phone companies began to cover the region around Kimoram in 2008, it was now easier to keep in touch with those who were living elsewhere. He said that he now expected his friends to keep in touch with him by telephone. As friendship does not exclude financial transactions between those involved in the relationship, friendship was also of economic importance for Musa. Friendship might develop into common economic projects or into financial assistance. When Musa came back from visiting his friend to the west of Kimoram, for instance, his friend had proposed that they both travel to the north after harvest time and offer their services as malamai.

VII. Labour Migration Everthing I have described so far took place in Kimoram. As Musa was, however, not able to feed his family with his field produce, he went to Nigeria for labour migration. Many villagers from Kimoram were in the same situation as Musa. And so it was that a major part of Kimoram’s male population left the

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village every year, especially during the slack period, when there was no work to be done on the fields. The villagers from Kimoram were, of course, not the only peasants who left Niger and went to Nigeria during the slack period. There are millions of Nigerien peasants who migrate south every year. They stay in a variety of places in Nigeria. Most of them carry water, polish shoes, fry food at the motor parks, hawk bread and tea, offer herbal medicine or work as night watchmen in factories or mines. The Nigerien peasants’ labour migration is not a recent practice, but was established long ago. Grégoire (1990: 80) reports on migration to Maradi in colonial times, and Freund (personal communication) knows of labour migration to Central Nigerian tin mines in pre-colonial times. Moreover, population movement across the border between Niger and Nigeria also occurred in past times. Baier (1980: 104) mentions that part of the population in the Central Sudan fled French rule and moved into Nigeria. Hausa seasonal migration has, however, hardly, been studied in detail and from an ethnographic perspective. Although Cohen (1969) deals with Hausa migrants to Yoruba towns, he is mainly interested in the Hausa diaspora and hardly in seasonal migration. Rossi (2014) also deals with a specific way of travelling into a foreign country, a way, however, which is different from that of the peasants from Kimoram. The peasants from Kimoram usually either went to Gombe, Potiskum or Nimari. They all did the same job. They worked as masu shayi (sg. mai shayi; literally ‘someone who has tea’), meaning they hawked bread and tea while roaming the streets. If a migrant labourer from Kimoram went to Nigeria for the first time, he usually accompanied a kinsman or fellow villager who was already acquainted with the town or area. Musa also did this when he went to Nigeria as a migrant labourer for the first time. This happened fifteen years earlier, and he came to Nimari then. The villagers might try out different places, for instance Gombe in the first year and Nimari in the second, but they usually decided on one place and went there every time they came to Nigeria. They returned to the same places for a number of reasons. Some left behind their working equipment, they knew where to stay overnight and their business depended on established social relationships. Moreover, they preferred to stay together with other villagers from Kimoram and thus had to go to the same destinations every year. In Nimari, there were also labour migrants from other villages in the vicinity of Kimoram. Some, for instance, came from Manga villages like Kanobo, the neighbouring village to the south of Kimoram. Labour migrants from the area around Kimoram were concentrated in Nimari because the first labour migrant who came to Nimari was a brother of the mai gari of Kanobo. Other migrant labourers followed suit and stayed with him during their time in Nimari. After a while, however, the villagers from Kimoram dissociated themselves from him and became affiliated with Malam Isa, with whom they established a patron-client

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relationship. Malam Isa owned a bakery and the villagers exclusively sold his bread. In return, they were permitted to stay in a room on the bakery’s premises and in a room Malam Isa had rented for them. In 2010/11, the only exception was Sani Dogo, who had brought his whole family to Nimari and rented a house there. Nor were the villagers from the area around Kimoram the only migrant labourers from Niger in Nimari. Others, also Hausa speakers, came from the area around Zermou, and others from the area around Maradi. Besides that, there were migrant labourers from within Nigeria. Many migrant labourers came from Kano State, also Hausa speakers, who sold tea, cut hair and fingernails. Moreover, there were Fulb’e migrant labourers from Gombe State who herded cattle in the bush nearby. Migrant labourers from Kimoram differed in terms of the use labour migration had for them. The majority of the migrant labourers from Kimoram lived in Niger permanently and came to Nigeria for a certain period to earn money and return home. Their focus lay on their families in Niger. They did not maximize their profits in Nigeria, because they spent less time in Nigeria than they could. Musa belonged to this category of migrant labourers. There were a small number of peasants, however, for whom migrant labour to Nigeria played a different role. Malam Magaji’s eldest son, for instance, spent most of the year in Nigeria and only returned home for a short period in order to cultivate the fields. He wanted to earn as much money as possible in Nigeria. Issubu, however, had shifted his residence to Nigeria. He had embezzled money from the cereal bank in Kimoram, left for Potiskum and opened a bakery there. He stayed in Nigeria throughout the year; Nigeria was his refuge. According to an informant, many bakeries in Nigeria were owned by migrants from Niger. I suppose that some of the labour migrants from Niger had first worked as masu shayi, then tried to develop their business, opened a tebur, i. e. a table where people could rest and take breakfast, and later tried to establish a bakery. 1. Nimari Nimari is about 1000 kilometres from Kimoram. I estimate its size as between 7000 and 8000 inhabitants. Nimari is a town in Plateau State, one of the 36 member states which, together with the Federal Capital Territory of Abuja, form the Federal Republic of Nigeria. Nimari belongs to one of the seventeen local governments Plateau State comprises. Each local government has an elected local government council. Its chairman is the Chief Executive of the local government. About forty ethnic-linguistic groups live in Plateau State. Nimari, too, is a multi-ethnic town. According to some inhabitants of Nimari, the first settlers were Ankwai. Later, Doemak, Kwalla, Bwol and Merniang who originated from

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further north (see Netting 1973: 35–54 for an overview of the ethnic groups in the area) came to Nimari as well, settled there and founded their own quarters. All these groups engaged in agriculture and the Ankwai granted them access to land. According to my informants, the land is still largely controlled by the Ankwai. This state of affairs seems to have been in place for some time: “Of late years, the Kwolla, Dimmuk, and Merniang peoples have been paying small amounts, in grain, to the Ankwe people in respect of farms by the tribesmen on land which the Ankwe claimed as belonging to them.” (Fitzpatrick 1910: 51).

Furthermore, a so-called ‘traditional chief ’, sarki, resides in Nimari (cf. Danfulani n.d.: 13). This position was vacant at the time of research, but was held by an Ankwai before. The other ethnic groups, it was explained to me, have ward heads who represent their ethnic group to the chief. In later times, members of other ethnic groups came to Nimari as well, among them Igbo, Hausa and Fulani. These, however, do not have their own quarters and they do not engage in agricultural production. The inhabitants of Nimari are either Muslims or Christians. The borders between these religions, however, do not follow ethnic lines but cut across them. So some Doemak and some Ankwai are, for instance, Muslims and some Christians. The area around Nimari is fertile. The peasants grow yam, cassava, sorghum, and oil palms. Yam is produced in surplus and traded in four different markets in Nimari. Traders come from faraway places like Maiduguri, Enugu or Lagos in order to buy the yam in Nimari. Trade is facilitated by a tarred road running from Lafia in the west to Wikura in the east. In recent decades, many parts of Plateau State have been the scene of severe conflicts. Often the interests of first comers and latecomers collide with each other, and these conflicts evolve into violent clashes which leave many dead (see, for instance, Higazi 2008, Krause 2011). And this is what happened in Nimari in 2005 and 2006. According to Musa and another informant from Nimari, the chief was killed in the course of the fighting, as were many Ankwai. My informants spoke of 700 killings. Many houses were destroyed, among them the king’s palace. After these riots, the state garrisoned an army unit in Nimari, which was supposed to suppress further riots and had been there ever since. In 2008, as another informant told me, rumours spread that tensions would rise again and killings were planned. He continued that the army then occupied “every corner” of Nimari and the town remained calm. However, according to my informants the state did not punish the culprits (cf. Danfulani n.d.: 6). This meant that they still lived side by side with the victims’ kinsmen, a situation that my informants also confirmed. No successor to the last king had been appointed at the time of research. There were, one might conclude, understandably many tensions and frustrations among the inhabitants of Nimari. This corresponded, at least, to some

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superficial impressions I had in Nimari. Many buildings that had been destroyed had not yet been rebuilt and gave the central area of Nimari a warlike atmosphere. I was also struck by an eerie silence as I walked through the northern area of Nimari in the evening. I once participated in a record release party at the motor park in Nimari, where about 150 young men and women from Nimari had gathered. The musicians explained the message of their music as speaking out against violence and mutual killing. At least, in my view, much frustration and hopelessness poured from the eyes of the event’s participants. There is also a police station in Nimari. As far as I could see, three policemen worked there to maintain order. In keeping with what one might expect, the police declared that there were many problems to be solved in Nimari. As part of a strategy to contain these problems, the police held regular meetings with a selected group of Nimari’s inhabitants. Malam Isa, the owner of the bakery who hosted the peasants from Kimoram, took part in these meetings. As the army only served to forestall riots and the police seemed to be severely understaffed, the state left a void in terms of surveillance and maintenance of order in Nimari. This void is filled by different youth organisations. Each of the four major ethnic groups in Nimari “has” such an organisation. According to one informant, these organisations survey their respective quarter and perceive themselves as institutions which keep the order in town. My informant added, however, that it was rather the unemployed and drug addicts from the younger generation who gathered in these organisations. They would make the local population and the market traders pay them financial contributions, which they then would use to feed themselves and consume drugs. Also, as this informant said, the members of these youth organisations were under the control of the town’s rich and had also been involved in the killings. The void left by state institutions is not only filled by youth organisations, it is also taken advantage of by bandits and street robbers. On market day in Nimari or any of the other towns in the area, street robbers can block the roads and rob travellers. They do not refrain from using their weapons and shooting people. During my stay about eight people were reported to have been killed in such assaults. According to one informant, the street robbers are assumed to live in Nimari and to hide their guns in the bush. When they attack travellers, an army unit would deploy its soldiers and the robbers would withdraw into the bush. The soldiers would stay on the road, and the robbers would hide their guns and return home safely. Some years ago, the situation deteriorated to such an extent that Mohammad Ali K’wara intervened, a hunter who commanded a group of fighters, equipped with modern guns and vehicles. They allegedly chased street robbers, arrested them, handed them over to the police or executed them directly. The riots also had economic repercussions. My informants said that Nimari had experienced economic decay since the riots occurred. People were said to be

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afraid of new riots and to be moving out of town, and apparently new settlers would no longer come to Nimari. In a nutshell, this is the Nimari where Musa spent part of his slack period in order to earn money. I am not in a position to explain the riots which took place in Nimari, but the details partly conform to a general scheme that applies to many riots in Plateau State. Newcomers arrive and get access to land, which slowly becomes scarce. At the same time, the commercialisation of agricultural products makes land an even more valuable resource (cf. Eyoh 1997). Due to inefficient state services and inefficient local means of conflict prevention, growing tensions cannot be resolved at an early stage. Furthermore, state resources flow from above to the smaller administrative units. Control of an administrative unit or the creation of such a unit entitles the major ethnic group in the unit to draw on these resources. At a certain point, some actors start to pursue their interests in controlling land and state resources through violent means and the unemployed serve as a pool for those who want to exert violence. 2. Fieldwork in Nimari At the end of December 2010, I arrived in Nigeria and the villagers were still in Niger. I waited in Keffi, which lies some 50 kilometres to the east of Abuja, for about a week. The villagers then arrived in Nimari, and I also went to Nimari. I met them there one day after their arrival and spent six weeks with them before leaving again. I could not observe what happened during the villagers’ journey to Nimari and on the day before my arrival; I only know about this through what they told me. Given the situation described above, it was no surprise that my presence in the town aroused suspicion. The situation became difficult for me when an Ankwai who had been convicted of theft and served a sentence in prison came to see me. The Doemak youth reported his visit to the police and, one morning, I was summoned. The police told me that the Ankwai was a thief and they suspected me of having something to do with mischievous elements in Nimari. I do not know, however, if the fact that he was an Ankwai and that he had, as he said, lost nine relatives during the riots, might have been the real reason for the suspicions held by the Doemak youth. Fortunately, the police officer in charge listened to my explanations and believed what I said, which was that I was a university lecturer, that I came to work with the migrants from Niger and that this was my only purpose. He thus overruled the other policeman’s wish to simply make me leave the town, which the latter expressed quite frankly. In order to solve my problem of not being accepted, I proposed a meeting between leaders of the Doemak youth, the police and myself. The meeting was to be held in the afternoon, so I left the police station. In the meantime, the police summoned some people who had met me and talked to me in the days before.

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Among them was Malam Isa, the owner of the bakery where the peasants from Kimoram and I stayed. In the afternoon, the meeting took place and three Doemak youths tried to find fault with me and my documents – they spoke about expiry dates, missing information in my letter from Keffi University, my unexpected language skills, my previous stays in Africa, anything that might arouse suspicion. Nevertheless, with the support of the police officer I was able to convince the Doemak youth that I really was harmless. At the end of the meeting, the police officer added that there was still another reason for being suspicious of me, namely that I was affiliated with migrants from Niger. As he put it, Nigeria was undergoing many security problems that were due to migrants. They might even be involved in terrorist acts – Nigeria had experienced some bomb blasts immediately before my arrival in Nimari. After the meeting, I took the decision to refrain from anything which might shed a doubtful light on me. I did not want to be seen with the wrong people, nor did I wish to ask the wrong questions while in town. So I restricted the focus of my interactions to the migrants from Niger, and no longer went for walks in Nimari except when accompanied by the peasants or going to the market to fetch provisions. The fact that the Muslim traders at the yam market no longer wanted to shake hands with me after the meeting at the police station, made it even clearer to me that I should avoid any association with criminal elements or the police, which might always be interpreted as evidence of my own criminality. 3. The migrant labourers’ journey to Nimari As I have said before, Nimari is about 1000 km from Kimoram. The peasants made the journey within two days. On a Sunday, the villagers went to the market in Garin Gabas. In the afternoon, cars left from there to Zinder. The peasants stayed in Zinder overnight. The next morning, they took a bush taxi to Kano. The journey to Kano lasted about three hours. In Kano, they went from one motor park to another and took a bush taxi to Lafia in Nasarawa State. If no problems occurred, they would reach Lafia in the evening, take a car from Lafia to Nimari and arrive in Nimari in the night. The long journey and the intention to earn money implied a longer absence from home – sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months – and the decision to leave depended on several factors. Some labour migrants were under great pressure to earn money and leave early. Issu once had to spend the whole rainy season in Nimari as he did not have anything to eat during the cultivation period in Kimoram. Younger labour migrants who were still part of their father’s household could also leave earlier, as their brothers could replace them during the second weeding cycle. Others left later. Musa did not set off for Nimari immediately after bringing in the harvest in October 2010. This was partly due to the fact that he still had some work to do. Every year, the rain that fell in the rainy season and

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the wind that blew caused damage to the fences of the villagers’ compounds. So Musa repaired the fence of his compound. He also collected gumba (a grass used in the construction of granaries) for the granary of his parents-in-law and thus fulfilled his obligations towards them before his departure. These were ‘objective’ obstacles to his setting off, but he also had reasons of a rather ‘subjective’ nature. Firstly, he used the time in Kimoram in order to devote time to Qur’anic scholarship. He tried to memorize some verses from the Qur’an and also taught Mariama and the children the content of a publication which dealt with the right way to perform prayers. Secondly, I assume he did not want to leave his family. He did not say this explicitly. But when I was in Kimoram before, he told me how tired he was of long-distance travelling in the car and how much he would prefer to make a living in Kimoram. Moreover, I found him thinking of and missing his wife and his children several times when we were in Nimari. So, I assume that these more ‘subjective’ considerations postponed his departure for Nimari as well. In order to tide himself over for the period until his departure to Nimari, he borrowed an ox cart on Sundays, yoked his oxen and hauled some goods to the market in Garin Gabas. With the money earned, he could buy millet for his family and did not need to open his granary. However, after some months the time to go to Nimari had come. The long journey cost 15,000 Fcfa, which Musa did not have. Indebted as he was, he encountered some difficulties in raising money for the journey. As he said, nobody was willing to lend him money anymore. Finally, Alhaji Menau, in whose household Mariama had grown up, lent him 10,000 Fcfa for the journey and Mariama sold one of her goats. Musa packed his bag. He took three pairs of trousers and three gowns for prayer, a hat, two rosaries, a blanket, a pair of underpants and some medicine against sammo (evil medicine). Finally he, Aui, Hamidu and the latter’s younger brother, Ya’u, who was going to Nigeria for the first time, left for Nimari. As noted above, this was at the end of December 2010. One day after their arrival in Nimari, I arrived as well. 4. Getting started When Musa came to Nimari, he and the other villagers from Kimoram stayed, as I have said before, in Malam Isa’s bakery. The bakery was located in the western part of Nimari, the Merniang quarter. There was one room for them on the premises of the bakery, and Isa also rented another room for them nearby. Musa and I stayed in the room on the bakery’s premises. The chart shows the layout of the bakery. The bakery was a lively place, as the owner and the labourers stayed there for part of the day, their friends paid them visits, customers entered, passers-by used the latrine, women came and sold food, and prostitutes looked for customers. On their arrival, the villagers plunged into this setting. However the villagers, so they

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Diagram 5: Outline of the bakery, moli denotes the dough which has been formed into a certain shape.

told me, did not start work immediately as they were tired. They rested, greeted the people in the neighbourhood and engaged in conversation. Malam Isa sent them food. During the first days, he fed them before they started working and generating their own money. Musa began to make preparations for his work on the second day. As Musa wanted to hawk bread and tea in the streets, he needed equipment. I will now describe the different components. The working equipment consisted of a large kettle for storing herbal tea. When the villagers got up in the morning, Aui made herbal tea in three big pots and the villagers poured it into their kettles before going to town. Moreover, Musa needed what the villagers – to Malam Isa’s amusement – called a trela, thereby alluding to a trailer drawn by a lorry. A trela is a container for hot charcoal. It is fixed under the kettle and serves to keep the herbal tea hot. Musa also needed some additional ingredients for the herbal tea, cloves and ginger, which he would add to the tea once it had been poured into the kettle. Besides these utensils for storing, heating and improving tea, Musa also needed some consumer goods, a package of Lipton tea, a tin of Nescafé and a tin of Bournvita.40 Depending on their wishes, consumers might ask him to add them to the herbal tea. Furthermore, he needed sugar, tinned milk and milk powder, which some consumers might want him to add to the tea as well. He needed ten plastic cups to mix the ingredients and to serve the tea. Next, he needed a small bucket to store the sugar, a tin opener for the tinned milk, half an empty milk tin and a quarter of an empty milk tin to measure milk and two spoons for putting the ingredients in the tea and stirring it. Furthermore, he needed about ten 40

Bournvita resembles Ovomaltine.

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Photo 6: The working equipment.

loaves of bread, slices of which the consumers might want to eat while they drank their tea, and a knife to cut the bread. He also needed a sieve. When he poured the tea into the kettle, some herbs remained in it and when he poured the tea out of the kettle into the cups, he needed to sieve out the remaining herbs. He also needed a plastic bottle for water. He pierced a hole in its cap so that water would come out when he squeezed the bottle with his hands. He needed this for cleaning the cups after they had been used by customers. Finally, he needed a tray on which to put all his equipment, except for the kettle and the trela. The value of Musa’s working equipment equalled 4.745 naira. As noted above, Musa began to assemble his working equipment on the second day. He searched for and found the tray which he had used the year before. But he also had to buy part of the equipment, for instance the cups and the knife, which he bought in town. Then, he turned to Aminu. Aminu originated from Kimoram and had formerly worked as a mai shayi in Nimari. He had not returned to Kimoram for the last ten years. He owned a tebur and was a middleman for the masu shayi from Kimoram. He regularly went to Lafia and bought ingredients like Lipton tea or Bournvita in large quantities. He sold these products in smaller quantities to the different masu shayi. Aminu came to the bakery and Musa bought what he needed: Lipton tea, milk powder and sugar. This was supplemented by a present from Malam Isa, who gave every mai shayi from Kimoram a box with milk powder and other ingredients.

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Musa also needed his kettle. As Aminu was from Kimoram and their middleman, Musa said he had left his kettle with him the year before. Aminu, however, denied this. Musa then wanted to search for his kettle in Aminu’s house, but Aminu denied him access. The next day, Aminu came and gave Musa a kettle, but it leaked and had no trela. Musa accepted it, although he said that it was not his kettle. He rather suspected Aminu of having put his kettle to other uses. As the kettle was leaking, Musa had to get it repaired. He also needed a trela. Musa first went to another bakery in Nimari. It belonged to a relative of his former wife Mariam. However, the owner was not there and Musa could not find a trela on the bakery’s premises. Finally, Musa turned to Agadez, a craftsman from Niger, who worked on scrap metal. He and his friend repaired the leaking kettle and made a new trela for Musa. Finally, on the fourth day, Musa was ready to start working. 5. Daily routine Before sunrise, Aui had already lit the fire under the water pots to boil the tea. At sunrise or a little later, Musa got up, eased himself, performed alwala and entered the hut again to perform his prayers. There was usually much time before he had to start working. So he lay down on his mat and fell asleep again. After a while, he got up, fetched a bucket, drew water from the well and took a bath in the bakery’s bathroom. However, as it was the cold season, he did not take a bath every day. He felt more comfortable, he said, when he felt not too clean and not too dirty. In the meantime, the labourers who worked in the bakery had arrived and started working. Coming back from the bathroom, he entered his room and got dressed. He left the room again, looked for Mussuba’u, the bakery’s manager, and bought bread from the bakery’s storeroom, usually 10 loaves. He then poured tea from the pots into his kettle and put embers inside the trela. He arranged his working equipment, drank tea and ate a slice of bread, lifted the tray onto his head and left the bakery. It was about 7 a.m. by then. All the villagers from Kimoram did the same thing around this time of the day. Musa took the same way every day. He followed the road east. At this time of the day, the road was already busy. People passed by on motorbikes, some sat in front of their houses, some had opened their shops, and some loitered around. As Musa moved on, someone might call upon him. Musa approached the customer and the customer told him what he wanted, for example, tea with a Lipton bag, some milk powder, some sugar and a slice of bread. Sometimes, the customer would first inquire about the prices of the different ingredients and then decide what he would order. Musa put the tray on the ground and began to prepare the tea. He took a spoon. According to the customer’s wishes, he put some sugar and milk powder into a cup, which he then placed on the tray. He took another cup

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Photo 7: Musa has lifted the tray onto his head. He is carrying a kettle with a trela.

and poured tea from the kettle into it. He then held a cup in each hand and mixed the tea and the ingredients by lifting the cup with the tea and pouring the liquid into the other cup. While pouring the tea, he tried to increase the distance between both cups in order to cool down the tea. He repeated this process several times. He then handed over the tea to the customer. Next, he opened one of the plastic bags the bread was kept in. He held the bread in his left hand with his fingers spread, took the knife with his right hand and cut the bread between his fingers. He gave the customer the slice of bread he wanted and put the rest of the bread back into the plastic bag. The customer drank the tea and ate the bread. When he had finished, he gave the cup back to Musa. Musa took the cup and cleaned it with the water from the water bottle. He put the cup back onto his tray. Finally, the customer paid. A customer would rarely be alone. Others would ac-

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company him. They might also order some tea and bread. So Musa might serve several people at once. When Musa approached a customer, a new social space was created between him and the customer, and they entered into a conversation with each other. If the customer was already with other people, Musa would be entering a social space whose members were already conversing with each other; he would either be drawn into that communication or just stand to one side. In case he participated in the verbal exchange, the main mode of communication would be wasa da dariya, i. e. continuous joking. Depending on the day, on his way along the road Musa might sell tea and bread twice, or he might make six sales. Going further east, he reached the yam market. The yam market was, in a sense, his territory. The other masu shayi knew that Musa would go to the yam market to sell bread and tea, so they usually kept away from there.

Diagram 6: The yam market.

The number of people at the market varied depending on the day. On market day the place would be filled with people and Musa could quickly sell all the bread and tea he had. On the other days, however, there were only a few traders at the market, a group of Christian traders who usually played dara, a game played using a wooden board, and a group of Muslim traders who did not engage in playing. Musa entered the market and walked towards each of these groups. He usually put his tray on the ground and stayed there, where he was available to the traders. Some of them would ask him to serve bread and tea. After that, he still spent some time at the yam market, as he expected some traders to develop a desire for tea and bread later. He stayed as long as he expected people to order. If he saw, however, that demand was poor, he would leave the place. Sometimes he went further east, entering the premises of the filling station or the army barracks. He disliked the latter destination, however, and rarely went there. More often he would follow the main road west. When he reached the motor park he would enter it. This was the second area where he often sold bread and tea.

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The motor park also had two groups of potential customers. There were the drivers who sat together as they did not have a car on that day, and there were the young men who washed cars. While the first seldom drank tea, the latter often did. The selling procedure was the same as described before, and Musa engaged in conversation and wasa da dariya. If he didn’t expect anybody to order any more tea, he would leave and return to the bakery. On his way back, somebody might still order tea and bread. He would reach the bakery at around 10 a.m. On market days he would return sooner, at around 8 a.m. Because of the higher demand on market days, his supplies were soon exhausted.

Diagram 7: The motor park.

When he returned to the bakery, Musa was usually tired because the kettle was heavy, he had carried the tray on his head and he had been walking in the sun. So he would usually lie down in his room, sometimes falling asleep again. He might also sit under a tree by the road in front of the bakery. After a while, he would get up and walk to the roadside. Women sat there and offered food, plates with rice and sauce, and some meat. He would ask them to bring him some. A young girl would come and bring him the food. He would eat, and later the young girl would come back and fetch the plate. The other villagers also came back at approximately the same time. Ya’u washed the working equipment of all the other villagers. Musa would leave for work again at around 4 p.m. So there was still much time. He would rest, do the laundry, stay at the bakery and chat with the labourers, visitors to the bakery or the young girls who entered the bakery and sold food. Malam Isa usually re-

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ceived a friend and ate lunch with him. Musa would sometimes join them. Musa performed his prayers at around 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. Then, he got prepared for his second round. He prepared his working equipment and entered town again. He followed the same path as he did in the morning and the same things happened again. He got back to the bakery at around 7 p.m. The sun was already setting. He was tired and it was time to have dinner. He sent for food. He might also take another bath. Again, there was still some time until he would go to bed at around 11 p.m. He would sit under the tree by the road in front of the bakery, sit in front of the room he stayed in, join the crowd in front of the pharmacy where people met to watch TV, or listen to the radio. Every evening, Aminu, the retail seller, came to the bakery. The villagers from Kimoram bought the goods they needed for their business. Musa also observed the times for his prayers. Once in a while, he had an unforeseen task to do. For instance, a labour migrant from Kano State once asked him to mediate in his love affairs. So Musa contacted the woman who had become dear to the labour migrant and arranged for a meeting between the two. At about 11 p.m., Musa would enter his room, lie down on his mat and fall asleep. Sometimes, Musa felt the need to let his daily work rest and be alone. This happened when work was too tedious, benefits too small, interaction in the bakery too dense or his fretting about Mariama’s situation at home and his own debts weighed on him too heavily. In such cases, Musa would take a stroll into the bush to the south of Nimari. 6. Musa in different social settings Like in Kimoram, in Nimari Musa switched between different social settings throughout the day. In each context, he had a specific set of interests, he carried out a specific kind of action or interaction and he met a different set of people, with whom he had a certain kind of relationship. He began the day within a social setting that comprised his fellow villagers from Kimoram and, later on, also the labourers from the bakery. Leaving the bakery for work, he entered public space. He passed through the immediate neighbourhood and along the road. He reached the yam market and the motor park. He knew many of those he met there personally, although not very well, some of them just from sight; many of them, however, were not known to him at all. When he came back to the bakery, the social setting there had changed slightly. In the morning, there were only the other villagers and some labourers. In the meantime, however, more people had entered and left this space, turning it into a “semi-public” space. Apart from the villagers from Kimoram and some labourers, there were also the bakery’s owner, their friends, people selling food

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and prostitutes passing by the bakery regularly. Musa had often known the actors in this sphere for quite a while. From this setting, he entered public space again, very much as he had done in the morning. After that, he returned to the bakery and entered this “semi-public” space again. If he did not leave this space again, for example to buy rat poison somewhere, to watch TV, to rest under the tree in front of the bakery or to call Mariama in Kimoram, the participation of others in that space would slowly thin out, leaving behind him or some villagers from Kimoram and myself. 7. People close and distant Musa did not see his family while he was in Nimari, although he would call them from time to time. But as they provided the rationale for his being in Nimari and working there, they remained the most important people to him while he was in Nimari. From Musa’s perspective, this description would be incomplete, as God also figured among the most important entities for him, and praying, being conscious of him and obedient to him, were among the more important activities of the day. However, it was the villagers from Kimoram who had come to Nimari as well who featured prominently for him now. The villagers stayed and spent part of their time together, cooperated economically to a certain extent, supervised each other and provided a kind of solidarity network for each other. The relationship was clearly different from relations within the family, as the villagers neither cared much for each other’s well-being nor worked together to a large extent, nor did they share their benefits. Within Musa’s network of social relations, Malam Isa, the owner of the bakery, was important as well. He was the villagers’ patron (maigida) in Nimari and an exchange relationship existed between them. Malam Isa offered them a place to stay, and the villagers bought his bread. This relationship did however also contain hierarchical elements, as the villagers were more dependent on him than he was on them, and because Malam Isa was an urban dweller. The labourers at the bakery and some of the neighbours who lived in the vicinity of the bakery also played a role in Musa’s daily life. He knew them and maintained good relations with them throughout his stay. He was ready to engage in wasa da dariya with any of them at any time. In the neighbourhood, Musa had a more personal relation to Ibrahim and Enoch (see below). The customers were, of course, another important group of people for Musa. He sold them tea and bread. His relationship with them had a strong strategic or utilitarian element. As I have done in the chapters on Musa’s social relations in Kimoram, I will discuss these different groups separately.

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8. The villagers from Kimoram a) The composition of the group Sani Dogo and Aui were the first to arrive in Nimari. Later, Musa, Hamidu and Ya’u arrived, followed by Bello and Issu and finally Garba and Sule. Sule just stayed for two days before moving on. Sani Dogo was not affiliated with Malam Isa’s bakery. He rented a house adjacent to the bakery where he stayed with his wife and one of their children. He largely led his own life, hardly participating in the interactions between the villagers. Once in a while, he came into the bakery, stayed there for a few minutes and left again. The others, however, stayed together. Malam Isa provided them with a room on the premises of the bakery where Musa and I stayed, and had rented another room close to the bakery where the others stayed. They roamed the streets of Nimari to hawk tea and Isa’s bread. An exception was Issu. He slept in the room Malam Isa had rented for the villagers and passed part of the day with them, but he did not roam the streets, as he was working at Aminu’s, the retail trader’s, tebur. The group thus grew and shrank according to the plans and needs of the labour migrants from Kimoram, but it was always there. The group was open to anybody from Kimoram. Whoever arrived from Kimoram would meet his fellow villagers and could associate with them. Essentially, the group was also open to newcomers from other places as well. Two young men, Sinio and Idriss, came from their home village in the vicinity of Zermou to spend their slack period in Nimari. They were Malam Isa’s kinsmen. They stayed in the bakery as well, albeit in a different room. In the beginning they worked as labourers in the bakery, before later trying to sell fried yam along the road, with little success. Throughout their stay in the bakery, they became acquainted with the villagers from Kimoram. Later, Sinio began to work as a water carrier. He spent most of his time – his working time as well as his spare time – separately from the group. The other, Idriss, decided to hawk bread and tea. From that point on he spent much of his time with Musa and the other villagers. He received advice from Musa on the kind of utensils he needed and the most intelligent way to cut bread, and he also poured the villagers’ tea into his own kettle. Idriss’s integration into the group was facilitated by a variety of factors. He got along with the other villagers quite well, he was Hausa and a kinsman to Malam Isa. At the same time, however, his integration reflected the villagers’ value orientation. Although they were also competing with other labour migrants, they acknowledged the fact that all labour migrants were in a similar situation and needed to make a living. They thus respected every migrant labourer’s right to do what served this purpose, and economic competition did not provide a reason for closing off the group towards other labour migrants.41

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b) Rights and duties, cooperation, competition The villagers cooperated economically. Aui made the tea in the morning. Hamidu was responsible for a constant supply of wood which was needed to light the fire under the teapots. As the youngest of the villagers, Ya’u had to clean the utensils, cups, spoons and tablets when the masu shayi had come back from work in town. A few times, the villagers also cooked dinner together in order to avoid buying food every evening, which they deemed too expensive. They borrowed a stove from one of the labourers at the bakery, cooked spaghetti with a sauce and divided up the costs among themselves. This form of cooperation came to an end, however, when Issu needed the stove at the tebur where he was working. The villagers did not cooperate beyond this. Neither did they share their benefits. Everybody worked on his own account. Similarly to the practice in Kimoram where they kept secret from each other how much millet there was in their granaries, the villagers hid from each other the amount of money they had earned. Yet, they did no harm to each other. Theoretically, the villagers were competitors, as they all worked in the same business and on their own account. What one of them earned, the other could not earn. Furthermore, the area each of them worked in did not yield the same benefits. Hamidu offered tea at the butchers’ place. This was, by far, the most lucrative place. He did not need to roam the streets, he sat down there and waited for the butchers to come and order. Every day he sold all his tea and bread. Economically speaking, it would have been desirable for the others to replace Hamidu. However, this did not occur. They respected the areas the others were working in. Only once did Musa complain about Sani Dogo. He said he had seen him rushing to the yam market in the morning. When he, Musa, arrived there, the customers had already drunk tea and hardly anybody ordered tea from Musa anymore. The villagers also provided a network of mutual help for each other. If one of them needed, for instance, medical help or did not have the means to travel back home, the others would help him out, either by giving him a gift or a loan. When, for instance, Sule came to Kimoram, he did not want to stay in Nimari but to move on. Each of the villagers from Kimoram gave him 200 naira to help him out. Concomitant with this mutual responsibility, the villagers, or at least some of them, also supervised the moral conduct in the group. Although Hamidu, for instance, prayed regularly, he did not take his prayers as seriously as others. Once in a while, he slept too long and missed the time for prayer. Ya’u then woke him up and reminded him of his duties with a strict voice. Also, prostitutes came to the bakery to sell food and establish contacts with possible clients. The first in41 This attitude resembles the inclusive nature of ethnic identity among Hausa (Haour and Rossi 2010: 5–7).

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teraction between a villager and a prostitute would thus take place in a public space and others could discern the first signs of weakness a fellow villager might show. Once Musa and I observed Aui as he flirted with a prostitute. He grabbed her head tie to tease her. In a similar spirit, he also took the metal bowl from her head. When she finally left after this playful skirmish, he called her back. Once, Idriss had perceived Hamidu’s interest in girls and, in reaction to this behaviour, he told him that it would be better to base relationships with women on soyayya, love. Another danger for the villagers lay in drugs. One evening, for instance, one of Isa’s nephews, who had worked for him on that day, lay on a bench and was obviously experiencing things only he could perceive. Once more, it was Hamidu who was exposed as not being firm enough to withstand the seduction of drugs. At this time, it was not the villagers who exposed him but the bakery’s staff. Mussuba’u, the manager of the bakery, and some of the labourers offered Hamidu a bottle containing apple juice. They told him that they had found it in the bakery and that it contained some drugs. After a moment of reflection, Hamidu grabbed the bottle, hastily drank its contents and lay back to wait for what was going to happen. Nothing happened, however, and Hamidu had proven to be liable to consume drugs. The villagers also provided company for each other. They sat together and chatted, especially between the working periods, less so in the evening. They discussed all manner of issues. At one instance, they spoke about the words manda and gishiri both meaning ‘salt’ and wondered which of them might be the original Hausa word. At another instance, they spoke about their bulls. Musa praised the strength of his bull and told the others that it would go from Kimoram to Zinder within a day. However, there did not seem to be sufficient common conversational ground or common interest among the group members to make them gather as a group in the evening. Thus, when Bello and Issu arrived from Kimoram, all the villagers gathered in front of the room Musa and I stayed in and exchanged news from Kimoram. They talked about marriages, prices at the market, their bulls and so on. The next day, when the group met again, there was a good deal of silence between them. On the following evenings, the group had dispersed. Musa, however, found most pleasure in talking with Idriss. They both spent some evenings together, while the other villagers spent their evenings elsewhere. Idriss and Musa seemed to have more common ground for conversation. Once, for instance, Idriss came back from the cinema where he had watched a romantic film. Idriss told Musa the plot. Then Idriss told him the story of a kinswoman who had married a man four years before. Before their marriage, she had only known her husband through his photo and had not yet seen him again after the marriage. Puzzled over what to think about such a marriage, both of them spoke about their love of their respective wives. Nevertheless, interaction between the members of the group seemed to be easier in Nimari than in Kimoram. As we have seen, the labour migrants be-

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longed to different kinship groups who lived in different quarters in Kimoram. Relations between their elders were sometimes fraught with tension. Aui’s father, Abdu, for instance, did not shake hands with Bello’s father, Sani, anymore since the latter had given the chef de canton in Garin Gabas wrong information about Abdu’s land and the chef de canton had subsequently sold the land. Relations between the labour migrants in Nimari, however, were not marked by the tensions felt between their elders. This meant that their interaction was, or it seemed to me, more relaxed than it was in Kimoram. The villagers practised zaman tare (staying together), i. e. they stayed together and abided by norms which enabled them to do this peacefully. This implied, as we have seen, some form of mutual help, respect for boundaries and looking out for each other. Zaman tare also found its expression in the right to use everybody else’s everyday equipment without asking for permission. When I bought water from the water pump and stored it in a bucket in our room, all the other villagers would stop drinking water from the well and drink from our water supply. When Hamidu was tired, he would sometimes come into our room and rest on Musa’s mat, preventing him from taking a nap there. When one of them had food, he would invite others to share the meal with him. The use of others’ equipment was of essential importance for the group’s integration, as this implied a relationship of respect and mutual belonging. Idriss drove this idea home to me when he once rebuked me for my behaviour. I needed sugar and went to Musa’s tray to take some. On my way, I passed by Idriss’s tray. He argued that I should have taken some of his sugar, because, he said, we evidently liked each other. I was not practising zaman tare appropriately if, under these conditions, I preferred to take Musa’s sugar instead of his own, which was close by. I had shown disrespect to him. He finished his lesson by adding that respect was worth more than money (mutunci ya fi kud’i). There was no formal structure of authority among the villagers. Its members were of equal standing. This reflected the social structure in their home village. They came to Nimari as heads or members of independent households. However, they were of different ages and this gave structure to the group. Sani Dogo would have been the oldest member of the group. However, he led his life away from it. Thus Musa was the oldest group member until Garba arrived. This made Musa become something like the elder of the group for the majority of my stay. This was reflected in the fact that he did not have a communitarian duty. Whereas Hamidu had to take care of the wood supply, Aui had to make the tea and Ya’u had to clean the cups, Musa did not have any such task. His status was also jokingly confirmed in wasa da dariya. Others spoke about him as mai unguwa, i. e. ward head, and he referred to himself in the same way. His superior age did not, however, bestow further privileges on him. He did actually see himself as responsible for the group as a whole by virtue of his superior age. He showed this sense of responsibility several times. When he

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had already taken notice of Hamidu’s interest in women and, apart from this, had also observed Aui flirting with a prostitute, he was pondering the state the group was in and the implications such immoral behaviour would have on their reputation (see above chapter D. VI. 8. on Musa’s commitment to communal affairs). Because of this, he slept badly the following night. He also showed his sense of responsibility for the other group members when Sule had arrived in Nimari and wanted to travel further, either to Lagos or to Maiduguri. Musa summoned Sule and explained to him why he considered it better for him not to leave. Musa argued that Sule did not know anybody in those places, that he did not have money, and that Maiduguri was no longer safe because of the terrorist attacks carried out by boko haram. He urged him to buy the masu shayi’s working equipment, stay with his relatives and start working. Sule kept silent and listened to Musa’s admonition. Musa then borrowed a motorbike and went to see Issu and Bello to discuss the issue with them. He doubted, however, that Sule would listen to him, as Sule, Musa said, came from a family known for its stubbornness. Some hours later, Musa told Sule to buy the cups he needed and gave him some money. Sule left and bought the cups. The next morning, however, Sule waited until the others had gone to work, went to the road, stopped a car and headed west. Musa then called the labour migrants from Kimoram who were staying in Zaria and in Gombe. However, Sule did not appear there. As Sule’s example shows, Musa thought himself responsible for the group and believed he had some influence on it, but Musa, as he admitted, could only give the others advice, nothing more.42 c) Patience and anger The villagers from Kimoram formed a group in Nimari. They lived side by side, they were knit together through mutual help, they worked largely independently of each other and cooperated economically to a small extent, they supervised each other’s conduct and acknowledged a special, though rather weak role for the eldest among them. They were, however, not a community without frictions between its members, however weak these might have been. The usual remedy to deal with frictions was patience. Bello, for instance, was one of Sani’s sons. Sani was well known for his proclivity for misbehaving and causing pro-

42 The organisation of the group of villagers and their concomitant interactions in Nimari thus benefitted from the cohesive tendencies that stemmed from the villagers’ common place of origin. Being from Kimoram and being peasants obliged them to cooperate and respect the interests of other villagers. Without these norms, a situation seems to be possible in which every actor would try to achieve his own aims irrespective of any obligations towards other actors. That a different situation would be possible is indicated by Scholze (2009: 183) who attributes such an orientation to Tuareg tourist agents: “Das allgemein verbreitete Konkurrenzdenken verhindert nicht nur die Zusammenarbeit und Bündelung der Kräfte unter den einzelnen Akteuren, sondern kann auch zu Akten der Sabotage führen.”

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blems. According to Musa, Bello showed the same character traits, and when Bello arrived in Nimari, Musa said he would be willing to exercise some patience to avoid any quarrels. The same consideration applied to Garba who, according to Musa, had a tendency to feel envy and resentment towards others. Musa actually exercised patience on some occasions. When the villagers came to our room to drink the water I had bought, Musa thought that they did this to save money and that they would not reciprocate nor even think about reciprocity. The same, he said, would apply if they had kola nuts. If they saw that someone had kola nuts, they would ask for their share but would never buy them themselves, thus undermining the idea of reciprocity. At times, he also felt pestered by the youngsters from Nimari who gathered in front of our room to continue their juvenile conversations. He found it hard to be forced to listen to their talking. However, it was not always possible to exercise patience and acquiesce in others’ behaviour. If the villagers decided to cook together but none of them felt responsible for cleaning the cooking pot afterwards, Musa would no longer behave with equanimity, and started to shout. None of the others reacted to this. Similarly, he became angry when he saw how Bello cooked. Obviously unaware of the fact that onions should fry for a while, Bello simply added water to the raw onions in the cooking pot. Another time, Musa also left the bakery to escape from the young men’s gossip. By and large, however, Musa thought that the members of the group got along well with each other. Only rarely did their behaviour cause him concern. Nevertheless, he lacked an abokin hira among the villagers, a friend to make conversation with. He expressed this idea when he said that after my departure he would lack such a friend in Nimari. One reason for this lack of an abokin hira might have been the gap in the life-worlds of the group members. This gap became evident when Musa and Hamidu were once engaged in conversation. Musa told Hamidu that he had called his family and that his son, Idris, had informed him that they did not have anything to eat. Hamidu was astonished and suddenly realized that Mariama did not have a gata in Kimoram, a person who would support her. Similarly, Hamidu once spoke about his dream of buying a motorbike, whereas Musa, as I knew, strived to feed his family.

d) Maula The villagers who we have come to know so far came to Nimari in order to work there. However, not all who came from Kimoram wanted to work. There were visitors as well. Once, one of the villagers called his relatives in Kimoram and was told that Suleyman was on his way to Nimari and Gombe. The villagers knew that he was old and would not be planning on working in Nimari. He would

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be their guest. This implied welcoming him, finding a place for him to stay, feeding him and finally seeing him off with some money. When Suleyman arrived, he said that he wanted to see his ‘children’. However, Aui and Musa doubted the sincerity of his visit. Suleyman, they said, was quite well off in Kimoram and could easily feed his family, whereas the migrant labourers in Nimari were trying to make up for a deficit. They found it inappropriate for Suleyman to come to Nimari and thus be a burden on those who were in need. Moreover, they believed he intended to live at the migrant labourers’ expense. They called this practice maula. The greater part of the burden was to fall onto Sani Dogo, however, who was Suleyman’s closest kinsman in Nimari and who had to feed him. Aui and Musa only had to give him a farewell present at the end of his stay. Suleyman thus became a member of the group of villagers from Kimoram for a while, although the others adopted a critical stance towards him. They did not openly display their attitude, however, and exercised patience. e) Carrying on with Kimoram The villagers’ most important social relations were those they had with their families in Kimoram. After all, it was for the sake of their family members at home that they had come to Nimari. However, the villagers left their family members in different situations. Aui, for instance, left a pregnant wife who was soon to deliver and whose first three children had died. Hamidu also left his wife behind. As he was still young and not yet economically independent, his father took care of her. Musa left Mariama und the children. Musa missed his family. I found him thinking of his family from time to time. He also called them regularly to hear their news. Mobile phones enabled the villagers to keep in touch with those at home; Musa had left a mobile phone with Mariama, while he had another in Nigeria. Idriss also suffered from separation. I saw him deep in thought several times, and he told me then that he was thinking of his wife and his family and that he was feeling the pain of separation. Through the mobile phone, Musa remained more involved in family life than he probably had been when mobile communication was not yet available. He was able to stay informed about the problems Mariama and the children encountered in Kimoram. Before his departure for Nimari, he said, he had been to Garin Adam and had given some money to an older man. The latter was supposed to hand it over to Mariama. However, Mariama told him that she had not received the money. Musa thus knew that Mariama lacked the means to buy ingredients for making sauce. Musa also received news about the condition his daughter Assana was in. Even before his departure, she had repeatedly suffered from diarrhoea and the doctors had told him to feed her eggs, beans and fish. Mariama

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and Musa fed her these items and the diarrhoea stopped. However, he was aware of the fact that Mariama was unable to buy these items at the time. Another time, Mariama told him that Idris was suffering from rab’a. Rab’a is caused by bush spirits who appear to children and frighten them. This might even lead to the children’s death. The spirits had appeared to Idris, his body stiffened, he became feverish, he did not react when spoken to and he hardly breathed for a period of about 30 minutes. There was no remedy except for prayer. On another occasion, Mariama told him that Halilu repeatedly paid her visits and pestered her to make Musa pay back his debts. Halilu had given him a loan of 70,000 Fcfa for the baptism of Assana and Husseina, and he now wanted to have the money back to invest in cassava. Hearing this news did not leave Musa unaffected. He felt sorry for Mariama since she had to endure these things and to deal with them alone. Moreover, he worried about Idris and Assana. At the same time, he could do little about it. In Nimari, his scope for action was limited. The news about his family’s situation made him worry about them, plunged him into thought and, at times, also undermined his ability to work. One day, for instance, these concerns and thoughts caused him a sleepless night. To distract himself from these thoughts, he did not go to work in the afternoon of the following day and proposed to me, instead, that we have our picture taken at the photographer’s shop. But on some other days, Musa also complained about a lack of energy, which stemmed from his concerns and undermined his willingness and ability to work. In order to alleviate the situation at home, Musa was left with two options, either sending money home or taking it home himself. As there were many labour migrants from Kimoram and the surrounding villages, it was possible to send money home. Sooner or later somebody would leave. When I heard that somebody from Kanobo wanted to go home, I informed Musa. I gave him some money for Mariama and the children and he handed it over to the migrant labourer. On the phone, he told Mariama to split the money up; one share was for his creditors to make them calm down, and the other for Mariama and the children. On another occasion, he felt the burden of his debts and Halilu’s pressure on Mariama so strongly that he wanted to take money to Kimoram himself. I managed to convince him that that was a waste of money, as the transport cost was the same as the benefit of working for four weeks. Mariama and the children were not the only family members who interacted with Musa via telephone and thus confronted him with expectations and obligations. When his father heard that Musa had sent Mariama some money, he asked for money as well. This demand, it seemed to me, also exerted some pressure onto Musa. Moreover, when Babangida had left Kimoram for Gombe in order to work, but hadn’t arrived there, he called the migrant labourers in Potiskum and Gombe to find out about his whereabouts. He did not sleep well that night.

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The telephone also created its own problems for interactions with Kimoram. One evening, for instance, Musa remarked that he was always talking to Idris, but hardly to Bintu, his eldest daughter who stayed with the Imam. He wanted to make sure then that he would talk to her, too. 9. The bakery The labour migrants had relations among themselves and they kept in touch with their families in Kimoram. But they did also live on the premises of the bakery and had a patron-client relationship with the bakery owner. Malam Isa was the owner of the bakery. He employed Mussuba’u as the manager and Yakuba as a kind of foreman. These were the permanent employees of the bakery. Apart from them, Isa also employed five or six pupils and labour migrants for part of the day. The main and only product of the bakery was the type of bread that is common all over Nigeria, a sweetened wheat bread with a very soft consistency. The production process started early in the morning at around 6.30 a.m., stopped at around 10 a.m., began again in the afternoon and finished at about 6.30 p.m. Mussuba’u stayed in the bakery until late into the night before he went home as well. The masu shayi did not participate in this process. They were acquainted with it, but they did not have an active part in the production process. However, they participated in the social and interactive process which took place in the bakery. A diverse group of people constituted this social space, among them Isa, Mussuba’u, Yakuba, the bakery labourers, neighbours, petty traders who sold food, and prostitutes. The villagers’ relationship with Malam Isa differed from their relationship with the others, because Malam Isa was their maigida or, in anthropological vocabulary, their patron in Nimari. At the time of research, Malam Isa was 45 years old. He was born and raised in Nigeria. He had a house of his own, two wives and some children. His parents stemmed from Zermou, not far from Kimoram. Although he was born in Nigeria and had lived there his whole life, he considered himself a stranger to Nigeria. Zermou, he said, was his home area and he travelled there from time to time to pay a visit to his relatives. Malam Isa had an exchange relationship with the villagers. We have seen that he offered them a place to stay, that he provided food for them during the first days after their arrival, and that he bought them ingredients for the tea. At the same time, the villagers bought bread exclusively from him. This exchange relationship evidently benefitted both sides. Malam Isa, he said, produced more bread than usual when the villagers were in Nimari. The villagers did not try to calculate the value of the services exchanged. Neither Hamidu nor Musa calculated, for instance, the benefit Malam Isa drew

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from their work. They were aware of the fact that each mai shayi bought about 15 loaves of bread every day at a price of 100 naira each. They did not know, however, that Isa sold to Musa, Hamidu, Ya’u and Aui bread worth 6000 naira per day, or 180,000 naira per month. Their relationship was, however, not restricted to the reciprocal exchange of services. Isa evidently also liked to speak to the villagers. Time and again, he would sit together with them. Among the villagers, Musa was the most important interaction partner for him. It might have been due to Musa’s superior age that both of them found common conversational ground. Both of them engaged, for instance, in conversation about the political situation in Niger, market trading and raising cattle in Niger. Malam Isa and Musa sometimes also interacted according to the standards of wasa da dariya. Once, for instance, Musa complained that Malam Isa used to serve him better food in former times. On another occasion, Malam Isa ordered tea with some ingredients from Musa. He then jokingly complained about the low temperature of the tea, and instead of buying Musa’s bread, he made one of his labourers bring him some of his own. I said that I was astonished to see that Malam Isa wanted so many ingredients for his tea. Musa added ironically that Malam Isa would also have liked to receive the tea as a gift, thus alluding to Malam Isa’s unwillingness to buy his bread. Musa was also the only villager who ate together with Malam Isa from time to time. Early every afternoon, Isa received food from home and a friend of his, a migrant labourer from Kano State, came to the bakery to eat together with him. At times, Musa joined them. Malam Isa also related to the villagers by giving them advice. He was older and more experienced than them. Ya’u wanted, for instance, to split wood, but Malam Isa showed him another log that was more suitable for his purpose. At another time, Hamidu came back from work, emptied his trela and wanted to extinguish the embers with water. Malam Isa observed him, saw that the quantity of water that Hamidu had poured onto the embers was insufficient and told him to add more. Musa also explicitly acknowledged the fact that Malam Isa had already given them advice on numerous occasions. As Malam Isa had conversations with the villagers, gave them advice, talked with Musa and shared his meals with him, I got the impression that Malam Isa liked the villagers being in the bakery. This conclusion was further corroborated by the following observation. Malam Isa and I were sitting in front of the room Musa and I stayed in. Hamidu entered the room to fetch the radio that was inside. Back in front of the room, he switched it on and Isa felt annoyed by the noise. He told Hamidu to switch the radio off. As he was annoyed, he also pushed him away. Both laughed. His pushing of Hamidu obviously did not mean that Malam Isa was really angry, but he jokingly demonstrated that Hamidu was a hopeless case, and any efforts to better his behaviour futile.

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However, there was also a hierarchical element in the relationship between Malam Isa and the villagers. This might partly have stemmed from the fact that Malam Isa was the maigida, the “owner of the house”, but it also reflected the fact that Malam Isa partook in a lifestyle which differed from that of the villagers (cf. Spittler 1978: 129). Elements of this lifestyle were his “system” of eating, his concerns about his body and his ideas about private property. Malam Isa took great pleasure in food and had developed an elaborate “system” of eating. Whereas the villagers from Kimoram differentiated between different kinds of food and also knew the different pleasures one derived from them, the degree of differentiation Isa applied to food was greater and he also integrated the different kinds of food into his daily life in a careful manner. He was thus able to point out how it felt when one had eaten gruel from yam flour and how this differed from the feeling one had after having eaten gruel from the peel of yam flour. Furthermore, he would not drink fermented milk after having taken a meal, but would just sip it, because this would make the food in his stomach settle and help him prepare for a nap. He also differed from the villagers in how he treated his body. He placed great emphasis on clean clothes, shaving his head and armpits and using perfume. Moreover, he had a different idea about sharing than the villagers. As we have seen above, any item of everyday use and any food that a villager had was, at least in theory, intended to be shared among those who happened to be present. For Malam Isa, this was different. When he bought some food for himself, he expected others to refrain from simply taking what they considered to be their part. This all showed how Malam Isa was part of an urban Hausa culture which differed from rural culture. This difference in identity seemed to give Malam Isa a slight sense of superiority, which made him comment on the villagers’ behaviour. He was, for instance, disgusted when he saw the hair in Musa’s armpits and advised him to shave it. When Musa objected, saying that would cause him to transpire a lot under his armpits, Isa told him to use powder. When Isa saw Idriss and Sinio sitting in front of our room, he told them to get their hair cut. They did as he said. In keeping with the difference in markers of urban identity, Malam Isa regarded the villagers as somehow cute or comical, and he smiled about them from time to time. When I told him at the beginning of my stay that Musa had finally got a trela, he couldn’t help laughing. He explained to me that a trela was in fact a trailer fixed to a lorry. The metaphor made him laugh. When Idriss had a cold, Isa asked him if he had recovered. He then made a side remark which he directed at me. He said that rural people considered buying medicine a waste of money, and thus alluded to the paradoxical character of such an attitude. Musa, however, tried to ignore or even contest Malam Isa’s ideas of an appropriate lifestyle. He thus objected to Malam Isa’s advice to shave the hair under

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his armpits. Similarly, he did not respect Malam Isa’s claims to have an exclusive right to the food he had bought for himself. Once, for instance, Malam Isa and Musa sat together. A seller of roasted meat arrived and Malam Isa bought some meat for himself, which he began to eat alone. Musa approached him and tried to take some of the meat. Hamidu approached them as well, obviously having the same idea in mind. Malam Isa, however, pulled away the meat. The villagers protested and Malam Isa bought them some. Later on, but still in Malam Isa’s presence, Musa accused Malam Isa of having done PDP to him. PDP was Nigeria’s ruling party and stood for self-enrichment. Malam Isa had, in fact, eaten four skewers and had bought only two skewers for Hamidu and Musa. Similarly, when Malam Isa bought some noodles with egg and started to eat, Musa fetched a spoon, sat down at his side and ate from Malam Isa’s food, although the latter protested at this. Musa, however, told him that he should withdraw into a private room if he wanted to eat his food alone. The other members of the interactive space in the bakery were Mussuba’u, Yakuba, the labourers and some neighbours. Most of them were younger than 25, and approximately the same age as Hamidu, Ya’u and Aui. They related to each other and to the villagers on rather equal terms. Much of the interaction and conversation which took place between them was of a boyish nature. Two instances might illustrate this. One day, Zet Man, the son of the tailor who lived close to the bakery, brought the exterior mirror of a car to the bakery. He wanted to look into it in order to properly comb his hair. The mirror aroused the interest of the young men who were there, and each of them wanted to take and examine the mirror. Zet Man, however, started to fear that the boys would damage his mirror and resisted their attempts. At other times, the boys engaged in conversation about their various achievements and the adventures they had already experienced. As I have said before, this boyish conversation was sometimes difficult for Musa to endure and he either tried to be patient, left the bakery or told the boys to shut up. At the same time, the fact that the villagers and the labourers had known each other for a long time resulted in intimate knowledge of each other’s living circumstances. The villagers knew, for instance, about one of the labourer’s failed plans to marry and the pain he felt because of it. They also knew that another labourer was secretly working in another bakery as well and thus lacked loyalty towards Malam Isa. Furthermore, they knew that that labourer had not gone home to greet his father for 40 days. Some members of this scene stood out because they did not participate in the boyish interactions. These were Mussuba’u, the bakery’s manager, and Yakuba, the bakery’s foreman. Both were older and responsible for the bakery. Their minds were much more on their work than on the continuous conversation and interaction in the bakery.

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Musa recognized the fact that Mussuba’u concentrated more on his work, talked less and was reliable. He thus held him in high esteem. He applied the same criteria to the other labourers in the bakery. He held in greater esteem those labourers who went to school and worked in the bakery to earn some money, and in lower esteem those who just worked in the bakery to make a living without pursuing a project with a long-term perspective. 10. Other relations beyond the bakery and the workplace These were the most important relationships the villagers maintained in their place of residence. They formed a group among themselves, they related to their maigida and to the other labourers in the bakery. All other relations seemed to be less important and rather shallow. But for Musa there were two people in the neighbourhood to whom he had a more personal relation: Ibrahim and Enoch. Ibrahim was a Merniang peasant and a seller of cloth who had his shop on the lane in front of the bakery. He spent his day in front of his shop and took every opportunity to greet people and engage in wasa da dariya. Musa said that he was known for holding no grudge against anybody and for how easy it was to get along with him peacefully, characteristics Musa liked very much in a person. Musa and Ibrahim evidently liked each other. Whenever they saw each other, they immediately engaged in wasa da dariya. The wasa da dariya they engaged in was, however, more aggressive than one might expect. This reflected the extent to which they liked each other. Once, for instance, Musa said that he would cut off Ibrahim’s head and bring it to Kano on three cars, alluding to Ibrahim’s corpulent body. Ibrahim replied that this was bad speech and asked Musa what God would say about it. Musa retorted that he would sell the head and pay the school fees for Ibrahim’s children. Musa asked what would be bad about that. In response, Ibrahim told Musa that God would see him. Enoch was a Christian Tarok who lived in a compound some 200 metres from the bakery. He worked as a teacher some hours away from Nimari. Musa had stayed in Enoch’s house in the past. Musa called Enoch an amini, but only once did I notice that he paid Enoch a visit. Enoch came twice to see me, and on one occasion Musa and Enoch engaged in a lengthy conversation about the importance of religion for interaction between members of different religious persuasion. Both held the view that religion should never serve to create problems in human relations. On that night, Musa told me that talking to Enoch was very agreeable. When Musa walked through town, he met many people he knew. Some of them were inhabitants of Nimari, and others were migrant labourers from elsewhere. Sometimes they shouted out his name and he greeted them or engaged in casual conversation with them. However, Musa said that all of the inhabitants of

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Nimari he had become close to before had been killed in the riots; since then, he no longer liked to become close to people from Nimari. Sometimes Musa spent part of his spare time with people with whom he only had a superficial relationship. For instance, occasionally he left the bakery in order to watch TV. Down the road some owners of TV sets had arranged their TV sets in front of their houses. Neighbours and passers-by could thus gather in front of the screen and watch. Musa preferred to watch shows by the comedian Ibro and films about the customs of the people of Plateau state. He was not interested in love films because he feared they might incite a desire in him that would cause him problems later on. Once he also attended a public record-release party at the motor park, and on another day he attended a “graduation party” held by the tailors’ association, which also took place at the motorpark. 11. Relations at the workplace As noted above, Musa usually hawked tea and bread at the yam market in the eastern part of town and at the motor park. There were always some traders at the yam market. They were about 50 to 60 years old and Doemak. The traders gathered in two different groups, one Christian and one Muslim. The Christian group was more numerous and gathered around a board game (dara), whereas the Muslim group came together at the Muslim prayer ground. The Muslims did not play games. At the market, there were usually also passers-by coming from and going to the road. The person in charge of the market was also there, and by the roadside there were sellers of food as well as mechanics who repaired motorbikes. At the time of research, there were not many business transactions on normal work days. This was different on Thursdays, which was market day. Whereas on other days there was yam only under the hangars, on market day the market was filled with heaps of yam. People sold and resold. Peasants brought yam from the surrounding areas and sold it to yam traders, or they entrusted their yam to traders and asked them to sell it on their behalf, granting the trader a commission. Furthermore, traders from other parts of Nigeria came to Nimari. Brokers put these outside traders in contact with local traders, who would sell them their yam. Some local traders received phone calls from traders outside Nimari who asked them to find them local traders willing to sell them their yam. Once the local trader could guarantee that the outside trader could collect a certain quantity of yam, the outside trader would send a lorry to the market. Other, smaller traders came as a group, bought yam and filled a lorry which would bring their yam to their destination. Once it was known that a lorry would be leaving Nimari, some petty traders also loaded smaller quantities of yam onto the lorry, later climbing the lorry on its way to its destination in order to sell their yam there. Lorries came from and went to many destinations in Nigeria, to Maiduguri, to Nsukka, to Onitsha or Lagos. Apart from the peasants, traders, brokers

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and lorry drivers, there were also the masu jefan doya (the yam throwers) who loaded the lorries with the yam tubers, there were market visitors interested in what was going on and there were petty traders offering medicine, rat traps, soft drinks and so on. On market day, Musa quickly sold his tea and bread. On other days, selling his tea took longer and he usually also had to go to the motor park to sell tea and bread there as well. As I have said before, there were two main groups of customers at the motor park. There were the drivers who came to the motor park but did not have a car on that day, and there were the young men, the car washers. At the motor park there were also some officials working with the N.U.R.T.W. (National Union of Road Transport Workers), which had its head office at the motor park, some shopkeepers who had their shops in the buildings surrounding the motor park and some passers-by. When Musa arrived at the motor park there were hardly any cars or passengers, because most of the cars passed by on the main road between Lafia and Wikura, and took their passengers on the roadside. The young men ordered more tea and bread than the drivers, so Musa usually went to the area where they worked and stayed with them as long as they ordered tea and bread. Musa’s relationship with his customers differed from his relationship with the villagers and with the labourers at the bakery, as it was a commercial relationship. Musa wanted to sell tea and bread and his customers expected a certain quality. An Ankwai yam trader, for instance, told me that he was content with the arrival of the masu shayi from Kimoram because they sold the better tea. Other masu shayi’s tea was often rather weak, he added. Musa was aware of this issue and tried to ensure the high quality of his tea. Once, he told me, he had noticed that the quality of Peak milk, the brand of tinned milk which the villagers considered best, had deteriorated. He feared that his customers would blame him for that. He thus called the company’s service number to urge them to add what he called chemicals to their product. However, nobody from the company answered the telephone. At the same time, he tried to adapt to the expectations that the groups he was interacting with had based on his social status. When Musa was at the yam market, he was aware of the fact that he belonged to the lower strata of local society and that the traders constituted a circle to which he had no access. As an outer sign of his identity, he would never wear his hat (hula) at the market as this was inappropriate for a person of low prestige. At the same time, his behaviour adopted some traits of subservience. He stood at a distance from the yam traders, yet within their reach, and waited for them to call upon him. He often put on a young and friendly face, the face of a person incapable of critical thought. At least, that is how it appeared to me. I suppose this was his strategy to prevent anyone from feeling opposed to him. Even though he was of lower status, all the

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traders at the yam market knew him, at least by sight, some also knew his name and some even engaged in wasa da dariya with him. His standing among the car washers was different than his standing among the yam traders. The car washers were young men and of low prestige as well. Accordingly, the young men made gestures with their whole bodies, shouted and laughed loudly, whereas the elder traders at the yam market were more parsimonious with gestures when they interacted. As such, Musa did not modestly stand aside here, and nor did he put on his friendly face like he did at the yam market. He was more closely involved in the car washers’ interactions than he was in the interactions between the traders. Conversation and joking was also rougher than at the yam market. One of the young men, for instance, complained to Musa that his tea and bread were more expensive than the loins of a woman. On another occasion, one of the young men approached him and boldly proposed that Musa give him tea and bread but accept payment on another day, even though he knew that the masu shayi were rather unwilling to give credit. At the same time, another young man grabbed Musa and pretended to beat him. Musa retorted that the young man obviously wanted to have tea but was equally obviously completely bankrupt, and in doing so jokingly exposed his alleged financial situation. Musa consciously adapted to his customers’ expectations. This became evident when Idriss had observed a scene of animated interaction between Musa and the young car washers. He commented on the scene and Musa told him to forget what he had seen. However, as part of his strategy, he played the expected role. Similarly, he did not feel at ease at the yam market either. He had noticed that the traders did not tend to laugh much. It seemed, he said, that they harboured a grudge or a secret in their hearts. The relationship between Musa and his customers was not only shaped by the quality of his tea and their mutual social expectations. Some customers also evaluated Musa’s morality. For instance Elias, an old yam trader at the market, told me that Musa had gaskiya (truth). He meant that he considered Musa as someone who would tell the truth, keep his promises and behave according to the established and valid values. I do not know if this evaluation influenced Elias’s decision to buy Musa’s tea, but this might well have been the case. Apart from the question of morality, a personalized element could be part of the relationship between Musa and his customers. Musa said that some customers only bought tea with a mai shayi whom they knew personally. He said that Adaeze, an Ibo woman and yam trader who regularly came to Nimari, would only drink his tea. Because of the personalized element to his relationship with his customers, Musa had to endeavour to remember his customers’ names. This was, he said, one source of tiredness in the first days after his arrival in Nimari. Another element in the relationship with his customers was the question of credit. Many customers would have liked to drink tea and eat bread on credit.

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However, Musa tried to avoid such situations because it was uncertain whether the customers would really pay, and it was also very unpleasant to make others pay if they were reluctant. This was the reason why he once told me that we should leave the market. He said that the first customers had begun to ask him about tea and bread on credit. So hawking tea not only meant offering a customer something they desired. It was also the ability to integrate into a social setting, to play the role which was expected of the seller and to engage in a genre of communication used by the participants of that social setting. And some customers might even go beyond that. Which person they bought their tea from might have depended on their appreciation of the seller’s character and on their personal relationship with him. This illustrates why it was so important for Musa to come to Nimari when he left for labour migration. Only as an established seller of bread and tea in Nimari did he enjoy a reputation as a seller of quality tea and a person of proper moral standing; only there did he have a personal relationship with some customers. Through his work, Musa established a network of rather superficial relationships. Sometimes the interactions within this network of superficial contacts gave rise to further activities. One evening, for instance, a migrant labourer from Kano State approached Musa. He spent his slack period in Nimari as a barber and nail cutter. He had seen a woman in Nimari who had aroused his interest. He asked Musa to approach her and arrange a meeting with her in the bakery because he wanted to marry her as a second wife, in addition to his first wife at home. Subsequently Musa entered her mother’s house and left the message with her mother. That evening, the migrant labourer and the woman met in the bakery. Musa remained involved in this new relationship as a mediator between both of them. His rather superficial everyday contacts also gave rise to another activity. Another migrant labourer from Kano State spent a few days in Nimari. He wanted to go back to his home town and return to Nimari when the fruits of the yazawa tree were ripe. He wanted to collect them and bring them to Lafia. He left Musa his radio as a loan and asked him to call him when the fruits were ripe. 12. Earning and spending money Musa kept his earnings in his pocket or under his pillow. By and large, Musa expected to earn about 500 naira on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, and about 300 or 400 naira on the other days of the week. In addition, some weeks after his arrival in Nimari the trading season for yam would start and he hoped to earn 800 naira per day. Within the first eleven working days after his arrival in Nimari, Musa had earned 5000 naira, so around 450 naira per day. However, his earnings dropped after a while. He did not earn anything for some days. After a while, Musa said that there were too many masu shayi in

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Nimari. He said that his customers wanted him to sell his tea cheaper and that they would get it cheaper elsewhere if he refused to give in. What is more, killings had occurred in Jos and Bauchi. Musa said that many traders from Bauchi were unwilling to come to Nimari for fear of getting stuck there. After a while, Musa no longer expected to earn as well as he supposed he would at the beginning of his stay. Musa and Idriss also noticed that ingredients like milk powder and Nescafé had become more expensive, leaving the sale of bread as the only source of income. When Musa had not earned anything for three days, he became irritated. I had hardly ever seen him irritated before. The economic situation did not improve significantly during my stay in Nimari. Mariama seemed to sense this. When I talked to her on the phone she would inquire persistently about Musa’s earnings, probably because she did not believe Musa when he said that he was earning enough. Musa calculated his benefits from time to time and was aware of the amount of money he had already earned during his stay. As noted above, Musa also had an idea about what he might earn in a day. He and Hamidu also remembered the total amount of money they brought home every year. The year before, for instance, Hamidu had earned the equivalent of 70,000 Fcfa, while Musa had earned 100,000 Fcfa in 2009. So Musa had an idea about the approximate amount of money he might be able to earn. However, neither Hamidu nor Musa calculated the expected benefit beyond what they would earn in a day – not for the week, the month or their complete stay. When we were in Kimoram, Musa had already told me that he would not do that in case it spoiled his mood. Projecting a fixed amount of money always made him feel like he was lagging behind. A picture similar to that of his financial benefits can also be drawn of his financial needs. Musa knew how much millet was left in his granary. He still had millet for six months, and his father had millet for five months. The millet would thus tide the families over until the beginning of July. But Musa did not calculate the exact amount of money he would need to make up for the deficit in food until the next harvest. He was of course aware of the fact that he needed a substantial amount of money for that purpose, but he was unaware of the fact that he would need, according to my calculations, money for 15 bags of millet and another 20,000 Fcfa for his family’s clothes. Similarly, Musa also knew about his various debts. He had borrowed 70,000 Fcfa for two rams and two goats which he had slaughtered for his twins’ name-giving ceremony; he had borrowed a sack of maize, a sack of millet43 and 15,000 Fcfa for the journey to Nimari. However, he did not work out the exact total of his various debts. He was of course aware of the fact that he needed a substantial amount of money to repay his debts, but he was unaware of the fact that his debts amounted to approximately 129,000 Fcfa. Mutatis mutandis he did 43

The value of both sacks equalled 44,000 Fcfa.

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not know that he needed, according to my calculations, a total amount of approximately 381,000 Fcfa. Nor did he know that this was the equivalent of the benefit he might gain from 760 days of work in Nimari. He did not specify how much money he might be able to earn in Nimari nor did he specify how much money he would need to meet his diverse demands. I found it difficult to understand exactly how Musa thought about his matters in monetary terms. As I had spoken with him many times about his financial situation, I had the impression that he probably thought about this issue in the following way. He had all the details of his situation in mind, he thought that he had taken a credit of a certain amount of money with one person and another credit of a different amount with another person. He thought that he had millet in the granary for some months. He also thought that he was then going to Nigeria to earn money, possibly a substantial amount of money. He assumed that he would then come back to Kimoram, pay his debts, take new loans if necessary, buy some food and otherwise muddle through and somehow have still time for Qur’anic learning. It seemed to me that Musa had a general idea such as this in his mind. This rather general way of thinking about his financial situation also seemed to be behind Musa’s reaction to the persistent pressure Halilu put on Mariama. As Halilu came to Mariama time and again in order to demand repayment of the credit he had granted Musa, Musa took the decision to go home, hand over money to Halilu and come back to Nimari. When he told me this, I made him think of the travel expenses. They equalled the benefit of a spending four weeks working in Nimari. Musa discarded his plan then. As such, Musa did not seem to have a “detailed budget plan” in his mind but instead to rely on a very global way of thinking about his costs and benefits. At the same time, a method of planning which does not rely on bookkeeping does not seem to be too peculiar to Musa or the villagers. Writing about the affluent traders in Maradi, Grégoire (1984: 181–2) notes “. . ., il faut remarquer que cette notion de profit . . . n’est pas l’expression d’un inventaire écrit et régulier dans simple différence entre les recettes et les dépenses . . . Les gains des Alhazai (traders; jph) sont de ce fait très difficiles à évaluer.” Similarly, Scholze (2009: 375) describes the processes of planning by Tuareg tourist agents in terms similar to those used by Grégoire. However, neither Grégoire nor Scholze describes the traders’ planning practices in further detail, so a comparison with Musa’s practice is not possible. 13. Musa’s relationship with his work and with Nimari Musa and the villagers came from Kimoram and stayed in Nimari. The society as they knew it in and around Kimoram was their society of origin, whereas the

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society as they found it in Nimari was their host society. Musa recognized some differences between both societies and he preferred his society of origin. This found its expression in his cognitive and affective stance towards Nimari. For instance, Musa did not feel at ease in Nimari. This was partly due to the fact that he missed his family, but it was also due to some of his experiences as a migrant labourer in Nigeria. For one thing, he said, the riots had changed his attitude towards the town. He said that all those he considered friends had been killed during the riots, and ever since he had not felt like getting close to anybody in Nimari anymore. Moreover, he sensed that many inhabitants of Nimari were deeply frustrated (bak’in ciki). He also noticed some contempt in the behaviour of some inhabitants of Nimari towards the migrant labourers. This became clear to me when he said that people treated him with more respect since I had come to Nimari. But Musa also said that some inhabitants of Nimari interspersed their communication with side remarks that showed suspicion towards the masu shayi. Once, for instance, he told me a customer alluded to the bomb blasts that had occurred in Abuja and Jos and to the street robbery, saying that one had to be cautious with foreigners these days. These remarks did not leave him untouched, but rather reinforced his uneasiness about Nimari. Finally, he wondered whether the local youth organisations would not one day demand that the villagers pay a contribution, arguing that the masu shayi had earned their money on Nigerian soil. All these factors made him feel unsettled. He said that in Nimari his mind could not rest. These experiences involving Nimari were embedded in other experiences through which Musa had learned to perceive Nigeria as a place which was more dangerous than Niger. When he was 30 years old, for instance, he was on his way to Yelwa. He made the journey with other travellers on the loading platform of a lorry. Three of the travellers, all of them Christians, suddenly grabbed him and tried to throw him from the loading space of the moving lorry. Another traveller, a Muslim, came to his rescue. Musa then drew his knife, backed into a corner of the loading space and threatened to kill the Christians if they dared to touch him again. Similarly, he felt uneasy about the reckless driving in Nigeria, especially in Plateau State. In Niger, he said, drivers were more cautious and he considered the Nigerian way of driving to be a sign of indifference towards death. He was also aware of the street robbers along Nigerian streets and thought the state in Niger would take more effective action against bandits. Musa also perceived a difference in sexual morality, although he spoke about this rather as a peculiarity of the place and not as something that caused him to feel uneasy. As he saw it, nowhere else in Nigeria would people commit adultery to the same extent as they did in Plateau State, and nowhere would HIV be so prevalent among the population. He said most women in Nimari, whether married or not, would go for a walk in the evening. It was possible to start a conver-

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sation with them, give them some money and they would probably be willing to sleep with the man. There was thus, he said, no clear dividing line between marriage and prostitution in Nimari. In Musa’s eyes, Kimoram was also the better place with respect to the work that had to be done. Hawking tea and bread was, he said, more tedious. Although he felt it went without saying that all work was sometimes tedious, agricultural work still remained more interesting for him, because field cultivation was more multifaceted. One could see the plants growing. Moreover, field cultivation required more knowledge and gave rise to new knowledge. One might, for instance, discover a new worm that had hitherto been unknown, and could find out about its characteristics, he explained. Apart from this, agricultural work, he said, was also more profitable because field cultivation lasted three months but generated food for many more months. Although Musa kept coming to Nimari for many years, Musa did not identify with it. As he compared Kimoram and Nimari, he made it clear that he preferred Kimoram. So he did not acquire a hybrid identity but remained solely attached to his home town. This primary identification with Kimoram also found its expression in some other forms of behaviour. Musa was, for instance, aware of the fact that he did a job of low prestige in Nimari. However, this seemed to leave him unaffected and not to have any influence on his self-perception. At least, I did not observe any behaviour or retrieve any information from him which would point in this direction. The same applies to his relationship with his benefits. He was content with what he earned in Nimari if it served him to fulfil his objectives in Kimoram, and neither Musa nor the other villagers associated their own benefits to those of the bakery’s owner. Similarly, Musa once evaluated the consuming behaviour of one of the labourers in the bakery against the backdrop of his own village experiences. When he saw that the labourer was drinking a bottle of apple juice for 100 naira, he said that he did not understand how anybody could spend so much money in this way.

VIII. Religion and Magic I will now deal with Musa’s religious life.44 As I have mentioned before, Musa was a Muslim. 44 Cf. Nicolas (1975: 309–427) for a description of the religious beliefs held by the Muslim Hausa population around Maradi. The religious beliefs as Nicolas depicts them partly differ from Musa’s. Spirits seem, for instance, to play a greater role in religious life there than for Musa. This might be due to the existence of a large number of nonMuslim Hausa in the region around Maradi for whom spirits play an important role in their religious thought. When Nicolas carried out his research and even today (Kühme 2003: 97–8), the Hausa population of the region around Maradi is divided into a Mus-

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1. Basic tenets Like all the other villagers, Musa believed in the existence of God, or Allah. He believed that humans had a soul. When a person died, his soul would leave his body and travel to a place where the souls of the dead would wait for Judgment Day. Those who were destined for paradise after Judgment Day would stay in a cool place. Those destined for hell would stay in a hot place. In Musa’s view, God required believers to fulfil a number of exigencies. Most basic were the ‘five pillars’ of Islam. These duties were the profession of faith, the performance of five prayers per day, fasting during the month of Ramadan, pilgrimage to Mecca and the paying of zakkat. However, God also expected a man to show proper behaviour, to have proper value orientations and to have a good character. He would like a man to be patient, for instance. If a man fulfilled these exigencies, he would be rewarded. Whenever someone did something which was good in the eyes of God, he received a certain amount of ‘credit points’ (lada). These were booked to his account and partly determined his destiny in the afterlife. A peasant could, for instance, earn lada through field cultivation, because birds and insects fed on the grain, and he could accumulate lada by thanking God for the harvest. The rules for gaining lada were very detailed. If someone urinated in a standing position, for instance, no lada could be gained. If he urinated in a squatting position, he would gain 10 points. However, if the urine touched him, no lada would be credited to his account. The greatest amount of lada could be gained by observing the five pillars of Islam. In Musa’s eyes, a strategic attitude towards these rules and acquiring lada was legitimate, yet it would not suffice. It was also important to follow these rules because they were good (suna da kyau) in themselves. But God ultimately created the world in order to be venerated (a ba shi girma). God also expected man to follow the rules in order to show him his respect, to obey him and thus to venerate him. God put great emphasis on his veneration, and without veneration there would be no access to paradise. Showing respect to God and obeying him were perhaps the most important factors for ensuring one’s access to paradise. In his monograph on Marmara village in northern Nigeria, Clough (2014: 57) writes that “men gave commercial credit . . . because they believed that their generosity would attract God’s favour”. In a similar way, seeking lada was a major motivation for Musa to abide by religiously prescribed rules. So Musa declared, for instance, that he not only had practical reasons to engage in the greeting praclim part and a non-Muslim part (the Anna). The latter did and do also play an important role in the local political system (Kühme 2003: 98). The Anna who live in the north of Kimoram, however, are small in number. Unfortunately, Nicolas presents Muslim religious thought as a coherent whole and hardly takes into consideration that the beliefs of the members of a given population would probably show some degree of internal differentiation.

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tice in the morning. He wanted to see his father and neighbours, and he hoped to discuss some of the things which were on his mind, but he also wanted to acquire lada by greeting the other villagers. Similarly, Musa said that the prospect of lada strengthened his patience. If someone did harm to another person, he said, the latter would benefit from being patient. If he did not seek retribution or revenge, the culprit’s lada would be credited to his own account. 2. Prayer Although their meanings and implications reached beyond this, in Musa’s eyes prayer and fasting mainly served the purpose of venerating God. The fact that they demanded the believer to overcome his idleness and to master himself in order to pray five times a day and to fast for a whole month contributed to their importance as means of veneration. Prayer thus also counted as a kind of work (aiki). Musa strictly adhered to the rule of praying five times a day. He prayed in the morning after he had got up, at about 2 p.m., 4 p.m., at sunset and about 8 p.m. A prayer consisted of two parts. The first part was alwala, a rite of purification. The second part was salla, the prayer itself. Most of the time, Musa performed his prayer alone. However, sometimes he joined other believers at the mosque. The Imam held a communal prayer in the morning at dawn and another at 8 p.m. Only a few peasants participated in these communal prayers, Musa seldom did as well. For Musa, prayer was embedded in an array of ideas and attitudes. We have seen that prayer was among the most important duties he had towards God. Accordingly, Musa had to fully concentrate on prayer. But prayer, he said, also affected his mind. By performing a prayer, he contemplated good and bad ways of behaving and purified his heart of bad wishes and intentions. Prayer also strengthened his feelings of compassion.45 Furthermore, as bad thoughts and bad intentions in the believer’s mind were often the result of the devil’s evil suggestions, prayer also protected him from the devil. As prayer was such an important duty, it also loomed large in Musa’s conscience. If he forgot to pray or was unable to perform his prayers, he developed, as far I could see, a guilty conscience and could not sleep calmly at night. Prayer also offered benefits for the performer. As 45 There was another practice which had a similar impact on the performer. This was the practice of lazimi, liturgical chants. After sallah at dawn, the Imam and the ladan, Malam Yakuba, sat together in the mosque to sing these chants. This practice served to protect the village against mischief, but the chants also had an effect on the performers, similar to prayer. As Musa explained it, the performers gained a heightened awareness of God, a heightened awareness of man’s smallness and they incited in themselves the desire for something good to happen to their fellow human beings. Musa did not actively participate in the practice of lazimi.

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we have seen before, those who abode by divinely ordained rules received lada. But prayer also exerted influence on God. It aroused his pity and this might induce him to grant a favour to the believer. Praying at night was especially efficient, as the angels roamed the earth by night and registered who was praying to God. Uttering the formula bismillahi rahmani rahim (In the name of God, the most Gracious, the most Compassionate) resembled prayer in so far as it chased away the devil and any evil spirits that happened to be there. Before riding a horse, before participating in a ritual occasion or before weeding, Musa regularly uttered bismillahi rahmani rahim. 3. Fasting during the month of Ramadan For the villagers, the month of Ramadan began when they had seen the new moon of the appropriate month. When the new moon appeared, the villagers performed a common prayer under the leadership of their respective Imam. From then on, they were only allowed to eat and drink between sunset and dawn. Fasting was a community event. Ideally, the village should begin and end fasting together.46 From the villagers’ perspective, God demanded that the believers fast. Those who fasted were thus obeying God and paying him respect, so they were rewarded with lada. However, the meaning of fasting went beyond the idea of obedience. During the month of Ramadan, the believer was supposed to devote his time to religious practices and reflection. Fasting was also a great strain on the body. The fasters’ bodies did not have the same strength they usually had, and the peasants thus worked less than normal. When I stayed in Kimoram, I did not stay for the whole month of Ramadan and only witnessed the beginning of the month of Ramadan twice. The peasants had already finished the first weeding, and had also nearly finished the second weeding. This meant there was not much work left on the fields. The peasants then devoted their time to collecting fodder for their animals and spent the rest of the day hanging around in the village and waiting for the evening. According to Musa, the villagers would get used to fasting after some days and resume their normal work until about noon. For Musa, and I suppose for other villagers as well, fasting was also a strain on emotional stability, as the lack of food and water and the expectation that he 46 The split between the northern and the southern part of Kimoram became visible here in 2009. The clouds covered the sky and the villagers could not see the new moon. Villagers and relatives called from Zaria and Nguru by mobile phone and reported that they had seen the new moon. After that the southern part of the village started to fast, whereas the northern part did not and argued that they could not verify the news.

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would suffer for the rest of the day required that he exert greater self-control. As such, I found that Musa had become more easily irritable during the first days of Ramadan. When we sat on a mat in the shadow of a tree and Idris and Ya’u climbed on him to play with him, Musa became annoyed. The commands he directed towards Mariama also carried an annoyed tone in the earlier days of the month of Ramadan.47 I didn’t witness the feast at the end of the month of Ramadan, but this was when the peasants would celebrate their most important feast of the year, babbar salla. They would pray together, and those who could afford it would slaughter a ram. Musa did not slaughter. Unlike the duties of professing Islam, praying and fasting, Musa was unable to perform the duty of pilgrimage, because he was too poor. Also, I was not in Kimoram when it would have been time to pay zakkat, the tithe for the religious scholars, the poor and the needy. According to what he said, however, he paid it. 4. The religious dimension of social norms and values Beyond prayer and fasting, Islamic practice and Islamic knowledge also infiltrated Musa’s everyday activities. The steps involved in taking a bath in the morning, for instance, were religiously prescribed. Religious ideas were also part of the greeting practices. If somebody asked yaya hak’uri? (How is your patience?) as part of a greeting sequence, Musa would occasionally reply sai annabi! (Only the prophet!). If he answered with a sequence that implied he was patient, he would have likened himself to the prophet, who alone could be called patient. Many social norms and social values of everyday life also had a religious dimension. It pleased God and earned Musa lada when he went through the village in the morning to greet the other villagers. According to Musa, greeting the sick and helping orphans were among the believer’s most important social duties. Similarly, obedience of children towards their parents was required not only socially, but also religiously. The same applied to Mariama’s obedience towards Musa, and to Musa’s obedience towards Mariama. Patience was of religious importance. A patient person accepted the unpleasant aspects of his worldly existence without moaning, as he knew that God gave them to him. Patience thus implied awareness of and obedience towards God. Musa once gave expression to 47 In contrast to the men, the women had to carry on with their daily work very much like before. They had to care for the children and take care of the cooking. To my surprise, the women did not seem to be affected by the fasting as much as the men were. I wondered whether they really kept to the rule of fasting, but Musa explained the difference in behaviour through the difference between male and female nature; he said women’s bodies did not suffer from the lack of food as much as men’s bodies.

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this idea when we were in Nimari. He had gone to the yam market and Sani Dogo had been there before. Hardly anybody ordered tea or bread from Musa. Musa said then that there was no reason to be annoyed, because everybody would receive his rabo, i. e. the share God ordained he should receive. Religion thus legitimized social norms and values which Musa considered valid and added to the weight they had for him. 5. Divine sanctions Religious norms were protected through divine sanctions. Thus God held back lada if a person had infringed a norm. When a man slept with a woman, for instance, he had to wash his body in a prescribed way. Otherwise God would not accept his prayer and the man would not accumulate the corresponding amount of lada. If someone stole, the culprit’s prayer would produce lada, but the lada would be credited to the account of the person who had suffered the loss until the culprit repented. The more important the rules were, the heavier the sanctions. In Musa’s thinking, theft and adultery were paradigmatic for what was forbidden and thus strictly sanctioned. If someone stole or committed adultery three times, he could never again accumulate lada, even if he had repented three times. Under two conditions, however, Musa took a more lenient or permissive attitude towards a social practice which diverged from religious norms. Firstly, God allowed religious injunctions to be disregarded if they could not be fulfilled because they required conditions which did not exist. Musa knew, for instance, that men should care for their women in such a way that they would not need to work on the fields, collect firewood or fetch water from the well. But Musa said that he considered it impossible to apply this norm to his everyday life because this would have required a better economic situation. Secondly, Musa said that he could also adopt a more lenient attitude when the religious rule broken was of minor importance. Women in Kimoram, for instance, should not leave their homes and attend a ceremony before sunset. However, they attended ceremonies during the day. This was the mens’ fault, Musa said, as they allowed their wives to leave their homesteads during daytime. However, Musa took a permissive or lenient attitude here as he could safely count on God’s forgiveness. If a man repented, admitted his fault, acknowledged the validity of religious injunctions and asked for forgiveness, God would forgive him his lesser sins. Allowing women to attend parties during daytime counted as a lesser sin. Similarly, Musa enjoyed listening to music, although he knew that this did not please God. Music, he said, made men emotional and diminished their rationality (hankali). However, he allowed himself to listen to it as it was a lesser sin. In terms of greater sins, however, like theft or murder, adultery or usury, a permissive attitude would not have been in order.

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Musa agreed with my suggestion that the idea that God would sanction wrong behaviour in the afterlife implied the idea that one did not need to pursue wrongdoers immediately. If someone incurred harm and did not pursue the wrong-doer, he would leave the matter to God. Retaliation was postponed then. According to Musa, his family acted in this spirit when his elder brother died. After his death, they found medicine (maganin sammu) before the threshold of his hut. By stepping over the medicine time and again, his brother had been affected and died. The family, Musa said, knew who the culprit was. However, they let the matter rest. The exclamation Allah ya saka! (May God retaliate against him!), which was uttered if someone did not want to pursue a wrongdoer, expressed this idea. 6. Responsibility It was Musa’s belief that man had to abide by the divinely ordained rules when he acted. If his behaviour diverged from these rules, he would be committing a sin. If the sin was of minor importance, God was willing to forgive these sins. If the sin was of major importance, the sinner could not take this infringement so easily. However, the devil might suggest evil ideas and intentions to a person and thus influence his behaviour in an immoral way. Nevertheless, the devil’s influence on one’s behaviour could, Musa believed, not exonerate a person from responsibility for his behaviour. Prayer, as we have seen before, could protect a person against these devilish plots. It was thus insufficient religious zeal that opened the door for the devil, and man was still responsible for what he did. Although Musa was aware of the fact that he committed sins, that he could and should improve his behaviour and that he was morally responsible for his behaviour, he did not perceive himself to be a sinner in the principled and hopeless way as some representatives of the Christian creed do. The latter hold the idea of hereditary or original sin and suspect man of constantly committing sins. None of these ideas applied to Musa. 7. Islamic learning As we have already seen, Musa was not only a believer, but also a student of Islam. He had gone through an extended period of Islamic learning. According to Musa, children went to Islamic school at about the age of eight. Whereas some students would only learn the basic practices and knowledge, others would go further and develop extended skills in the field of Qur’anic scholarship. Musa had gone further than the usual student and still wished to carry on, hoping he would, one day, become an Imam. The students’ equipment consisted of a wooden board (allo), a pen (alk’alami) made out of a stalk of the gamba plant and ink. The organisational framework in which teaching occurred was the Qur’anic school. I did not observe the teaching

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process in Kimoram, as no sessions took place during the rainy seasons. However, a place in the village was reserved for Qur’anic teaching where the teacher would assemble his students. Teaching would occur in groups but interactions between teacher and individual students would also take place.48 Musa described the basic steps of Qur’anic scholarship he had completed as follows: First, he learnt to drive away the devil by saying A’uzu bila’i mene shaid’an rajim. Then, he learnt the words he needed to carry out prayer. After that, he learnt the bodily practice of prayer. Finally, he learnt an utterance which would bring about health and protect against madness. He was then taught further skills. He learnt, for instance, how to write the utterances he was already able to pronounce. In doing so he acquired the skill of reading and writing letters. When he and the other young students wrote the above-mentioned utterances on their wooden boards, they washed them off and drank the liquid to protect themselves against evil. The young students also learnt different invocations. Musa was taught, for instance, one invocation to make a thief abandon stealing, one to make marriage partners settle down together peacefully and another to prevent a madman from beating others. Such invocations usually comprised the purification rite alwala, two raka’a (a raka’a is a set of genuflections in Islamic prayer) and a passage from the Qur’an that was appropriate for the aim. Furthermore, the teacher instructed him and the other students in ethical issues. He advised the children, for instance, to honour their parents, to help their fellow human beings and their relatives, to feel pity with them if they suffered from difficulties and not to anger. Next, the students learnt the fatiha, the first sura of the Qur’an which is utilized in a variety of ceremonies like the naming ceremony. After that, the students began to memorize the Qur’an. The teachers made the students learn selected verses (ayoyi, sg. aya) or sections of the Qur’an. The students wrote the verses down on their wooden boards and read them repeatedly until they knew them by rote. The teacher explained the meaning of the passages to them. The student’s major work then was to memorize the Qur’an. When a student had memorized about 50 izu, i. e. fifty of the sixty sections into which the Qur’an is divided, people would start to call him a malam, although he had not yet formally reached that stage. When the student had memorized the whole Qur’an, i. e. all 60 of the izu, people would gather. The student would then recite the whole Qur’an together with the Imam. A ram would be slaughtered and he would officially be called a malam. 48 See Fortier (1997) for a description of the process in Mauritania. See Sa’ad and Hoechner, who have made a film on a Qur’anic school in Kano, showing this style of teaching (Sa’ad, Abullahi Issubu (Director), & Hoechner, Hannah (producer) (2011). Duniya Juyi Juyi/How Life Goes [Docu-drama]. Kano, Nigeria: Goethe Institute. http:// www.qeh.ox.ac.uk/research/video/video-hlg.).

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Musa had not yet reached the erstwhile final point of Islamic learning, i. e. the memorization of the Qur’an. Whereas his father, the Imam, was able to recite the whole Qur’an and to explain the meaning of every single verse (aya), Musa had gone through the whole Qur’an twice. In 2009, he was going through it for the third time. He claimed to have successfully memorized 37 izu. He still wanted to learn the remaining 23 izu and expected to have memorized the whole Qur’an after his fourth repetition. Students differed widely with respect to their interest in memorizing the Qur’an. Most villagers quit Qur’anic school early. Others like Musa carried on. By the standards of his home village, he was quite advanced. Among those who were equally advanced as Musa were five other villagers, among them Malam Yakuba and Malam Magaji. Part of the learning process was participation in the peripatetic tradition. Under the guidance of their teacher or a more advanced student, a group of students would spend the slack period in another village in order to continue their learning there. As I already mentioned in chapter C. II. “Musa’s life history”, Musa had participated in this form of learning as well. Musa also became involved in teaching himself. When he had acquired enough knowledge and skills, he started teaching younger students and also led them to other villages during the slack period. Musa said that while he was still fairly young he had taken his studies very seriously. He went to many different villages during the slack periods. Once we tried to locate these villages on my map and we counted around 20 different places. As I have said, he had even divorced his first wife because he could not reconcile the duties of marriage with his interest in Qur’anic learning at that time. When his economic obligations weighed heavier on his shoulders, however, he had to give up karatu during the slack period and went on labour migration. However, even when he was in Nimari in 2008/2009, he continued to pursue Islamic learning. He said he would have read and learned by rote the Qur’an and other Islamic writings whenever he was not engaged in work while being there, he had copied 50 suras (surori, sg. sura) three times and he had also found a more advanced Islamic scholar in Nimari to whom he had turned when he needed advice. For his studies, Musa used written or printed documents; he owned two copies of the Qur’an. Another source of learning was booklets of religious content. Musa had a small collection of them. They were written in ajami (Arabic script adapted to the Hausa language) and covered a variety of different subjects. For instance, one of the booklets described how to carry out prayer in a correct manner, another one explained how to slaughter animals, a third one dealt with fasting and acquiring lada during the month of Ramadan. Musa read these booklets and tried to memorize them as well, in order to have their content at his disposal

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wherever he would go. I once witnessed Musa recite by rote the content of a booklet that Mariama slowly read in Musa’s presence. Musa was also able to draw on the writings the Imam held in his possession. He said these comprised printed versions of some hadiths and writings by Islamic scholars, such as the Risala. The Imam willingly lent them to Musa, even if he went away travelling. The forms of learning I have described so far depend on reading, writing and face-to-face interaction. But Musa also listened to radio transmissions from the radio station in Zinder. Especially during the month of Ramadan, the radio offered programmes of religious content. Moreover, Musa bought radio cassettes with religious content in Nigeria. In these radio transmissions and on these cassettes, Islamic scholars read verses from the Qur’an, translated them and explained their meaning to the audience. By listening, Musa recapitulated, deepened and augmented his religious knowledge. The process of Islamic learning described above followed a certain schedule, but also allowed for some flexibility. Musa chose, for instance, the destinations for his studies during the slack period. His father gave him recommendations on where he could find a competent malam and he only stayed where he felt that he could advance in his studies. Similarly, he chose himself which booklets he would read. He also adapted his learning to his obligations as a household head. As Musa’s major task was to memorize the Qur’an, first of all he wanted to absorb the text, its meaning and scholarly explanations. As the Qur’an was, for him, God’s word, it was exempt from criticism. God’s word was true and its injunctions right and justified. For Musa, it was out of the question to take a distanced attitude towards it. This was different from his attitude in other realms of life, where he was indeed critical. But Musa was also aware of the fact that views of what constituted God’s word changed over time. He did not, however, engage in discussions among scholars about changing views and did not seek alternative ways of interpreting the Qur’an, because he did not think of himself as knowledgeable enough. He rather trusted in the scholarship of his father and that of established scholars he knew from the radio. A knowledgeable malam, he said, knew which ideas were considered valid by current scholarship and which ideas had been rejected. Musa’s father was affiliated with the Qadiriyya brotherhood, while the Imam of the northern quarter of Kimoram favoured the Tijaniyya brotherhood. I do not know anything about the exact linkage between the Imams and these brotherhoods. Musa did not like to talk about the divisions in the village or about religious divisions. As we have seen, there might also have been followers of the Fayda-Tijaniyya in Samia (see D. V. 4., footnote 31). I was astonished to hear about the Imams’ affiliations because I had never heard about the influence of brotherhoods in the rural part of the area. As I later discovered, Launay (1992: 182–195) had had a similar experience in northern Côte d’Ivoire where religious

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scholars were also affiliated with different brotherhoods. Their affiliation, however, did not imply ideological differences but only a minor difference in worship practice. I thus assume that the Imams’ affiliations did not reflect any deeper religious disagreement. Accordingly, Musa also considered both brotherhoods to be properly Islamic and added that he consulted teachers of both brotherhoods and their writings. He would also pray together with their followers.49 He knew, however, that there were also varieties of Islam that diverged from traditional scholarship. He mentioned the Muslim brothers and the ’yan izala.50 He distanced himself from these brotherhoods, because he saw a fault with them. According to him, the ‘yan izala suffered from conceit, they declared other faithful Muslims to be non-believers and wrongfully thought that they knew beforehand what God would later decide. He also held them responsible for some of the mischief in Nigerien and Nigerian society.51 8. Religious lore Musa also possessed knowledge about religious lore which ‘enveloped’ his religious knowledge. The prohibition on smoking, for instance, was due to the devil. Once, the prophet had passed by a field on which tobacco grew. He wanted to pluck some leaves on his way back from his destination later on, and would pass by the field again. However, in the meantime the devil urinated on the tobacco, causing it to become polluted. Another story expanded on the issue of resurrection. According to Musa, there was a city to the south of Mecca, birnin qudus (the Hausa name for Jerusalem). The souls of the dead were kept there in two wells until Judgment Day. Those who would go to paradise waited in one well, whereas those who would go to hell would wait in the other. In former times, people in birnin qudus could talk to the souls of the dead in the wells. However, the government closed the wells as those people who came to realize that their relatives were destined to go to hell became agitated. Furthermore, Musa knew about a prophet who had come to the region around Kimoram because Mecca was to be founded there. Ultimately, though the plan was abandoned and the prophet moved further into what is now Nigeria, where he settled. According to Musa, one could still see one of the prophet’s footprints on one of the hills around Garin Adam. The prophet had also performed alwala on one of the hills in the vicinity of another village in the area, and one could still see the 49 Cf. Meunier (1998: 142) who mentions that there were no open conflicts between Quadiriyya and Tijaniyya in 20th century Maradi. 50 Cf. Masquelier (2009: 66–111) for a dispute between ‘yan izala and adherents to the Tijaniyya brotherhoods in Dogondoutchi. 51 Musa thus also demonstrated his participation in a religious thinking which is largely non-political. In contrast, the ‘yan izala are decidedly political (see Meunier 1998: 142).

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traces he had left behind. Musa also knew about stones that fell from the sky. Such a stone, he said, struck the ground in Garin Dengi. These stones consisted of angels’ saliva, which petrified when strong thunder and lightning occurred. If such stones struck the ground, they would sink deep into the earth. However, if one spilled milk on that spot the stone would sink no deeper than the milk would. 9. Qur’anic medicine When Qur’anic students wanted to memorize verses of the Qur’an or specific formulae they needed for prayers, they wrote them onto wooden plates. They repeatedly read the verses in order to memorize them. The students could, however, also use these verses and formulae to trigger practical consequences for their or other people’s lives. A certain verse or formula, for instance, would enhance the health of the body, another protect against madness and so on. In order to be effective, some of these verses had to be written on a slate, washed off and drunk, others needed to be read aloud, and others were sewn into a leather bag to be used as a talisman. If God agreed, some desired effects would then flow from the verses. As Musa had gone through the process of Islamic learning, he also knew how to prepare these forms of medicine (magani). When Musa wanted to prepare magani on his wooden board, he first had to perform the rite of purification (alwala). He then uttered and wrote on the wooden board the formula Bismillahi rahmani rahim, meaning In the name of God, the most Gracious, the most Compassionate. After that he could write down the verses which constituted the magani. Each of the verses or a set of verses corresponded to a certain plea intended for God. Once he combined different pleas which were meant to enhance one’s popularity, one’s economic success and to protect against madness. The first plea he wrote on that day comprised a single line, an extract from the sura ‘Ta-Kala’. It read Allah wallahu galabin alamuri which meant – according to Musa – ‘God who feels compassion with those who engage in some affair or business’. This verse was meant to trigger success in economic matters. The second plea comprised three lines: Line 1 read Wallahaula – Walakuwata – illa billahi – alliyul azim and meant ‘With God, there is no putting in reserve, no trick, only God, he alone is great’. Line 2 read Wallahu – ya’a simika – mina naaz and meant ‘God – who feels compassion with men’ and line 3 read Bismillahi – rahmani – rahim and meant ‘God – the Gracious – the Compassionate’. This second plea was meant to drive away devils and spirits and was a form of medicine against madness. Musa went on writing and added more pleas to those already mentioned. Which verses would trigger which consequences was special knowledge possessed by the Islamic scholars. They wrote the verses on paper and kept them as templates. Musa had a collection of such templates (kundi). His kundi was protected against curious people. If someone opened it without his permission, they

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Photo 8: Musa prepares magani.

would contract an eye disease. He had received his templates from his father as well as from other scholars. He got the template for the production of the abovementioned medicine from a scholar elsewhere, and his father had confirmed that this knowledge was indeed reliable. There was also medicine that would be used for evil purposes, but Musa said that he did not possess such medicine and that he would burn it if he got hold of any. Musa prepared the medicine for himself and his family. He took care to ensure that his family regularly drank some of the medicine to protect them against possible evils. But he also prepared medicine for others. One day, for instance, he prepared medicine for a Buzu woman in a village further away. She was plagued by spirits which prevented her from marrying. Musa covered several wooden plates with writing, washed off the medicine, poured the liquid into three bottles

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and delivered the medicine to her. ‘Customers’ normally paid him for his efforts, although the Buzu woman drank the medicine and did not pay him afterwards. Every now and then, Musa earned some small amount of money by preparing Qur’anic medicine, although this did not add up to a substantial addition to his income. 10. Religion, others and the self We have seen that Musa evaluated and judged other people’s behaviour. He appreciated, for instance, Mariama for her performance as a wife. He also drew on religious norms in order to evaluate and judge other people’s behaviour. Both spheres were, as we have seen, intertwined anyway as religion was a source of norms and social norms were religiously legitimized. He took exception, for instance, with Dengi’s sons on religious grounds. They gave cowpeas as credit to peasants who were in urgent need of food, but they demanded that the recipients pay back the loans at a high interest rate. Although this was, according to Grégoire (1990: 81), an ancient practice in the region, Musa nevertheless understood it as a violation of the Islamic proscription on taking interest rates (ruwan kud’i) and he condemned it. Similarly, Musa had experienced maliciousness (k’eta) in other people’s behaviour and he condemned it not only for its own sake, but also for religious reasons. He said that God explicitly commanded man in the Qur’an not to begrudge his fellow human being his success. Musa’s being critical of somebody’s behaviour did not necessarily imply that he would consider it desirable to sanction the other person. We have seen that Musa took a lenient and permissive attitude towards himself with respect to lesser sins, and he took the same attitude towards others. According to Musa, Rufa’i was known to lie and cheat. I was able to confirm this from my own experience because he also tried to play tricks on me. However, Rufa’i did this without causing much harm. Musa’s criticism of him was thus rather mild. He did not consider Rufa’i’s faults to be severe enough to deserve sanctioning. At the same time, religion provided Musa with standards for evaluating himself and improving his own behaviour. When I met Musa in 2009, he told me that he had improved his behaviour through his religious studies during the slack period before. Firstly, he said, he was now better able to concentrate on God when performing his prayers, set aside all other thoughts and concerns about the world and thus show God his due respect. Secondly, he had worked on the skills he needed to live in a community (zamantakewa da jama’a). After having had a quarrel with a person, he had learned and accepted now that one should pay a visit to that person in order to restore peaceful relations. Thirdly, he reported that he had improved his patience as well. Fourthly, he had realized that he had had an inclination to speak ill about others behind their backs (gulma), and he did not

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want to do that anymore. Fifthly, Musa said that he had learnt to respect other people’s property better. He would no longer put pressure on others if he lacked a particular item, but would instead simply do without. So Musa believed that Islam served to improve one’s behaviour and personality. Religion set the standards of proper behaviour and the believer learned to behave accordingly. Musa conceived of this process as a continuous disjunction of the human being from the nature of animals. As Musa explained this process, Islamic learning instilled patience in the believer. If he got angry, he could thus withstand his desire to start quarrelling and he could instead exercise reason and solve the problem. Likewise, the process of Islamic learning instilled gratitude in the believer, and the believer could thus thank God for his food before submitting to his desire to eat. Animals, on the other hand, would directly act out their desires. 11. Other religions For Musa, the Qur’an – the word of God – was exempt from criticism. Concomitant with this attitude was his conviction that Islam was the true religion and that other religions had to be wrong. Musa drew some pride from this knowledge. However, Musa declared that this did not warrant contempt for other religions. Musa rather advocated the idea that a believer of Islam should not disdain Christians and a believer of Islam should try to get along peacefully with adherents of other creeds. 12. Spirits As we have seen, Musa knew about the existence of supra-natural beings with specific abilities like God, the devil or the angels. Moreover, he had acquired knowledge about historical beings with some extraordinary traits of character and abilities like the prophets. Beyond that, he assumed the existence of spirits (iskoki, sg. iska or aljanu, sg. aljani) and of witches (mayu, sg. m. maye, sg. f. mayya). Furthermore, he knew that some humans possessed extraordinary abilities. Most of the time, as Musa saw it, spirits were invisible and lived in a world parallel to that of humans. Spirits would, for instance, dance on the dancing ground at night between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m.. At times, one could also perceive traces of their activities. Musa said that sometimes at night one could hear them dancing and riding on their horses. Spirits might, however, also become visible under certain circumstances. Some villagers believed that chameleons were visible manifestations of spirits. Musa did not share this view. When we once saw a chameleon on the branches of a bush, some passers-by kept their distance, but Musa moved the branches to make the chameleon move from one branch to the other.

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Spirits were generally rather harmless. Nobody needed to be afraid of them. Spirits were normally unconcerned about people. However, spirits might also decide to act upon the human world or to establish relationships with humans. When Musa still lived in Nigeria, there were three adua trees close to the village. The trunk of one had a cave in which a spirit lived. Sometimes, the spirit adopted the shape of a snake, sometimes the shape of a dog, and sometimes that of a human being. Once, the spirit was seen pounding millet under the tree. At times, the spirit approached others in the form of a person the former had not seen for a long time. If the spirit took the form of a human or of an animal, it would not leave traces on the ground; this was how people were able to recognize the spirit. However, when Musa’s father decided to move to Niger, the spirit also left the village and nobody heard about it again. The spirit thus seemed to have had a special relationship with Musa’s father. Similarly, the many spirits that lived in the gardens close to Kimoram were used to the people from Kimoram. As such they allowed them to enter the gardens in the night, but did not permit strangers to do so. Some spirits, however, were evil and might cause illnesses. As I reported earlier, Musa once called Mariama from Nimari to find out how his family was. Idris, however, was sick because a spirit had appeared to him in order to frighten him. These spirits would stop to frighten children if they were older than about seven. Nevertheless, this was a real source of danger for Idris, as children often died under such circumstances. Moreover, some years before, Baba Umma had fallen victim to spirits who had entered her body. They caused her to tremble and act wildly. She would even jump over a compound’s fence. The Imam’s prayers made these spirits disappear from her body. According to Musa, there were also one or two women who were possessed by bori spirits in Kimoram (cf. Krings 1997). However, I did not investigate that matter further, as he mentioned it only as a side remark. The spirits were part of Musa’s environment and he took their existence as a given. But the spirits were not only part of Musa’s ontology; he also had to adopt an attitude towards them. As these spirits were often harmless, Musa normally did not worry about them. They were there and constituted a rather diffuse danger, against which he protected himself and his family by drinking or applying medicine regularly. At times, however, he expected them to become a real threat. In such cases he had to take action against them. 13. Witches There were not only spirits, but also witches. A witch possessed witchcraft power (maita), and could cause any kind of disease and even kill. Children inherited witchcraft from their parents, meaning a witch’s children were also witches. A witch could be recognized. If a witch saw raw meat, for instance, his eyes

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would turn red (ja) or greenish (tsanwa). If a witch stroked a sick child, the child’s fever would rise. ‘Yan bori, people who held special relationships with bori spirits and were possessed by them, could recognize witches (cf. Krings 1997). But witches did not necessarily recognize each other. They could kill up to 99 people. If they killed the 100th person, though, they would die themselves, meaning they had to stop killing at that point. In Garin Adam, there was the Sarkin mayu, the king of the witches. He had killed 99 people and so had to stop killing. He was recognized by all witches in the area as their head. As he was no longer a danger, he could now act openly in public space. In contrast to other witches who had not yet killed 99 people, the Sarkin mayu was able to identify witches. If he saw a witch, he perceived a horn on the witch’s head. In contrast to ordinary witches, the Sarkin mayu was able to disgorge his witchcraft power. It looked like ice cubes or small, differently coloured stones (cf. Nicolas 1975: 331 for information on “pière de sorcier” in the region around Maradi). If he swallowed them again, they would dissolve in his body. He could also sell some of these stones, and those who swallowed them would become witches themselves. If someone felt threatened by a witch, he could turn to the Sarkin mayu and pay him. The Sarkin mayu would detect the witch and forbid him to use his witchcraft. One could also turn to the chef de canton for help. The Sarki at Garin Gabas would make a witch take an oath on the Qur’an and thus make sure that he would no longer bewitch people. According to Musa, there were witches in Kimoram. He also knew that there were many witches in Garin Adam, and the Imam agreed. Once Musa and I were on the field and he told me that the day before the Sarkin Garin Adam had forced many witches to confess. Musa was quite satisfied with this. He also told me how he was once hit hard by a witch. One of his first children had died because a witch entered his compound and stroked his child’s head. The child died some days later. On another day, he managed to ward off a witch’s attack on his family. He woke up in the night. He saw a chameleon approaching his son Idris. Idris had already seen the chameleon and was terrified. Musa understood that the chameleon had been sent by a witch to frighten his son to such a degree that he would die. Only after Musa had given Idris medicine against witches did his son calm down again. Musa’s overall attitude towards witches resembled his attitude towards spirits. They were part of his environment and he took their existence as a given. They constituted a diffuse danger, against which he protected himself and his family by drinking or applying medicine regularly. At times, it seemed that witches posed a real threat and so he would take action to counteract their witchcraft. 14. Humans with extraordinary abilities Musa not only knew about spirits and witches, he also knew about humans who were capable of performing actions other humans were not capable of. For

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example, Musa told me about a person in Nigeria who could run faster than a horse. If he was running and wanted to stop, he had to grab a tree. The reason why he was able to run so fast was that he did not have kneecaps, which slow down our movement. One day, it became known that this person had misbehaved and the king wanted to summon him. The king sent his messengers to catch him and bring him to court. When the man saw the messengers arriving, he just ran away. Being faster than the messengers, he came to the king’s court and greeted him boldly before disappearing again before the messengers arrived. The king was impressed by his manly behaviour and forgave him his fault. The two of them became friends and spent much time together. The man had died some 30 years ago. Similarly, in a village not far from Kimoram, Abdu, whom Musa knew personally, also had extraordinary abilities. When Abdu was riding his motorbike and someone else accompanied him on a motorbike of his own, Abdu’s motorbike might consume the fuel of the other man’s bike. When the latter had run out of fuel, Abdu would carry on his journey with his own fuel, leaving the other man behind. Similarly, Musa had seen a man in Nigeria who could bring his shoulders together in front of his body. He heard that the man could also rub a one naira coin and cause the face on the coin to start breathing and open and close its eyes. He also knew about humans with extraordinary connections with the animal world. The mother of the king of Macina on the Nigerien-Nigerian border, for instance, gave birth not only to a baby, the future king, but also to a snake. She breast-fed both of them. After a while, the snake disappeared into the bush but it came back into the palace once a week in order to feed. The snake was black and long and did not bite anybody. Furthermore, Musa knew about humans with kinship relations to the animal world. Once, Musa said, he was in Bauchi and taught two children to read and write (karatu). These children did not have straight legs, could not pronounce words clearly and the features of their faces were not entirely human. The reason for this was that large monkeys had once caught their mother, tied her to a tree and raped her. She subsequently gave birth to these children. Musa rarely talked about these extraordinary abilities of humans and their connections with the animal world, and nor did he try to explore them. They seemed to be part of his ontology, but yet of no special concern to him in everyday life. However, I became aware of Musa’s knowledge of them in two situations which also seemed to indicate that they had a special function for him. One evening, I was in Musa’s compound while he was still eating together with his kinsmen. He came back and told Mariama and me a story he had just heard. Someone had come back from Nigeria and been witness to the following scene. He had seen how someone had opened his hand above the head of another person and how money fell from the palm of his hand. This story made him add another story.

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Once, Musa said, a burglar broke into his and Bunu’s huts. He and Abdu – the person mentioned above who had extraordinary abilities – followed the thief. On their way, Abdu asked Musa what kind of food he would like to eat, and all of a sudden he offered him Nigerian food. Musa explained that Abdu used the services of spirits, which would take away food from somebody in Nigeria and bring it to him instantly. Mariama and I were listening; Mariama was quite astonished, whereas I doubted whether the story was true. Musa’s body jerked a little, which to me was a sign that I had made a case in point, whereas Mariama objected to my idea. At that moment I thought that Musa might have invented a story of his own after hearing the story from Nigeria. I can only conjecture about his reasons to do so, but perhaps he wanted to impress us a little. When he was sick, he told me the stories about the man with no kneecaps and about the relationship between the snake and the king of Macina. He was suffering from malaria and came into my hut. He seemed to be slightly afraid of the illness – and later also admitted to have indeed been frightened – and began to tell me these stories. Again, I can only conjecture here, but I felt that his reason for telling them was his anxiety. The stories, it seemed to me, provided him with hope. Unexpected and extraordinary things were possible and his illness did not necessarily mean that anything severe would happen to his health. 15. Medicine As we have seen, Musa acknowledged the existence of spiritual entities like God, spirits, witches and also knew about human beings with extraordinary abilities. They all had their place within the context of his life. There was another element in the realm of the religious which played its role for Musa in everyday life. These were plants or animal parts which could be used to further one’s aims. The way they functioned was very similar to the way Qur’anic potions worked. Musa described these plants and animal parts using the term magani (medicine), the same term he used for his potions. When I speak about magani in this section, I am referring to the magani that consists of plants and animal parts. Similarly to the Qur’anic potions, magani existed against a wide variety of evils that might be of man’s concern and for a wide array of goods man might desire. There was magani to arouse a girl’s interest in oneself, against snake bites, for economic success, to make a child feel at home, to protect one’s collection of templates for Qur’anic potions. One day, for instance, I saw Musa planting a special onion below a gao tree. Whoever ate from the newly growing onions would soon find a new marriage partner. As Qur’anic potions could be used for moral as well as immoral purposes, magani could also further evil aims. For example, Musa told me that some kilometres to the east of Kimoram men once approached two women and promised them some money if they met again. One of the women came back and the men kidnapped her. She had been missing

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ever since. Musa assumed that they had abducted her to kill her and use parts of her corpse to produce some immoral medicine. To produce the desired effect, the ingredients had to be taken in a specific manner. Once, I saw him with medicine for economic success. It consisted of two types of blossoms and one type of shoot. The blossoms and the shoot first had to be dried and pounded before they were mixed with milk and drunk. If someone had taken medicine, he sometimes also had to refrain from performing certain actions in order to guarantee the medicine’s efficacy. Someone who had taken medicine against scorpion bites or medicine against snakes, for instance, had to abstain from drinking water directly from an earthen pot. He should instead use a cup. Otherwise the medicine would become ineffective. Each medicine produced its effects in a certain way. If a trader, for instance, took medicine to enhance his economic success, someone else would take an interest in buying his goods. Medicine against snake bites instilled fear in snakes. Medicine against witches prevented them from seeing the inner organs of the human body. Medicine did not, however, produce its effects automatically. Exactly like Qur’anic potions medicine was rather a plea towards God to let the desired effects become real.52 Musa learnt about the different types of medicine from many sources. His father was knowledgeable in the field, but others knew about magani too. For instance, he had learnt about the magani for economic success – which consisted of two kinds of blossoms and a plant – from someone who lived in a neighbouring village. This person had acquired his knowledge from some Fulb’e. Musa trusted in these recommendations because he considered them to have been tested by those who provided them. In contrast to his practice of keeping written 52 While the way in which the types of magani mentioned above function appears rather hypothetical to us, other magani would, from “our” point of view, qualify as an empirically sound way of producing the desired effects. When Ali had broken his elbow, for instance, Musa heated up a thick leaf on some embers and applied it to Ali’s elbow. He hoped the warmth would help the elbow to heal. I have not looked into this matter further, but I think that Musa did not see a clear dividing line here between this magani and the magani described above. In both cases, he would probably have said that the magani was still a plea to God and would only work if God agreed. However, I am not in a position to ascertain how he figured out in further detail the processes which triggered the effects of the respective medicine; whether he assumed, for instance, that through God’s approval the warmth of the leaf entered the elbow and initiated a material process in it (cf. Heiss 2001 for the emic understanding of plant growth by Manga farmers). At the same time, Musa’s ideas about the effectiveness of magani might have been corroborated by physical effects which the magani might exert on the body of the person taking the magani. Again, I am not in a position to ascertain this for all kinds of magani. However, when I once took magani, the reddish water from cooked roots of a tree, in order to increase the amount of blood in my veins and thus improve my physical strength, it prevented me from sleeping during the night and thus seemed to have an effect similar to strong coffee. Musa also once gave me a brown powder, medicine against witches, when we were in Nimari. When I took it, I sensed an effect I find difficult to describe, but it felt as if my inner organs had “woken up” for a moment.

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records of Qur’anic potions, however, he did not keep written records of magani. As such he had already forgotten some of his knowledge about magani. He could not remember, for instance, what the magani against cuts and gashes was that he had once taken. He could remember that he had to mix a pounded razor blade with a certain plant, but he no longer knew which kind of plant it was. Musa took magani for economic success, for popularity, against witches, against snake bites, and against madness and paralysis. The main criterion for his choice seemed to be what was important for his own and his family’s life. He wanted to extricate himself from poverty and thus took medicine to further his economic aims. He needed to be popular in order to further his aim of becoming Imam and to facilitate his everyday life. He took medicine against witches as his family had already fallen victim to attacks by witches. He took medicine against snake bites because poisonous snakes lived in the gardens and came into the village in the rainy season. Finally, he took medicine against paralysis and madness as he was afraid of both of these forms of disease. He also regularly administered the appropriate medicine to his wife and children. This was, as we have seen before, one way of taking care of them. He spoke about this magani as a shield (garkuwa) as it provided protection against the possible harms he reckoned with. However, magani not only served to provide for permanent protection, it also fended off immediate dangers, as we have seen before. For instance, Musa had medicine against street robbers which he took before leaving for Nigeria. When he once expected Maigari Dengi of Garin Dengi to be angry with him, he took medicine against curses because he feared Dengi might wish something bad on him. What is remarkable is that there was magani to serve virtually any of his interests. This corresponded with my impression that Musa was constantly concerned with finding magani which would be appropriate to his and his family’s situation. His interest in magani did not loom large in his mind at all times, but rather resembled a constant yet casual interest which might become more central to his mind depending on the situation. A special case of magani was asiri. Musa spoke about it only once. Asiri means secret and, at least in this case, seemed to consist of some item that gave its legitimate owner superior abilities. Umaru inherited an asiri from his father that enabled him to be more successful at hunting than other hunters who did not have an asiri. It only worked for its legitimate owner or for someone to whom the legitimate owner gave it. If someone stole it, it would “become angry” and not work for the thief. 16. Musa’s religious beliefs in everyday life: Certainty of religious beliefs and confidence in the future Some authors argue that religious ideas are not grounded in empirical reality and thus have to be explained by their function. Religious tenets are often inter-

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preted as being rooted in the human experience of having a limited ability to satisfy one’s basic wishes and needs. Beliefs in God and magic would then be means by which man makes himself believe in the attainability of the goods he longs for (cf. Tugendhat 2006: 121–2), and this triggers the practical consequences of religious beliefs in everyday life. For instance, it creates hope and confidence (cf. Malinowski 1973: 73–4). We can easily interpret some of Musa’s religious beliefs and practices in this way. The villagers believed joint prayers for rain were instruments for attaining a better harvest. Moreover, magani ensures that the user will be successful. Sometimes, religious ideas are attributed the function of legitimizing a social order. We can also see this thesis corroborated by what we know about Musa. God lays a premium, for instance, on patience and he wants children to respect their parents. In these interpretations of religion, the content and certainty of the beliefs derives from their function. These theoretical reflections on the relations between religious ideas and practical conduct seem plausible. And yet, it is difficult to fully ascertain them empirically. Establishing the exact status and role of religious beliefs for everyday conduct remains difficult. This was no different within the context of my research on Musa. Nevertheless, I will try to reflect here on two aspects of Musa’s religious beliefs. I will discuss the certainty which Musa attributed to his religious beliefs and the role of religion in fostering an attitude of confidence in Musa. The selection of these two aspects is arbitrary and due to what occurred in the field. a) Certainty of beliefs In Musa’s case, certainty of religious beliefs could not only derive from their function, but also from observation. In (stereotypical) Western everyday culture, we usually draw a clear dividing line between two spheres. On the one hand, we postulate the existence of worldly entities and forces which we think to be empirically observable. On the other, we define a ‘spiritual’ sphere of (real or imaginary) entities and forces and we think that reasoning about them is of a rather speculative nature. We have developed knowledge from within this paradigm. A (stereotypical) Westerner’s world thus encompasses molecules, bacteria, knowledge about the functioning of the parts of the human body and the like. We consider, however, Musa’s ideas about the efficacy of medicine against snake bites or his idea about the dependency of rainfall upon God’s will as speculative thinking which can either be proven to be false or the truth of which cannot be proven at all. In Musa’s world, however, knowledge has evolved within a paradigm that thinks ‘spiritual’ entities and forces are as real as directly observable entities. Horton (1979: 134) once made this point when he showed that spiritual entities in African religions occupy a position similar to atoms and molecules in our thought. So Musa also thought that the impact of ‘spiritual entities’ on the ‘observable world’ was proven time and again. His thinking conformed here to our

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everyday thinking about empirical proofs. When sufficient rain fell and the peasants had a good harvest, Musa knew that God had given. Certainty for his religious knowledge was thus generated by the same process we use to confirm our tenets in everyday life. We hold ideas and see them confirmed by events we can explain through them. Moreover, these tenets gain additional validity through being shared knowledge. Everybody believes in it and this corroborates the certainty with which we believe in our beliefs. Certainty can, however, also derive from the role religious ideas play as markers of social identity. Musa had a set of beliefs whose truth was firmly established from his point of view. When I wanted to speak about these themes, Musa was always astonishingly firm in his conviction that these ideas were true or valid. There seems, however, to be a relationship between these themes on the one hand and Musa’s identity and self-esteem on the other. The stock of knowledge that was so decidedly beyond questioning included the elements of the Islamic creed. Moreover, it contained the elements of religious lore, such as the story about the angels’ saliva and the one about the initial plan to found Mecca near Kimoram (see D. VIII. 8.). Similarly, the belief in the efficiency of traditional medicine was also exempt from criticism. But the same observation held for some convictions from outside the religious sphere. Musa was also convinced that the water in the village well and village ponds was good water and could not be the source of any disease or difficulty for a healthy person. Furthermore, the usefulness or worth of tsago, the facial scarifications which symbolized the belonging of an individual to a region’s population, were exempt from criticism. One might expect that religious belief as well as beliefs in the quality of local water and the value of tsago were exempt from criticism because they marked important social identities Musa was proud of. The religious belief related to Musa’s identity as a Muslim, the local water symbolised his affiliation with his home village, and tsago expressed his affiliation with the region. Musa took much pride in being a member of these collective groups and it seems as if these areas of knowledge were exempted from discussion because that shielded them from any criticism and stabilized basic elements of Musa’s social identity. A similar case might be made for the story about the original plan to establish Mecca close to Kimoram. It points out the close link between the region, its inhabitants and Islam. Clothing these issues in a great degree of certainty thus appeared to be a mechanism for maintaining self-esteem. b) Certainty of the future: confidence Let me now come to the role religious ideas might possibly have played for the formation of Musa’s attitude of confidence in the future. Religion was, as we can see by now, neatly interwoven with Musa’s everyday life, with the rules he followed, his value orientation, his evaluation of action, his motivation for action,

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his self-control and self-improvement. When Musa turned to God, he could partly calculate God’s response. When he prayed, God accepted the prayer. If he did something God asked him to do, God rewarded his effort by crediting lada to his account. If he had lived a life close enough to God’s standards, he could count on going to paradise. However, God could not be controlled. One could not ultimately be sure about God’s opinion and future acts. One could only try to make him compassionate or to satisfy him. Yet, according to Musa, the believer could count on God nevertheless. Musa said it was written in the Qur’an that God wanted the believers to urge him to give. He said that prayer and requests would arouse God’s pity. Compassionate as he was, God would then give what had been asked of him, either immediately or later. Moreover, if God bestowed something good on his believers, this was not always and not only in response to their pleas. Sometimes, he bestowed on them unexpected good (albarka). At any rate, the believer could thus count on God’s assistance. Belief in God was equivalent to trusting in God. However, according to Musa a sceptical attitude towards the future showed that the sceptic did not sufficiently believe in God. In his interpretation, a sceptic was a person who doubted that God would keep his promise. A weak believer would quickly lose his confidence in God if God withheld what had been asked of him, not knowing that God might give at a later point in time (even though he might also exercise his right to not give at all). Confidence in the future was thus imposed on the believer by theoretical arguments. Confidence was, however, not only part of the theoretical side of Musa’s religion; it also seemed to be part of the practical side of his life. By and large, he seemed to me to have a confident outlook. He seemed to be rather sure that he would fulfil his basic desires sooner or later. Life was difficult again and again, but he never seemed to fall into despair or to doubt that things would continue or work out later. He also saw it this way himself. Other examples might serve to illustrate Musa’s attitude of confidence in the future. Firstly, Musa was, as we have seen, once shaken when he had seen an impoverished man who had been affluent some years before. I asked him if that person had become impoverished because he had spent his money lavishly or because misfortune had befallen him. Musa replied that the man had wasted his money. He added that one was sometimes afraid, but then one would engage in conversation with someone else and the conversation partner (in that case me) would say something that would take the anxiety away. At that moment, I thought that Musa had seen his future self in that person. Why else should he have felt anxiety? The fact that he had been shaken seemed to reflect that Musa was rather confident that he would improve his own situation and find a way out of poverty. The man’s fall into poverty showed him that he might be wrong. Secondly, Musa once asked me to write a request to establish a primary school in Kimoram. He had collected the names of

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the children the villagers wanted to send to school. A maigari still had to sign the letter before Musa could hand it over to the maire in Garin Gabas. So he asked Maigari Adamu if he was willing to sign it. Adamu replied that Musa should come to the market in Garin Gabas and meet him there. As I expected the issue to be of little importance to Adamu, I doubted that Musa could reckon on meeting Adamu at the market. Musa, however, expected him to be there, went to Garin Gabas and then realized that Adamu had not come. Thirdly, Musa took only a small amount of money with him when he travelled to Nimari. The money would suffice for the food on the way and for the first days there. However, if anything had happened on his way to Nimari which required him to pay a larger amount of money, he would not have been able to do so. He rather seemed to anticipate that no obstacles would occur during the journey and that he and the other villagers would be able to solve any of the problems that might arise.53 Fourthly, Musa had planted millet and cowpeas on both fields in 2009. The plants on the northern field, however, did not grow well. So Musa would have had to sow millet and cowpeas there again. Although it is perfectly normal for plants to grow badly once in a while, Musa had not expected this and seemed to have anticipated that the plants would grow more favourably. In all of these examples, it appears as if Musa expected with greater certainty that things would work out well than he expected difficulties would arise. This shows how confidence in the future, rather than scepticism towards it, prevailed in his thinking. A similar point can be made for magani. Magani, too, created confidence. Spirits, witches and medicine for evil purposes were a reality for Musa and he could point out instances in his own life where he had had to deal with these ‘forces’. Similarly, he knew of cases in which others had had to protect themselves against them. Musa explained that magani made him less anxious. With respect to magani against snakes, he added that he was less cautious of snakes since he had taken magani against them. As far as this was possible, I found this statement to be confirmed by observation. When a snake once entered Kimoram in the night, some villagers discovered it, but it escaped. Musa joined in the search for the snake. He took a wooden stick and borrowed my torch. He finally found it at the entrance of his compound. He blinded the snake with the torchlight and broke its backbone with the stick. I found him to be somewhat careless when searching for the snake, as he only wore his plastic sandals and moved around without lighting his way diligently. The snake might have been waiting for him in some dark space or on the path. Other types of magani also created confidence in Musa. Musa contended that magani for economic success increased his determination to work. Trusting in his own success would add to his zeal, he said, whereas rather dull prospects would keep him down. 53 Cf. Rossi (2014), who shows that this is a more general practice for organizing travel in the area.

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When I confronted him with the idea that his confidence was grounded in the religious doctrine mentioned above, according to which one could count on God, he agreed with me. At the same time however, it might be noteworthy that the effects of confidence on practical behaviour were manifold. Confidence could increase his zeal and strengthen his determination, but it could also diminish his diligence.

E. Who is Musa? So far, I have painted a picture of Musa as an actor in different spheres of his life. I have described how he worked on the fields, how he interacted with his wife, how he reflected on his relationship with his father, etc. In these descriptions, I focused on his involvement in specific situations, relations and actions. I will now take a step back from this mosaic-like view of his life and try to capture what I consider the key features of his life. My hope is that Musa will appear from this as a person in all their complexity. In doing this, I will constantly refer to chapters C and D. At times, I will also add some new information which I could not accommodate in these chapters. An implicit theoretical idea about what a person is underlies this account of the key features of Musa’s life and serves as a guideline for it. I will not explain this notion as a whole here, as I fear this would make the text very clumsy. For reasons of presentation, I will divide the account of the key features of Musa’s life in this chapter into parts. Before I describe a “part of Musa’s life”, I will thus introduce the specific part of the above-mentioned theoretical notion of a person which matches the empirical part.

I. Desires Musa is a person. A person is driven by basic desires which are directed towards certain objectives. People seek to fulfil their desires and they do this under the given circumstances. This gives rise to activities in the course of which they relate to objects and other persons. People relate to these objects and other persons not only through desires and activities, but also through norms – there are, for instance, appropriate or inappropriate objects of desire – and through emotions or inner states – they relate to them through love, for instance – or through aspects of their identity – the objects turn them, for instance, into a respected person. The desires can also be interrelated as the objects might be means to achieve further objects of desire – a role in a community, for instance – or the desires may conflict with each other, possibly because only one can be pursued under the given circumstances. People may succeed or fail in fulfilling their desires. Whether they succeed or fail has repercussions on the person’s inner states. Failing, for instance, can cause concerns.

Musa was driven by some basic desires, the most important ones were his desire to sustain himself and to do well economically, his desire to be married and have a wife, to have children, to be sociable and have company, to engage in Qur’anic learning and to be a respected and important member of his village.

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First of all, Musa had the desire to sustain himself, to perpetuate his existence. This desire gave rise to his working activities, namely field cultivation and migrant labour. In these activities, he tried to find the means by which to live. Given the difficulties he encountered in gaining his means of livelihood, for him self-perpetuation mainly meant getting hold of food. His existence was, of course, not only to be perpetuated in a physical sense, because he also had to dress, give to others and lead a religious life, and yet eating, and not being hungry, was of primary importance to him. For the most part, his work got its meaning from this necessity.1 However, Musa strived for more. Over and above self-sustenance, he would have liked to build up a certain degree of wealth that would have allowed him to meet all his material needs. His wish to combine field cultivation with petty trading in the surrounding villages of Kimoram was meant to realize these economic aspirations. Secondly, Musa also wanted to be married and have a wife. This desire corresponded to his marriage and his leading a married life.2 Being married also provided him with the status of a respectable person. For most villagers, people who were not married lacked an essential quality and deserved less respect. Personally, Musa distanced himself from this attitude. As he had experienced in Nigeria that marriage is not necessarily a precondition for respect, he did not have the same opinion as the other villagers. Even so, he considered marriage to be the appropriate way of living together with a woman.3 However, marriage with Mariama was also an expression of his love for his wife. I have shown how Musa’s and Mariama’s mutual affection survived several other marriages. Nevertheless, Musa did not believe in the idea of engaging in life-long symbiosis. He had a rather sober attitude towards love. He knew that love can come and go, and that if it is over it can be found elsewhere. Correspondingly, Musa did not put such a premium on his love that he subordinated everything else to it. He was prepared to trade off his loving relationship with his wife for other benefits. Indeed, he also thought of his wife as a provider of children, a cook, and a person who, through proper conduct in public and towards guests, would maintain his 1 This idea is central for many Hausa peasants. When they hear that one does not need to starve in Western countries because the social welfare system provides food for everybody, they think that the major problem in life has been solved and life has become easy. 2 Clough (2014: 48) considers the “achievement of a stable polygynous household arrangement” as “the major goal of life” among the Hausa peasant of Marmara village in northern Nigeria. 3 This being said, we might also better understand why the divorce rate among Hausa is so high (cf. Hill 1972: 226). People marry quickly after their last separation from a former marriage partner because they want to be respected and want to have a relationship with a woman within the boundaries of decency. Incipient forms of love, just having fallen in love, are then sufficient for a decision to marry. It is within a marriagerelationship, not before marriage, that the marriage partners will find out whether they are well-matched.

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reputation, and who acted in concert with him to extricate the family from poverty. Mariama performed well in all these duties; and he had no reason to weigh up his love against any of her character traits or against her behaviour. So his marriage with Mariama was also an expression of his satisfaction with Mariama’s character and behaviour as a wife. Deep in his heart, Musa also had the desire to marry a second wife as well. (First, Musa did not tell me that he had this desire, but later he explained to me that Mariama had already understood that without having been told by him.) His poverty, however, prevented him from doing that. Thirdly, Musa wanted to have many children, at the time of research at least ten. This desire did, of course, give rise to having children and a family life. He derived pleasure and satisfaction from his children. This could easily be seen when he cuddled with his children. For him, a house without children was like a graveyard. However, having children was also related to his economic desires. He also wanted children because he could set them to work at an early age. This would help to alleviate his work-load and increase his benefit. Having children would also ensure his well-being at old age. Furthermore, very much like marriage, children made a man become a respectable person. Someone who lacked children was considered incomplete and was less respected than others.4 Fourthly, Musa had a need for socialness and company. This desire was one of the reasons that gave rise to a variety of social interactions throughout the day. At times, these interactions even filled the major part of the day. As we have seen, solitude was an inner state Musa, like any other villager, tried to avoid. People were born into socialness and kept on living with others and among others throughout their lives, be these other family members, other villagers or fellow travellers. Living in socialness remained their preferred mode of existence. Constant interaction maintained a good mood, overriding bad feelings and sad thoughts which appeared in one’s mind when one was lonely. His children and his wife were Musa’s major remedy against loneliness. He also found a remedy against solitude in other villagers. However, as we have seen, socialness as it was lived among other villagers always meant some sort of compromise, whereas socialness within the family was much less so. Fifthly, Musa had a desire for Islamic learning. This desire naturally gave rise to the practice of reading, writing and memorizing the Qur’an. Islamic learning was ‘serious business’ because the student learned about God and how to relate to him. Islamic learning was intertwined with a wide variety of aspects in Musa’s life. Among other things, Islamic learning was interlaced with Musa’s desire for a proper relationship with God, for a convenient after-life, for proper conduct in the world and for self-improvement. It also offered an opportunity for intellectual activity. Public discourse in Kimoram dealt with themes like the weather, the 4 Only marriage and parenthood, i. e. having a family of one’s own, made a man complete. Only a man with a family would be fully respected.

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state of one’s fields and one’s cattle, experiences from Nigeria and the like; by contrast, Islamic learning provided Musa with an opportunity to reflect on and learn about the world and about man. Moreover, Musa had set his heart on the idea of becoming an Imam. Islamic learning was also intertwined with his relationship with his father. His father, the Imam of Kimoram, expected Musa to broaden his knowledge in religious matters. However, the exigencies of daily life often collided with Islamic learning. They did not leave sufficient time for studying or they became so urgent that they often occupied Musa’s mind and dominated his thinking. Sixthly, Musa had a desire for recognition. A person whose behaviour complies with the values of a community is awarded with a good reputation and standing within that community. Most, if not all, villagers were very sensitive to the idea of recognition. In their view, everybody had a desire to be respected within his community and gaining respect was a legitimate aim for action. The same applied to Musa. He wanted to be recognized by the village community and even more so by his kinship group as complying with the community’s values and as a respectable person. This desire backed up diverse attempts to acquire certain roles. However, Musa’s desire for recognition did not relate solely to ‘ordinary’ roles and behaviour, such as that of a married man with children. He strived for more important roles. He had the ambition of becoming an important member of the village community and, hopefully, Imam5. Becoming an important member of his community would also mean that he would be able to give and to be generous. This became evident when Musa was deeply impressed by a young man at the yam market in Nimari. The young man came to the market, everybody greeted him respectfully, and then he ordered bread and tea for the ten men who happened to be there. In Musa’s eyes, this young man was the epitome of a respectable and well-liked person with a leadership quality who was, at the same time, economically successful and generous. At the same time, the great importance Musa attributed to the question of recognition implied that he was also sensitive to the issues of prestige and face and, concomitantly, also very sensitive to criticism. In Hausa culture, it is important to refrain from anything that might be understood as criticism when interacting with others. It is thus difficult to argue that I have evidence for his sensitivity to criticism, except for my own attempts at avoiding it. However, once I made the remark that he did not bring much grass from the fields, which he misunderstood as critical. Then, he first tried to take the wind out of my sails by interpreting my utterance in a purely descriptive mode and agreed to it, but some hours later he came back to the issue himself and justified his action.6 5 The position of Imam has to be thought of not only as an office of purely religious functions. An Imam cares about the “health” of the community in a wider sense and has also to be thought of as a community leader. 6 Cf. Clough (2014: 55) who finds the Hausa of Marmara village to be very sensitive to moral issues: “My concern with moral assumptions stems partly from ethnographic

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Seventhly, Musa had yet another desire, although it did not loom large in his life, as he lacked the possibilities to pursue it. This was the desire to see new parts of the world. He had already seen many different places as a student of Islam and he had also gone to several different cities in Nigeria, but he wanted to see more. He said this explicitly and it also became evident when he made me enumerate the countries I had already travelled to. Persons strive for the fulfilment of their desires. The question arises as to how far their desires are indeed fulfilled, and to what extent they are not. Musa’s desire for marriage was fulfilled as he had married Mariama. Moreover, Mariama met all the criteria which a good wife, according to Musa, should have. However, Musa had in mind the idea of marrying a second wife later, but he was not yet able to do so. So his desire of marriage was not yet fulfilled completely. At the same time, this desire was not frustrated as it was still within reach. Musa’s desire for children was also partly fulfilled. He had three children in 2009 and had five children in 2010. Again, he had in mind to have more children than five, this idea had not yet been realized, but seemed to be in reach. Musa was also surrounded by people with whom he had a very close relationship, such as Mariama, his children, his father and Baba Umma. He also formed part of the southern kinship group. He maintained a variety of relations with its members, took his evening meals with them and conversed with them regularly. When he left for labour migration, he was not alone but travelled and stayed together with other villagers. As such, he lacked neither in close nor more casual socialness, although he sometimes found relations outside the family to be lacking in quality. His desire for recognition was also partly fulfilled. He was loved and respected by his wife and by his children. I do not know how well he was respected among the members of his kinship-group, however. In any case, I saw no signs of disrespect towards him in their behaviour. All I heard was some criticism of individual acts he committed. After Musa had married Mariama as his second wife and his first wife had left his compound, Dahiru told me that Musa could not sustain two wives and thus implied that Musa had taken a nonsensical decision. Also, when Musa was tired of working on the fields, Dengi and Bala noticed and told me so. But these were single critical comments about his behaviour, not signs of disrespect. I cannot rule out the possibility, of course, that there might have been some hidden disrespect, as most behaviour was public and those who disrespected others would not show it on the public stage. But in Nimari, at least, experience. In Marmara, I was struck by certain kinds of private and public behaviour. In the quiet of my room, men would insist on a course of action using the word gara (‘you had better’ with the meaning ‘you really should’) or dole (‘it is necessary’ with the sense of ‘compulsory’). Men engaged in a loud and public justification of their actions whenever they felt these would be subject to question.”

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I should have noticed any disrespect towards him from other people, as I stayed so closely together with the villagers during my stay. At the same time, Musa never complained about a general lack of respect from others. He only felt disrespected by some villagers. There was, however, some open contempt outside of his kinship group. Musa told me about it when he spoke about the Imam of the northern part of Kimoram. Additionally, Nana, who lived in the northern part of Kimoram, called Musa a bastard (shege) when I followed his advice and brought back the sick chicken that I had bought from her. One might thus cautiously conclude that he received “a fair amount” of recognition within his own group. However, Musa strived for more, and wanted to become an important member of his village. His desire for recognition thus seemed to be not yet completely fulfilled but, at any rate, not frustrated as its fulfilment was still within reach. Anyway, for men of his age, full recognition as an important member of one’s village was not yet attainable. Musa could hardly fulfil his desire to see new parts of the world, but this idea was not of great importance to Musa. When he saw an opportunity to discover new parts of the world, he seized it. When a friend proposed that they go to the north and offer religious services to the ‘Arborawa’ living there, he did do – one of the reasons being to see the region. His desire for Islamic learning was also partly fulfilled. In former times, though, he had had more opportunities to pursue his studies. As a household head who was responsible for his own family and, in part, for his father’s as well, he found it difficult to devote much time to Islamic learning. Economic concerns were more important. He thus devoted more time to working than to religious studies. There was a conflict of desires here. The conditions did of course also thwart his ambitions to marry a second wife and to have more children, but the fulfilment of these desires could easily be postponed. However, Islamic learning was a long-term project that needed continuous dedication. Musa could therefore not resolve this conflict of desires easily by putting an emphasis on economic work and simply postponing Islamic learning. The ‘empty’ desire made itself felt. A certain amount of frustration ensued from this. As a result, Musa sometimes longed to be able to study while he was cultivating the fields. The conflict between economic concerns and his religious endeavours thus translated into a conflict within himself, leading to problems of self-activation. His desires for marriage, children, recognition, socialness or Islamic learning were therefore partly fulfilled. In these cases, complete fulfilment could be postponed – even if, like in the case of Islamic learning, this caused some degree of frustration. This was different when it came to his desire for self-sustenance. Given the nature of his economic activities and the variety of his obligations, Musa was not able to sustain himself and his family successfully. Instead, he suffered from a lack of food time and again and periods of hunger were part and parcel of his existence. As a corollary of this, he also found it difficult to build

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up a moderate degree of wealth and he often found his attempts at accumulating goods thwarted. His economic situation did not allow him to provide for his means of physical existence. However, as the fulfilment of other desires depended on his economic success as well, this situation also prevented him from pursuing his Islamic studies. Studying would have required money. Moreover, his recognition also partly depended on his economic success. Quite to the contrary, however, he had recurrently become indebted. This added yet another dimension to his economic situation: He was not self-reliant, but depended on others. This, however, was a source of constant concerns and detrimental to his self-recognition.

II. Social Relations As a carrier of desires and striving for his aims, Musa was nearly always embedded in a social environment. When Musa acted, he did so in a specific social context. At the same time, he would be acting in a variety of different social contexts. Thus, some social relationships were relevant in the social context in which he was acting, whereas some were in the background, ready to be activated in a different social context in which he might be acting later on. These relationships comprised a number of elements. The participants had specific interests towards each other, they interacted on the basis of specific norms, they might have had more or less power than the other, and they had specific emotions towards the other. Within these social relationships, the interactants might pursue their interests, change them, refrain from pursuing them or impose them on others. Behaviour did not, however, simply flow from these components, but rather hinged on self-control, especially if adverse feelings arose or interests collided. At times, material goods were inserted in such situations and relationships. An observer can order these relationships according to closeness and distance. Mutual identification and care mark the one end of the spectrum, animosity and avoidance the other end.

1. Relations within the family As we have seen, there was a sharp contrast between Musa’s relationship with his wife, his children and his father as opposed to his relationship with other people. This found expression in various ways. For instance, the density of interaction was greater within the family. Musa saw his family members every day and co-ordinated his daily activities with them. Moreover, these were the relationships which were most densely regulated through norms. The father-son relationship and the husband-wife relationship implied well-defined rights and duties for each side. At the same time, these people were also closest to Musa emotionally and he identified with them. He thus enjoyed their presence, furthered their aims and interests and often took a caring attitude towards them. Relations within the family, specifically to those with Mariama and the children, sometimes also created a cosy atmosphere which Musa enjoyed. At times, this cosy atmosphere

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undermined his determination to work. He left for the fields later than he wanted, or he stayed at home longer than he had originally expected before leaving for Nimari. However, behaviour in these social relationships was not always consensual and peaceful. Identification and care do not necessarily rule out divergence of interests. In the case of Musa’s relationship with his children, identification and care even implied conflict, as he needed to educate his children against their own will. And so it was that he set Ali to work. He admonished Babangida for not returning the hauya that he had borrowed. He reprimanded Ali and Awalu when they decided on their own to attend a party instead of going to the fields. Divergence of interests and conflicts also occurred in Musa’s relationship with Mariama. For instance, he restricted Mariama’s mobility in order to save his face in public. In his relation to Mariama and his children, Musa was in a favourable position for imposing his will on them, as he was in a position of authority over them. The latter, however, could still counteract his intentions through a variety of strategies. The strength of the smaller children was that their behaviour was hardly malleable. Musa had to endure their crying and nagging, leave home or give in. Similarly, Mariama could play a trick on him and stay in her home-village for longer than Musa had allowed her to stay. The inferiors could also make Musa become weak. They knew how to undermine his determination. We have seen how the joking and laughter Mariama and I once joined in made Musa’s determination to restrict the time of her absence from Kimoram crumble; he changed his mind and invented a rationale for his new stance. In relation to his father, however, Musa was in an inferior position. His father owned the means of production and, at the same time, Musa felt obliged towards his father. He owed him obedience and gratitude for what he had done for him. In contrast to what we know from our society, it seems important to note that Musa did not experience these obligations as something external to him, something to which he had to submit. He accepted them, was convinced that they represented the good order and accordingly wished to comply with them (cf. Riesman 1977: 177–9). This idea, it seemed to me, was very important for understanding Musa’s relationship with his own father. Musa had the same feeling of obligation, although less intensive, towards all elders in the village who were of his father’s age. One day, for instance, an older woman called upon him for help on her fields. Musa went to assist her. Later, he said that he had worked hard to prevent himself from feeling shame. Through these words he gave expression to the fact that, in a sense, he embraced the norms that regulated his position towards the elders. In keeping with his inferior position towards his father, Musa largely had to adapt to his father’s decisions when his own interests diverged from them. He

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thus avoided an outward conflict with his father, but was sometimes drawn into a certain degree of frustration. When Musa was still working his father’s fields, he often felt that his father took decisions which were unfavourable in terms of his own economic progress. Musa, however, owed obedience to his father. Obeying him thus produced a conflict between his own desire for self-sustenance and the circumstances he lived in. For the most part, however, he had to swallow this frustration. A change in the order of rights and duties between Musa and his father resolved the situation at least partly. When his father gave him the command over his own means of production, Musa felt liberated and expected to achieve his own economic ends sooner or later. This change of rights and duties then translated into a change of Musa’s inner states. His frustration gave way to motivation. But he not only seemed to be more energetic after having attained economic independence, he also altered his attitude towards others. Before – and I take this to be a sign of frustration – he was very critical of other people in the village. After achieving economic independence, Musa could rely more on himself and no longer spent so much time thinking about other people’s characteristics. At the same time, Musa used strategies towards his father which were similar to those Mariama and the children used towards him. As Musa was in an inferior position towards his father, he also played tricks on him. For instance, he took eggs from his father’s chickens without asking permission lest his father might not agree. He also thought about sharing out food to his father’s household in smaller quantities than usual in order to influence consumption within his father’s compound. His family members also played a major role in Musa’s ideas about the future. His intimate social relations opened up and structured a horizon for his future planning. He thought, for instance, about sending Idris to school. He said that Idris might one day become a chairman. For his project to become a petty trader, he thought about engaging one of his nephews. 2. Relations beyond the family Musa was not only embedded in the sphere of his family. He also had relationships to his kinsmen, his fellow villagers, the other labour migrants and the inhabitants of Nimari. Outside his family, daily interaction became less dense and the order of rights and duties was less neatly defined. The relationships with these different people were diverse but the rule that social relations should be peaceful was valid for all of them. One expression of this was the practice of interacting with others according to the normative standards of wasa da dariya. This interactive genre demanded that people engage in conversation as if they were on very good terms, i. e. they had to show that they were happy to see each other, would start joking with each other and would make

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sure that no interaction partner could take offence at the other’s behaviour. Even when the Imam of the northern part of Kimoram entered Musa’s compound, both behaved according to the standards of wasa da dariya. When Suleyman came to Nimari to take advantage of the villagers, they all had a lively conversation with him during which they hid their thoughts. If someone did not engage in wasa da dariya, he would not only be disregarding the rule, but also showing that something was wrong with him. Others would think that he had a grudge in his heart, that he might be sorrowful or that he might even be evil. Musa embraced the idea and the norms of wasa da dariya. He considered it appropriate behaviour, he valued it because it dispersed sorrows and bad moods, it integrated the community and it came to him easily. Interaction according to the standards of wasa da dariya was the norm in any kind of interaction beyond the family. However, it did not necessarily mirror the real relationship between the interaction partners. A wide array of different forms of relationship was possible here. The circle of Musa’s kinsmen, for instance, was bound together through daily interaction, common loyalties, common interests and kinship ideology. Yet, it encompassed members with whom Musa had quite different relationships. There was a sharp contrast, for instance, between his relationship with Issu and his relationship with another kinsman. When he interacted with them, Musa abode by the rules of wasa da dariya. The latter kinsman had a joking relationship with Musa and Musa did not object his entering Musa’s hut at any time. Musa also had conversations with him. But he concealed his true feelings towards him. In contrast, he liked Issu and, here, wasa da dariya corresponded to the real relationship. Similar considerations apply to Musa’s relationships with the other labour migrants and with the other villagers, beneath wasa da dariya lay a wide array of relationships. At the same time, wasa da dariya enabled Musa to get along with virtually everybody and it was possible to resort to in difficult relationships or even use it to develop relationships further. The relationships with others outside the sphere of family relations were thus often a compromise. Rufa’i might serve as an example. Rufa’i and Musa behaved peacefully towards each other, engaged in wasa da dariya, and even had conversations which went beyond the confines of wasa da dariya and Musa also enjoyed this. However, Musa would not lend anything to Rufa’i, as Rufa’i would, Musa said, not return what he had received and instead make fun of his creditor and expose his naiveté. But if antipathy became too strong, Musa tried to evade the other man, as he did not pass by Alhaji Tasau’s house anymore. At the same time, the need to maintain at least superficially smooth relations was unconditional within the circle of one’s close kinsmen. For Musa, it would have been impossible to shun a close kinsman as he was able to avoid Alhaji Tasau. There might even be outbursts when the interaction-partners had adverse feelings to-

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wards each other which they were unable to contain. Musa had told me, for instance, how a close kinsman once showed him his contempt. I do not know if Musa was responsible for similar outbursts.7 From my Central European point of view, I found it striking to see how Musa tried to find a way to carry on interaction with virtually everybody. This behaviour was supported by at least two factors. Firstly, Musa believed in the idea that everybody should do their utmost in order to keep the community together. Musa once gave expression to this idea. The village community performed a collective prayer in front of the northern mosque. However, Malam Magaji did not participate. He had quarrelled with the Imam of the northern part. The village community had tried to reconcile both, but Malam Magaji had refused to forget his grievances. Musa criticized him for stepping out of the community. Similarly, I told Musa that I expected him to be happy about Issu’s arrival in Nimari when Issu and Bello had arrived. Musa immediately added “and Bello’s”. Bello was the son of Sani and often behaved similarly. Musa thus regarded him as a person with whom it was difficult to get along with. Yet, by adding this comment, he gave expression to the idea that they all belonged together. Secondly, Musa followed a certain social principle. He had, he said, experienced others as having many aspects to them. For instance, even if Rufa’i was of dubious morality, it was still nice to converse with him. Even if Alhassan had his faults, he would still make a good village chief as he could take a stern stance towards others. So Musa tried to interact with everybody in those spheres that would not cause problems but tried not to fall into the traps that existed. He would, for instance, not lend money to Rufa’i. Family relationships were the closest relationships Musa had, while distance increased when it came to members beyond the family. One could perceive more mutual identification and mutual trust within the family and a growing degree of self-control and critical evaluation of others in relationships beyond his family. What was striking, however, was how sharply intimacy declined and distance grew beyond the limits of his family. The members of the southern kinship group were already much farther away from Musa than one might expect. Accordingly, he also felt much less responsible for the actions of those who did not belong to the circle of his family and his personal relations. Musa also took a clear stance towards those with whom he was no longer in a close relationship, e. g. Sani. He considered their behaviour their own responsibility and none of his own business. He continued to interact with them according to the standards of wasa da dariya, but he did not get angry about their misbehaviour, and nor did he try to give

7 When I was in a Manga village once before, I witnessed a scene that was emblematic for the interplay between the norm of behaving peacefully and the control of feelings. I saw two villagers peacefully sitting next to each other in a meeting, despite the fact that one of them had attacked the other with a broken bottle some days before.

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them advice or correct them. He considered their behaviour entirely to be their own responsibility and problem. The above-mentioned examples show that the set of Musa’s relationships was in a process of permanent restructuration. But Musa also consciously tried to develop relationships, build them up or withdraw from them. Once, for instance, he said that he used to have more to do with Kyari. However, he had seen that Kyari, despite his being a moral person, talked a lot and one could not be sure about what he would do. Since then, the intensity of his relationship with Kyari had reduced. Nevertheless, Musa had a wide network of social relations of different kinds. He had his family in Kimoram, his kinsmen, his brother in Nigeria, he knew the villagers in Kimoram and in surrounding villages, people in surrounding villages and people in Nimari. Some of Mariama’s relatives lived in Zinder and in Niamey. Any of these relations might give rise to further activities. After he had paid a visit to his acquaintance in another village, Musa told me that they both intended to go to the north to offer their religious services to the Arborawa and they later did. Moreover, Mariama’s uncle in Zinder wanted to give money to Mariama to enable her to produce and sell groundnut oil in Kimoram. The plan later had to be abandoned as her uncle had been robbed on a journey. 3. The village community The village was also an important social entity for Musa. He had a vision for it. As he saw it, the village should have been an integrated community. Musa would have liked the villagers to perform their religious rites together, help each other out, follow one Imam and appear on the local scene as a unified entity. This was, as we have seen, not the case. The village was certainly a communicative community. The villagers knew each other and related to each other through wasa da dariya. The village was also a moral community. Certain disruptive forms of behaviour like theft or violence did not or only seldom occurred, everybody offered their condolences if someone had died and the young girls did not clap and sing on the dancing ground after someone’s death. The village also organised itself to perform some common activities like the prayers for rain. Yet, there was a disparity between the existent order and the normative idea Musa had of it. In contrast to his vision of the village as a unified and solidary body, it was split up into different sections whose members identified much closer with each other than with those of other sections. The villagers also followed different Imams, they did not help each other out very much, and they did not have a common village head. Musa expressed this disparity between the existent order and the normative idea by using the metaphor of the village as a marketplace. He perceived that as a lack of religiosity.

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To a certain extent, he deplored this situation. One instance when this became evident was when he told me about his father’s frustration. His father had told him that he was thinking of going to Nigeria because ‘Islam did not penetrate the villagers’ minds’. However, he usually did not bother much about this state of affairs and rather accepted it as it was. What helped him in accepting this state of affairs was that he did not understand the village as an integrated or cooperative economic system where the welfare of one unit depended on the well-fare of the other units. He rather perceived the village as an assembly of autonomous units where what one unit did hardly affected the welfare of other units. Accordingly, he considered what one unit did to be largely its own business and did not feel responsible for what another unit did (see above, when I described how Musa considered Sani’s behaviour to be his own responsibility alone, an attitude that now appears inherently linked to the perception of the village as an assembly of autonomous units, cf. Heiss 2003: 136–7, Riesman 1977: 161–3). Notwithstanding the rather loose integration of the village, as we have seen Musa was, to a degree, proud of his village. In contrast to his family, his kinship group, his village and his region, larger social bodies like the département or the nation did not play a significant role for Musa. Accordingly, he was also barely concerned about their fate or the condition they were in. Neither did he consider the question of what the right form of organisation for his society might be. However, he perceived a general lack of religiosity in the wider world. 4. Material goods in social relationships An important aspect in ordering social relations was material goods. This aspect was so fundamental for social relationships in Kimoram and for Musa’s relationships with others that it merits some special attention. The villagers had clear ideas about property. There were, for instance, fields owned by individuals and there were fields owned by several individuals. There was money that belonged to the husband and there was money that belonged to the wife. However, depending on one’s relationship with the owner of a good, and also the situation and nature of that good, one could also claim a right to benefit from other people’s possessions or even consider them one’s own.8 If the Imam received a guest, he could slaughter one of Musa’s chickens. The situation and the relationship warranted that. Similarly, Zainabu could take medicine she found in Musa’s hut and a son would refer to his father’s field as his own. Beyond this, one might use someone else’s property if the owner consented. For instance, on the way to 8 Cf. Verne (2007: 70) who points at the wide distribution of an attitude among the inhabitants of the village of Berberkia which considers the possessions of one’s relatives to be one’s own.

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Garin Gabas stood a lemon tree, and the owner of the tree allowed everybody to pick the fruit. Closeness, kinship and friendship implied material assistance. Willingness to help, especially through material assistance, was among the chief values in these relationships. In Nimari, Idriss expressed the idea which links relationships and material goods. In need of some sugar, I passed by his tray and moved on to Musa’s tray in order to take some sugar from there. Idriss then complained to me: ‘I like you and you like me, so why do you not take from my sugar?’ Riesman (1977: 181–3) has written about this point, too. In the Fulb’e village where he carried out his fieldwork, it was ill-liked that he and his wife never turned to others when they needed help or some item of daily use. As Riesman and his wife tried to be independent, they seemed not to have the intention to develop “full” relationships with others and to integrate with them. Musa had the same idea. He told me that he once lacked the money to return from Nimari to Kimoram. He approached someone at the yam market and asked him for a loan. Musa received the money, and when he paid it back a year later, the creditor thanked him for having taken him seriously. When someone was a friend, kinsman or neighbour to somebody, he should also ask him for favours and for help. Similarly, the other should be willing to provide help. Any relationship of mutual identification implied this exchange of goods and services. If someone availed himself of someone else’s property without having the appropriate relationship with the owner, he was transgressing the boundaries of the legitimate transferral of goods. This happened in Kimoram time and again. For instance, I once went to Garin Adam with Bala. On our way back, he asked me for a loan. Someone had given him money to buy kola nuts, Bala had bought them, but he had spent the rest of the money on his own needs. He seemed to expect trouble then or feel remorse, and tried to make me pay. When Musa and I once entered the gardens, we encountered an elderly man who was harvesting Abdu’s dates. He was a former friend of Abdu’s, but Musa denied that he had the right to harvest. Instead he believed he intended to benefit from Abdu’s dates and, if his actions were to become known publicly, count on the latter’s patience. These deviations from the moral order occurred because the person who had access to the goods had the desire to consume them. Moreover, nobody else was there to control him. However, this behaviour was even more likely to occur when the owner of the good was a kinsman or a friend to the person who owned the good. This relationship implied the owner’s goodwill, his general interest in helping the other out and a weak determination to resort to sanctions. It was thus far from certain that the owner and the user always agreed that the relationship between them warranted such an action. Musa and I once had such a disagreement. When he went to the market, I asked him to purchase some items for me. When he came back, he had bought these items, but he had also spent the rest of the money. I asked him why he did that and he replied that he had thought

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that I had agreed to him spending my money. To prevent such misunderstandings or disputes, villagers who asked others to bring them goods from the market would give them the exact amount of money that was needed to buy the goods. Giving more would make it possible for the other to assume a shared understanding that he might simply spend the rest of the money for his own purposes. Moreover, many villagers took great care to hide their possessions to prevent any disagreements about property and its use. Zainabu, for instance, kept her goat in Musa’s compound, lest others would come and claim material support.9 At the same time, there were people in Kimoram who liked to take but not to give, and others, even smarter ones, who liked to come closer to somebody and then take, but not to give either. Musa was aware of the fact that some people tried to develop relationships with others for the sole purpose of taking advantage of their generosity. As such, in order to avoid trouble he had made it a principle not to let others gain hold of his possessions, with the exception of welltrusted people like Mariama or his father. However, others also kept control of their own possessions. This meant that Mariama found it difficult to borrow salt or soup ingredients from other households in Kimoram. Musa said she would have to go as far as Samia where her family lived in order to get some. Again, this exemplified the fact that Musa and his family formed a circle of intimate relationships and that trust and closeness diminished sharply beyond that sphere. This might also explain the striking fact that Musa did not seem to have close friends in Kimoram. As I experienced it, the interest in material goods in Kimoram was so intense that establishing social relationships with people from whom it would be difficult to benefit in material terms would not have made much sense for many, if not most villagers, and Musa did not have much to give. Sometimes, however, Musa needed to have access to other people’s possessions. There were two ways in which Musa could gain access. Firstly, elders 9 To keep goods in the custody of trusted people in order to protect one’s rights of use is a practice which might be widespread in the region. To cite just one example, Dupire (1996: 117) states that “. . . dès leur marriage, leur mari prend la place de leur père dans la gérance de leur gros bétail. Il faut à la femme l’autorisation de son mari pour vendre une de ses vaches, tandis que ce dernier, s’il est dans le besoin, en disposera souvent sans son contentement, illégalement d’ailleurs. C’est ce qui explique que les femmes wod’aab’e préfèrent laisser le plus longtemps possible ces bêtes chez leurs parents craignant un abus de pouvoir de leur époux.” Mariama and other villagers applied the same practice to protect their own goods from themselves. One was always inclined to spend one’s own money on what one desired at that moment and thus to lose sight of one’s future projects. Indeed Mariama once said that if she had some money she would buy enamel ware after the harvest, even if the enamel ware were then much more expensive than during other periods of the year. Otherwise, she would not be able to keep her money for longer and would spend it on other occasions. She thus spent her money on expensive enamel ware to protect herself from wasting money.

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could help him. As it was the general duty of elders to care for the younger ones, they could offer assistance, for example through a gift. His father was a poor man himself and could not have granted additional help, but Abdu, for instance, who owned much land around Kimoram, gave Musa a garden plot. Musa also said that Abdu might help him if he wanted to marry. Secondly, Musa could ask for credit. He could do this within the sphere of closer relations or beyond that sphere. The only persons who were both close enough to Musa and sufficiently affluent were Abdu and Alhaji Menau. When he sought credit from people with whom he did not have a close relationship, he could turn to some of the comparatively more affluent villagers like Halilu. The difference between both was that borrowing from Alhaji Menau was more pleasant than taking credit from others, as Alhaji Menau was morally bound to Musa and Mariama and wanted to help them, whereas Halilu had no common interests with Musa. Accordingly, Halilu pestered Mariama time and again in order to make Musa pay his loan back when Musa was in Nimari. Debts and loans were an important theme for Musa. The debts he had incurred weighed heavily on him. His debts could make him sleep badly and, two or three times, he excused his silence by explaining that he was thinking about his debts. He was also constantly aware of the fact that he needed to pay back the money in order to be seen to be a reliable debtor and thus receive more loans in the future. As being indebted was shameful, Musa did not speak about his debts with anyone else except for Mariama. Even his father did not know how much money he owed to others. 5. Being among others Material goods thus played an important role in Musa’s social relations. Another important feature was the ubiquity of socialness in Musa’s life. He spent virtually every single moment of his life in the company of others. Musa as well as the other villagers shared an understanding that whoever was alone would long for company and that solitude was a hardship (cf. Riesman 1977: 220–1). Accordingly, Musa rarely sought solitude. The only time I experienced Musa seeking solitude was in Nimari when he wanted to escape from work and from the social setting of the bakery and left for a stroll into the bush. Even then, however, he was in my company. He said that he only ever sought solitude when he had to reflect on a difficult problem or when engaging in Qur’anic learning. This practice of always being among others corresponded to a specific idea about the nature of people. Whereas we often perceive ourselves as individuals who have a primordial existence outside of socialness and then engage in social relations, Musa thinks of men as being always embedded in social relations and stepping out from them at times. However, always being among others did not only imply a different idea about the nature of people, it also implied a specific

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corresponding attitude. When Musa was in the company of others, he could relate to them in a variety of ways. He could interact with them and the interaction could be his primary or sole occupation. Secondly, he could also pursue a noninteractive activity and interact with others at the same time. Once, for instance, Musa was writing Qur’anic verses on his wooden board and also participating in the conversation taking place in his compound. Thirdly, Musa could mind his own business and not interact with others. However, whatever form his involvement with others took, Musa was nearly always addressable and willing to respond. This attitude was, as far as I could see, not an idiosyncratic feature of Musa’s, but applied widely to the villagers and among the inhabitants of the regions in which Musa lived and worked. As a corollary of this, people who were visible to each other were potentially already in communication with each other. In such cases, people did not have to cross the boundaries between each other, as we often perceive it, and create an interactive space among each other; they only needed to update an interaction that was already potentially there. To borrow Goffman’s terms (1981: 131–7), people who were visible to each other were already ‘ratified participants’ of a potential interaction. Thus, villagers who entered into each other’s visual fields and addressed each other would not be intruding in each others’ lives or drawing each other into communication, but rather updating the relationship that already existed between both sides. Another observation might serve as a further illustration. A lorry had waited for some time at the yam market in Nimari and passed by the motor park. The driver honked his horn and the workers on top of the yams hooted. In doing so, they were communicating to everybody that the lorry had been loaded and their journey had started. They were not, however, intruding in other people’s communicative spheres but instead using the public sphere of which everybody was already a part. A person who was always in socialness also needed some specific social skills. As far as I could see, Musa drew on the following skills to facilitate his life in the company of others. Firstly, Musa tried to understand and reckon with other people’s characters. In contrast to children, whose characters were still malleable through advice and daily practice, Musa thought the characters of adults not to be malleable anymore. Any attempt at scolding them or arguing was prone to failure. A more successful strategy was to endure them patiently and to take precautions in order to prevent them from doing harm to oneself. Emotions also played an important role in the identities Musa attributed to others. When Musa spoke about other people and their behaviour, he often referred to their emotions in order to explain what they did. Aminu, for instance, was an anxious person who did not dare to risk having a conflict. Others felt pleased when they were respected. Sani shouted at everybody because he had anger in his heart. Musa thus proved to be quite sensitive to others’ emotions and thought them to be quite important in determining their actions. Secondly, Musa was also skilled at

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not feeling hurt easily. It seemed as if he followed a principle of not feeling hurt, as he knew about the importance of the destructive influence hurt feelings have on one’s own behaviour and reason.

III. Values Desires feed into the actions a person performs, and so do the different components of his social relationships, like norms. However, a person also has values which provide conscious guidelines for his behaviour or even shape it automatically.

Musa also had values which influenced and shaped his life and behaviour. We have seen, for instance, that peacefulness was an important value for him. However, before speaking about the different values which I believe Musa had, I should point out that Musa had a deontic attitude towards values (Mackie 1983: 190). For him, peacefulness was good in itself and did not derive its validity from an instrumental relationship with some desired state of affairs in the world. Moreover, he considered value orientation of behaviour important and evaluative criteria to merit much attention. In his eyes, not only his accepted values were thus good in themselves, but so were value sensitivity and value orientation. He expressed this idea when he explained to me the meaning of Islamic education. Through Islamic education, he said, man sets himself apart from animals. Animals serve their desires. When they get angry, they attack. When they get hungry, they eat. Man, however, can control his impulses because he is able to develop values like patience and gratitude through Islamic education. He can thus talk instead of attacking others and he can thank God before he would eat. To put Musa’s idea in other words, Islamic education served the recognition and enforcement of values in human conduct and this idea was also reflected in the importance Musa attached to values. Values thus also served as points of orientation for his own behaviour. To interpret them as mere providers of legitimization for goal-oriented strategic actions would, as far as I can see, be wrong. To corroborate this, I refer to Clough’s study on the Hausa farmer-traders of Marmara village in northern Nigeria; Clough comes to the same conclusion (2014: 326): “Farmer-traders reflect about their moral beliefs, although I can only infer their inner states from verbal discourse and public action. This social value has a degree of causal efficacy; it places limits on the range of actions which are realistically possible in society. Moral beliefs constrain and even deflect the achievement of purely material self-interests. Farmer-traders are very conscious of this.”

The extent to which Musa was able to implement his values in his own thought and actions is, of course, a different question from the question of which values he acknowledged. When I write about Musa’s value orientation in the following paragraphs, I will also repeatedly touch upon this question, although I lack the corresponding information with respect to all the values.

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1. Conflict-avoidance and peacefulness As I have said before, conflict avoidance and peacefulness were among Musa’s chief values. This was evident in his interactions with others. Musa employed several strategies to avoid conflict (fad’a, rigima, gardama), such as concealing his feelings. On other occasions, he tried to anticipate problems and prevent them from arising. When he had married Mariama as his second wife, his first wife objected to the marriage and turned to her parents for help. Musa then borrowed a horse and met Mariama’s parents. He did this to please them, to make them feel respected, to make them think well of him and thus prevent them from intervening in his marital affairs. At times, he was also prepared to renounce his rights instead of putting things right or seeking compensation in order to maintain peaceful relations. When Musa wanted to repair his mud hut, for instance, he paid Rufa’i for bringing him mud from a nearby depression in the ground. Yet, Rufa’i held him responsible for a problem he had with me. (I had lent Rufa’i 1000 Fcfa and wanted to have the money back.) Presumably in order to retaliate, Rufa’i took the money from Musa, but only brought him sandy soil. Musa ignored this and let the matter rest. He wanted to prevent Rufa’i from gossiping and speaking ill of him. Similarly, he tried not to feel insulted by others, whatever they said or did, because he knew that hurt feelings would undermine his own capacity to behave reasonably and peacefully. 2. Patience Patience (hak’uri) was another important value for Musa. Patience, he said, enables a person to get on with a large variety of different people. If one is insulted, patience enables the insulted person not to react immediately. This allows him to think about it and take the decision not to worry about the insult. Moreover, the insulting party thus has time to realize its own fault and correct their own behaviour. These ideas also found their linguistic expression in the utterance ba kome (it does not matter). In interaction, this utterance indicated the speaker’s willingness to treat a disadvantage or a loss as unimportant and thus to continue interaction on peaceful terms. At times, however, it also implied that the speaker was willing to treat an issue as unimportant in order to give the other party the opportunity to act with greater circumspection the next time. The importance of patience was evident in different interactions. Musa proved to be patient when he spent his slack period in the town of Diffa to sell fried wheat balls at the motor park. He bought peppers after the harvest, when peppers were still cheap, and wanted to keep them until the market price had risen. However, his father sent him a message asking him return home. Musa had to sell the peppers at a cheap price and came home with the little money he had earned,

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silently accepting the loss. Another instance when Musa exercised patience was when his neighbour Umaru entered his compound and killed one of Mariama’s goats. When Musa asked him about the reasons, Umaru kept quiet. Musa left the matter at that. He was also patient with the Imam of the northern part of the village. Musa had converted part of the fence around his compound into a door in order to make it easier for me to enter. However, the Imam took advantage of the situation, removed the door and carried it home. Musa met him with the door under his arm. The Imam shouted an insult at Musa, which Musa ignored. Another sphere of life, Musa said, where one needed much patience was “forced marriage”. Musa had gone through two forced marriages himself. I should however point out that I did not observe any of these scenes and only know them from Musa’s descriptions. Still, I am probably the best proof of his patience, because it was surely not always easy for him to have me around. Patience was also backed up by various religious ideas. Firstly, God wanted people to be patient. Secondly, God bestowed a destiny upon people, so accepting one’s destiny, i. e. accepting God, implied being patient. Thirdly, Musa explained, if he is not punished on earth a wrong-doer will be punished in the afterlife. A patient person might thus see himself at a disadvantage only temporarily. He knows that being patient and accepting a disadvantage will be rewarded later. There were, of course, also limits to Musa’s patience. For instance, Musa was well aware of the fact that it was possible to be too patient and that this could be detrimental to one’s own interests. He was not willing to accept the behaviour of a nurse in Zangon Fulani. The nurse had given Mariama medication which had expired, and Mariama suffered from sickness for many days. Musa then complained to the nurse’s superior. Moreover, he was not always able to control his passions and exercise patience. During Ramadan, for instance, I found Musa more easily irritable than at other times. Similarly, a woman had once asked Musa to sell her Qur’anic potions. He had to walk several hours to deliver the potions, but she drank the potions without paying him or serving him food. When Musa came back to Kimoram, his voice reflected his feeling of humiliation. Again, he was not able to exercise patience to the ultimate limit. 3. Reason In Musa’s view, patience enables the insulted to withstand his immediate impulses and to reflect upon his behaviour. It thus gives a person the opportunity to exercise reason (hankali). For Musa, reason was also a value. At the same time, reason was not only a purely functional concept for him. Being reasonable did not only mean that one was efficiently acting with respect to a given aim or value. Reason also implied adherence to a specific set of aims and values, and reasonable action would implement them. In other words, there were aims and

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values which were reasonable and aims and values which were not. The aim of working for the sustenance of one’s family was thus a reasonable aim in itself. Similarly, peacefulness and patience exemplified reason. A reasonable person was always also a peaceful person, and a patient one at that. 4. Self-control In Musa’s view, behaviour based on values was threatened by one’s emotions. Peacefulness, patience and reason thus hinged on self-control. Accordingly, Musa as well as the other villagers considered self-control to be an important, if not chief virtue. The premium placed on self-control might explain that behaviour in Kimoram seemed so often to be restrained. People spoke about loss and grief if someone had died, but they did not cry. Musa brought presents from a journey, but neither his wife nor his children would become overtly excited. If one suffered on a journey, one never complained about it. The importance attributed to self-control was also reflected in the fact that Musa knew techniques that enabled him to master his emotions and maintain self-control. If someone who owed him money did not pay back their loan, he would feel anger, he said. But he would try to counteract the expression of anger. He would wilfully remember the uselessness of showing anger. He would anticipate the insults with which the other party would respond to his showing of anger. Moreover, he would reflect upon the detrimental effect showing anger would have upon his own mood. To describe the processes involved in self-control from an observer’s point of view is a difficult task. However, as can be seen from the descriptions I have given in earlier chapters, Musa seemed to maintain self-control in most cases. As far as I could see, he only lost it in rare cases, for instance when he became aware of his poverty or when the above-mentioned woman ordered Qur’anic potions but did not pay him. Self-control is also a chief value for other ethnic groups in the wider area (see Bernus (1993: 213) for the Tuareg, Riesman (1977: 127) for the Jelgob’e-Fulb’e in Burkina Faso). 5. Shame-sensitivity We have seen that Musa had a strong sense of values. As people feel ashamed when it becomes evident to others that they did not meet the criteria which are valid in a group, a strong sense of shame (kunya) seems to be concomitant with a strong sense of value. Musa thus considered the ability to feel shame and the sensitivity to matters which make other people feel ashamed to be an important value as well. To give an example, I had realized that Musa’s household and that of his father were running out of food and bought them some sacks of millet.

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Later Musa told me that I had saved him and his father from feeling ashamed. They had begun to fear that Babangida’s new wife would leave him because she felt hungry and there was no food. Moreover, Musa gave expression to the importance he attached to shame when he told me that women who were not able to feel shame were not good wives, and when he added that the feeling of shame prevented people from stealing, committing adultery or acting disrespectfully. Proneness to feeling shame seems to be a value orientation that is also common in the wider region (Bernus 1993: 156, Riesman 1977: 129–141). 6. ‘Love’ of others ‘Love’ of others (son jama’a) was another value for Musa. Someone who ‘loves’ others will be considerate towards them and sensitive to their needs and feelings. He will pay visits to the sick, inquire about the health and well-being of others and their relatives, not expose other people’s weaknesses, enjoy somebody else’s success and be ready to provide help. I once heard how Musa spoke well of someone to whom he attributed the characteristic of “‘love’ of others”. He pointed out that this person would talk to everybody in the same way, regardless of his or the other’s status and would never be angry with others. Moreover, he also pointed out that I liked others, when once describing my character traits. The fact that “‘love’ of others” was a value also became apparent indirectly, through the criticism of others. For example, it was considered strong criticism to attribute to another person a black belly (bak’in ciki). It meant that the other had undergone so much hardship and carried in his soul so many sorrows that he became an evil person, which was, of course, the opposite of a person who ‘loved’ others. It was difficult for me to assess how far Musa’s behaviour conformed to the idea of ‘loving’ others. He definitely did not have the means to provide material help. At the same time, he did not make life difficult for anybody. He was committed to community matters, and he did not instigate trouble, take advantage of others or wish failure on others. 7. Obedience towards one’s parents and elders Obedience (biyayya) towards one’s parents and elders was another chief value for Musa. He stressed this explicitly. Moreover, he had no objections against the institution of ‘forced marriages’. He saw and knew from his own experience that living in a ‘forced marriage’ was difficult because the marriage partners might be torn between love for someone else and obedience towards their parents. In his view though, obedience overrode the importance of love in marriage. Musa’s relationship with his father also showed the importance he attributed to obedience. As we have seen, he patiently and obediently endured many decisions which got in his way.

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8. Equanimity and freedom from bad mood More values were equanimity and freedom from bad mood (b’acin rai). Musa once made this point explicit. When he left for Nigeria, he said, he would intentionally not calculate how much money he would need to earn, because he did not want to spoil his mood by later finding out that he had earned less. The importance of equanimity became indirectly evident in other instances as well. When we had discussions among ourselves, it was always better not to discuss an issue too intensely, but rather to come back to it again and again. Prolonged and intense discussion would, as I saw it, have ‘stiffened’ or ‘contracted’ his self. Moreover, Musa’s reaction was always intense when he heard that someone’s mood had been spoiled. A spoiled mood was indicative of a really bad occurrence against which the person concerned was unable to maintain equanimity. Furthermore, Musa and the villagers considered it important to behave in a way which would protect the interaction partner’s mood. Even if his own mood was spoiled or he was in difficulty, Musa tried to hide any expression of his spoiled mood when interacting with people he was not very close to. Not showing one’s bad mood and thus preventing it from spilling over onto others was a way of showing respect. 9. Accepting reality Closely linked to the value of equanimity was the value of accepting reality. When people have desires and cannot fulfil them, they either suffer or are able to accept reality. Musa also stood between these alternatives. When, for instance, he was in Nigeria and longed for his family, he suffered from it. It became evident that accepting reality was a value for Musa when he gave verbal expression to the notion. I have described a situation in Nimari wherein Musa pointed out that he would work with what was at hand (Zamu yi aiki da abin da muke da shi) instead of longing for something that was beyond his reach. Another situation pointed in the same direction. When he once told me that there was hardly any millet left in his granary, I remarked that he was still laughing. He replied that he would even laugh if he had nothing to eat for the next day, thus implicitly referring to the value of accepting reality. The status of acceptance of reality as a value was supported by religious ideas. We saw this, for instance, when Baba Mai Gatari told a woman to be quiet. She was crying loudly because a child had died. He thus implicitly reprimanded her for not accepting God’s will. A yam dealer in Nimari expressed the same idea. He said that one should always be grateful for what one receives, even if one only gets 10 naira instead of the 100 naira desired. Gratitude for what one receives would please God and he might thus be inclined to give more later. Accepting reality was a value possessed not only by Musa, but by other inhabitants of the region as well (cf. Heiss 2003: 99–100).

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Musa found it difficult to accept his poverty. When his poverty suddenly became a theme, his gestures, face and posture often reflected a sense of humiliation. However, in other instances, Musa seemed to be able to accept reality quite quickly. Although his poverty repeatedly made him feel bad, he was never envious of other people or at least I never heard an envious remark from him. Similarly, when he got to know Rufa’i better over time and interpreted his character, he did not complain about him, but simply drew the conclusion that he should take care not to allow Rufa’i to gain control of his possessions. I did not make observations which would warrant the thesis that Musa repressed his envy or disappointment in these instances. 10. Courage Musa valued courage. This became clear in some utterances. He claimed, for instance, that Nigerians had respect for people from Niger because the latter were not afraid of anything. Moreover, he told stories about his own bravery. When he was in Nigeria, he said, a Nigerian policeman approached him to inquire about his identity. Musa, however, cheekily replied that he was his father’s son (ni yaron gidan babana ne). Furthermore, he contended that he would have tried to become a soldier if he had not moved to Niger in his early years. In one of our conversations, Musa also praised Awalu for his courage after he had gone to Garin Gabas alone on horseback. Musa’s life might well serve as evidence of his courage. He had to go to Nigeria, he had to face many obstacles in his life and he had to carry on, even if things turned out to be difficult. Musa thus appeared not only to be courageous on single occasions, but also with respect to his life as a whole. Yet he also lost courage in some instances. For instance, I could sense how fear overcame him whenever he fell ill. As we have seen, he would then speak about miracles and what we would call supernatural events. Once he also told me about an illness that he had seen in Nigeria. He had seen a man whose scrotum had swollen to such an extent that it became as big as a ball. I thought I could read some fear in his voice then. He also lost courage when we had brought Ali to Ibra, the person who treated his elbow. It was Dahiru and I who accompanied Ali to see Ibra, and Dahiru held him tightly when Ibra broke his elbow again. 11. Work Work was a necessity, but it was also a value.10 Musa expressed this idea explicitly. He once said that he stayed away from all those in Nimari who did not 10 This was also evident in greeting practices. When a passer-by came to a field on which a peasant was working, it was the passer-by’s duty to greet the working peasant first. The reason for this was that the peasant was involved in the more important activity.

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work regularly and did not try to improve their own situation. He added that he feared becoming similar to them if he stayed close to them. He also gave expression to this idea when he once rebuked Awalu and Ali. Musa scolded them for several minutes. As I have said before, they had dressed up in their best shirts because they wanted to attend a feast instead of going to the field. Moreover, he complained that he was always thinking of the state his field was in. His mind was thus always on his work. It should also have become clear throughout the various chapters of this book that Musa’s life was, among other things, a life of work. I will finish the section on Musa’s value orientation here, mainly for reasons of length. I should mention, however, that I consider generosity, gratitude, honesty and compassion to be further values for Musa. Values are often a burden for a person. They bind his behaviour. Often effort is required to make one’s behaviour conform to one’s values. If a person wishes to be patient, then they must endure others’ behaviour; if a person wishes to be courageous, then they must overcome fear. I have given examples of where Musa was able to put his values into practice, and others where he was unable to do so. For instance I mentioned cases where he was no longer able to fully maintain his patience. By and large, he thus appears to be a person who largely lived according to his own evaluative standards.

IV. Some Tentative Remarks on Reasoning and Planning Some of a person’s actions are habitual and do not involve much, if any, reflection. Others, however, depend on processes of reflection, planning and decisionmaking. There are different ways, however, in which decisions can be taken. Some processes of decision-making occur in specific situations which demand a quick decision. Here, the actor is consciously occupied with taking a decision over a short period of time. Other processes of decision-making, however, are carried out over a longer time span. It is not entirely clear how these latter processes are carried out, but they seem to occupy the actor not only in moments of conscious reflection, but also beyond that. These latter processes are often tied to questions of great importance to the actor’s life, to his life project, and are often of great inner complexity.

We have seen that Musa’s life was an on-going process in which he entered a variety of social situations. In any situation, he had to take decisions. The many components which were relevant to a situation, his desires and his value orientations fed into the decisions he was taking and into the action he would perform. It would be futile and presumptuous if I tried to completely classify the field of decision-making and claimed to be able to characterize the totality of Musa’s reflections and decisions with respect to these models. A different methodology would have been needed, as would a different theoretical preparation. Yet, theory offers different models to capture these processes of deliberation and decisionmaking. There is, for instance, the ‘rational choice model’ (Becker 1976), the

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model of ‘judicious opportunism’ (Johnson-Hanks 2005) or the model of what one might call ‘problem-solving in the context of unsuccessful habits’ (Giddens 1986). The basic point of reference for any of these models seems to be an actor in a specific social situation in which he pursues an aim. If one focuses on the situations in which decisions are taken, however, one loses sight of a process of decision-making that is more tightly linked to the individual than to a situation. Indeed an individual enters different social situations, in which he reflects on the respective situation and makes decisions, but he also has to keep the different strings of his life, as it were, together even though he is entering and exiting different social situations. If, for instance, an actor bargains the price of a good at the market, he might follow the norms which prescribe the procedures of bargaining in his society. However, he might also, all of a sudden, understand the character of the trader and avoid buying from him again because he does not want to live a life in which he spends his time with people of this kind. Here there is a background process going on within the individual, in which he relates social situations to the entirety of his aims and gives direction to his life project. This process within the individual is not directly observable from the outside, but its results do surface in different social situations. How did Musa pursue his life project across the variety of social situations he partook in? I will try to shed some light on this process through some tentative remarks. I do not contend to be able to sufficiently elucidate the process. The fact that the topic has hardly been dealt with in anthropology, however, seems to me to warrant this approach. I will show that Musa proved very persistent in clinging onto his aims and that he went through a process of rationalization in which he made his attempts to fulfil his aims more and more consistent with the entirety of his aims and with the reality he lived in. As we have seen, Musa had a variety of desires which propelled a variety of aims. Musa proved to be very persistent in pursuing his aims. During the times when I stayed in Kimoram, he bought a bull and an ox cart despite his debts and despite the scarcity of food. Even under these difficult conditions, he thus slowly acquired what he needed in order to become a petty trader in the area (cf. Spittler (1993: 111), who describes how Tuareg herders rather fed on leaves than sell their goats during the famine in 1984/85). When I later spoke to him and his wife on the phone, they told me that they only ate twice a day during the period of field cultivation. The strain on their bodies must have been enormous. However, instead of selling the bull or the ox cart, they instead accepted their hunger for the time being. Similarly, when I called him in January 2012, he told me that they had already eaten all of the millet in their granary. He had, however, decided not to go to Nigeria but instead to engage in Islamic learning. By and large, this seems to indicate that he was very clear about his aims and persistently held on to them.

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It is thus possible to relate some of his actions to the individual desires he pursued persistently. As noted above, he bought a bull as part of his strategy to extricate himself from poverty. At the same time, Musa showed persistence in his desire to study the Qur’an. He thus held on to these different aims and performed actions that served to attain them. However, some of his actions proved to be more or less nonsensical within the context of the entirety of his aims. It was a futile idea, for instance, to marry a second wife, as he could not afford it. Similarly, feeding his ram with fresh cowpeas and his bull with millet did not make much sense as food was scarce even for humans. Accordingly, Mariama seemed to be astonished when she saw the ram eating the cowpeas. Moreover, when I was in Kimoram, Musa clung to his idea of having as many children as possible although land was already scarce in Daguilam. He also spent much time in Niger before going to Nigeria and earning additional money. The harvest in 2009, for instance, had produced millet for six months. Instead of going to Nigeria early, however, Musa brought goods to the market in Garin Gabas on Sundays. As a result he earned 3000 Fcfa every week, which was sufficient to tide the family over until the following week. Had he gone to Nigeria, he might have earned more than 3000 Fcfa per week. Given his poverty, it would have made sense to go there earlier, as there was nothing to earn in Niger. As such, at times it seemed as if Musa was not applying an all-encompassing plan for his activities, but was rather in a certain ‘province’ of his life whenever he acted.11 In all these latter cases, actions were carried out, but the situational analysis on which they rested was not yet detailed and encompassing enough to allow for an action that took into account the sum total of the actor’s wishes and the sum total of the situational components. Over time, however, Musa integrated his different wishes into a more coherent project. As we have seen, at the beginning he had married a second wife. His first wife then left his compound. Shortly afterwards, he said he would like to earn money in order to marry a second wife again. During my second stay, however, Musa said that he had understood that polygamy 11 We already encountered a similar process when I wrote about Musa’s approach to monetary matters in the chapter on labour migration. We saw there (D. VII. 12.) that Musa did not have a “detailed budget plan” in his mind but that he rather relied on a global way of thinking about his costs and benefits. He had the major aspects of his financial situation in his mind, his prior harvests, his earnings in the past, the amount of millet in his granary, his debts, his approximate financial needs in the future. And yet he did not specify in detail how high his debts were and how much money he would need to tide the family over until the next harvest. As we have seen, this method of calculation was less accurate than detailed planning. It did not take into account small sums of money, such as money for sauce ingredients, which were needed here and there and added up to a large sum over the course of the year. Or it tended to overestimate the range of things that could be paid for with Musa’s earnings from Nigeria. Or, indeed, it tended to underestimate the total amount of money owed to others. It seemed to me as if Musa clung, in a rather global way, to the main aspects of his situation – earning money, paying debts, buying food etc. – but did not integrate these diverse aspects into an all-encompassing plan.

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was compatible neither with his economic situation nor with his desire to extricate himself from poverty. Some years later, he told me that he and Mariama had decided not to have more children for a while. They went to see the doctor in Zangon Fulani and the doctor gave Mariama a contraceptive to prevent her from becoming pregnant. Similarly, he had the idea of leaving Kimoram and moving to Mainari. In Mainari, he said, he could send his children to school. He could perform his petty trading just as well from Mainari as from Kimoram. He would only have to move back to Kimoram during the rainy season, in order to cultivate his fields there. He thus integrated his desire to care for his children with his desire to advance economically. We can see here how Musa was involved in a process of integrating the different ‘provinces’ of his life into a more coherent whole. This process of rationalizing, however, did not seem to be exclusively tied to specific situations in which Musa would sit down and consciously reflect on how to successfully advance his life project. It seems more plausible to assume that the processes in which Musa further rationalized his life practice partly went on in his consciousness at different points in time, and partly went on within him without even surfacing in his consciousness. In this respect, this process resembled the process in which Musa reflected on migration to Nigeria (D. III. 4.). We saw that this process was a protracted one, and I assumed that this was partly due to the complex nature of Musa’s relationship with his father and the fundamentally important role this played in Musa’s life. Musa thus appears to be a person who did not only take decisions according to the prototypical form of a “rational choice” decision, whereby the actor thinks it all over in one instance and then decides. The diverse questions and exigencies which stemmed from the different spheres of his life, i. e. his economic tasks, his relationship with his father, the children’s future, etc. were also processed beyond such immediate situations. Conscious processes of reflection and deliberation tied to the respective immediate social situation did not thus seem to make up the sum total of processes of reflection and deliberation which gave direction to Musa’s life. Part of it, it seems, was stretched over a number of situations of reflection and deliberation, or even processed beyond conscious reflection. Such a protracted mode of deliberation and decision-making is slower than decisions which are taken according to the prototypical form of a “rational choice” decision. However, a slower mode of reflecting and taking decisions was generally favoured by Musa as well as by other villagers. I noticed how Musa and other villagers as well usually took their time before making a decision of some importance. At the same time, this preference for a slow mode of decision-making was backed up by several cultural elements: The villagers explicitly consider haste as being detrimental to achieving one’s purposes. They express this idea with the exclamation aikin gaugawa (the work of haste), which they use to attribute mistakes to haste. Moreover, this mode of deliberation reflects the idea of

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patience and corresponds to the desired state of ‘freedom from a bad mood’. As I said above, Musa tried to avoid prolonged and intense discussion that would ‘stiffen’ or ‘contract’ his self (E. III. 8.).

V. Mood An actor, as we have seen, relates the situations he encounters to his life project, i. e. to the totality of his desires at a certain point in time; he learns from this and this gives direction to his life. The phenomenon of mood constitutes the other side of the same coin. Through the affective phenomenon of mood, an actor relates his current situation to the totality of his desires. The degree to which his current life corresponds to what he considers important determines his mood.

Tugendhat (2006: 88–93) differentiates between emotions and mood. An individual responds to a state of affairs in a situation through emotions. When he hears about an orphan’s lot, he might feel compassion. When he sees a knife in the hand of another person, he might feel fear. The same consideration applies to Musa. He was at ease and felt cosy when he cuddled with his children. He was amused when Baba Umma accused him of hiding money and put pressure on him to make him hand it over. He sometimes felt bored when he was cultivating his field. He felt honoured and respected when Maigari Dengi from Garin Dengi discussed a controversial issue with him. In contrast to emotions, however, mood is an affective phenomenon that indicates how what is important to a person relates to (perceived) reality (Tugendhat 2006: 88–93). A person whose basic needs, desires and values are frustrated by the world will be in a bad mood. Someone whose desires, needs and values are fulfilled will be in a good mood. Mood is not tied to individual situations. Like an affective undercurrent, it rather permeates the individual’s experience in the diverse situations he encounters throughout the day. We have seen that Musa was able to fulfil a substantial proportion of his own desires. He was married, he was on good terms with his wife, he had children, he was sociable, he carved out a living and he largely succeeded in living by his own evaluative standards. At the same time, some of his desires were not fulfilled. He had not yet achieved a standard of Islamic learning that would suffice to become Imam, he did not yet have as many children as he hoped for, he had not yet become an important person in the village, he was poor and he lacked the means to be generous. However, he confidently expected to fulfil these desires at a later stage in his life. His life was, therefore, a rather fulfilled one. And this was largely reflected in his mood. Musa was neither sad nor depressed. Most of the time, his mood seemed to be rather stable, content and confident. On many occasions I thought that he liked what he did. When I saw him walking through the village, he would laugh, greeting others enthusiastically and loudly. Similarly, when I saw him discussing village issues with others, he participated in these

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discussions with a great deal of commitment. Once, I asked him if he was bored with life in Kimoram. He replied that it was indeed boring, but confirmed that that was, at the same time, alright. If he was in Kimoram, he said, he was with his family. If he was in Nimari, he could enjoy new experiences. It seemed to me that this stability of mood and contentment was possible because Musa’s expectations revolved around the desires I have described above. He expected far less from life than the members of many other societies, such as those of urban southern Nigeria. Musa did not dream of wealth, consumer goods, a functioning state or political participation. At the same time, he did not need to long for peace like the inhabitants of Plateau State in Nigeria, because life in Kimoram wasn’t violent. The modesty of his expectations was also reflected in the fact that for Musa, as well as for other villagers, it was good news in itself to hear that nothing bad had happened. Similarly to other attitudes I have mentioned before, this attitude was expressed linguistically, too. It was epitomized in the utterance lafiya lau, which was used as an obligatory answer to questions in greeting sequences. It meant I am/we are well and denoted a state of affairs where the person was healthy, well fed, no disaster had occurred and nobody had died. But Musa’s mood also seemed to be stabilized by his high degree of confidence regarding the future. As we have seen before, Musa believed that he would be able to fulfil his desires later. He thought he would be able to extricate himself from poverty and become an important member of his village. At times, however, some events triggered strong negative emotions and thus also seemed to make his good mood break down for a while. This was the case when Musa became aware of his poverty. Whenever he approached me because his or his father’s household lacked food, for instance, Musa’s face showed a sense of humiliation. Similarly, Musa was negatively affected when he felt in an impasse when he was still part of his father’s household. And he was equally negatively affected when he worried about his debts, when we were in Nimari. But his children’s well-being also affected him strongly. When Idris was sick and threatened by spirits while Musa was in Nimari, Musa felt bad. When these issues became relevant, his heart sank, at least for a while. The problem of poverty, the dire consequences poverty had and the shame it created thus seem to have been an underlying sore in Musa’s soul that kept coming up time and again. Musa once confirmed this observation indirectly. I said that it would be difficult to have respect for oneself if one was poor, and Musa agreed to my statement. I also wonder if the death of his first three children did not leave an even greater sore in his soul that would also come up again and again. I considered it inappropriate to ask him about his late children as he did not speak about them of his own accord.12 12 The villagers did not speak about those who had died and they tried to eliminate them from their memories. Once, I had taken a picture of a villager and his family.

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Moreover, two social practices which I have mentioned before seemed to have the function of preventing sad thoughts from rising into consciousness, thus stabilizing or raising the mood. We have seen that Musa liked wasa da dariya because it dispersed one’s sorrows. Moreover, he got up in the morning directly after he had woken up. This way he purposefully tried to keep his mind free from fretful thoughts. Both practices, it seems, derived part of their meaning from their impact on a person’s mood.

VI. Self-Image and Relationship with Himself When someone acts, he relates to the world. He expresses his opinion to someone or he works on an object, for instance. Yet, the actor also does something with himself. When he marries, for instance, he turns himself into a person with a new status. When he commits a crime, he turns himself into someone who is to be blamed. When he leaves home to discover the world, he also engages in a project that will turn him into a new person. When we act, we thus not only relate to the world but also relate to ourselves and transform who we are. A self-image is thus always implied in any of our actions.

Who did Musa think he was? When I asked him explicitly how he would describe himself to others, we had a long discussion in which he mentioned several aspects of his self. He spoke about his social affiliations, his economic activities, his religious persuasion, his virtues and his body. Musa first mentioned two of his social affiliations. He said he was a son of his father’s house and that he came from the village of Kimoram. One might have expected him to mention his wife and children. He did not, but after our discussion he made up for that and added that he should have mentioned them earlier. Then Musa described his economic activities. He defined himself as a peasant (manomi), a migrant labourer (mai nema) and as a cattle-holder (mai kiwo). After speaking about his social affiliations and his economic activities, Musa mentioned the religious aspect of his self. With the modesty that befits a scholar, he called himself a student of Islam (almajiri). He then spoke about his virtues. He pointed out that he kept away from people who were not energetic (masu kasala) and also from those who were womanizers because, he said, their company would otherwise rub off on him. In contrast to them, he was rather a person who was trying to advance (ci gaba). Furthermore, he said that others took him to be a mai lafiya, i. e. a peaceful and circumspect person who fits in well with other people. Finally, he spoke about his body. He did not find himself very attractive, but he said that he was happy that his body was strong. When I met him again a year later, he told me that he had torn off the part of the photo that had shown his child, who had since died, and he wanted to get rid of the memory tied to it.

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What Musa said in response to my question did not, of course, mirror exactly whom he took himself to be. The situation and my presence certainly influenced his answers. Research has also shown that our self-image is not stable across all situations in which we find ourselves (Hollan 1992). Yet, Musa’s self-description largely corresponded to the analysis presented so far. The social spheres he mentioned were those that were, as we have seen, the most relevant to his life, i. e. his father’s family, his own family (which he had forgotten to mention) and the village. It seemed to be remarkable, albeit not astonishing, that he did not speak about being a Nigerien. Musa had a weak sense of being Nigerien. Decisions on the national level seemed to have only limited influence on local life. Moreover, being Nigerien was not an important category for everyday life in Kimoram. So being Nigerien was only an issue for him when he was in Nimari. There it implied some degree of mutual obligation and trust, as could be seen from the fact that the migrant labourers from Niger interacted with each other more closely. Similarly, Musa did not speak about being Hausa. Again, this is not astonishing. Although everyone in the area was aware of his ethnic affiliation, and although there were identity ascriptions based on ethnic affiliations, these did not play an important role in ordering the social process in and around Kimoram. Moreover, national politics in Niger is not as ethnicized as it was in Nigeria. Similarly, Musa’s self-description reflected the prevalence of field cultivation and labour migration. It does seem noteworthy, however, that he defined himself as a cattleholder. This did not exactly correspond to reality, as he just owned a single bull. However, this statement reflected the importance he attributed to his bull and the role of a bull as a sign of prosperity and economic well-being for a person’s status in Kimoram. We have also seen that Musa identified as a Muslim and took pride in his religion. As such, he also mentioned his religious identity when he defined himself. The fact that he also spoke about his body, showed the importance a strong body had for a peasant in Niger, as everything else depended on one’s physical strength and health. His self did not yet correspond, however, to what he considered an ideal self. His ideal self would have been that of a peasant, market trader in the region, husband of two wives, father of many children, Imam of his village, a well-liked and generous person. The very fact that he worked on improving his own behaviour also showed that he thought of himself as not yet having achieved his ideal self. Musa’s self-perception as a person who was not yet complete was also reflected in his affective life. We could see this after his father had handed over control of part of the fields to him. Musa recognised this status change, or status improvement. Similarly, when he once came to his compound giving orders, he felt relieved because the community agreed with one of his ideas; this made him come closer to the ideal of a community leader. In both instances, he had experienced a feeling of having come closer to his ideal self.

F. Actor – Person – Individual: Theoretical Aspects This book is about an individual. In chapters C. and D., I have worked with an implicit understanding of what an individual might be. In chapter E., I have tried to make the notion of the individual, as I employ it, more explicit. Yet, as the notion of the individual is of central importance to this project, it needs to be discussed. In this chapter, I will therefore direct the reader’s attention to a variety of different notions of the individual as they are used inside and outside of the field of anthropology. The principal aim of this chapter is to highlight the key aspects of these notions of the individual, to compare these in order to identify where they need to be developed further and to relate this to the notion of the individual as I have employed it throughout this book. I thereby hope to have made a modest contribution to this discussion. However, I also wrote this chapter with a second aim in mind. I want to show that explicit reflection on the individual is useful for the study of anthropology. I want to convince the reader that many an anthropologist uses a simplified notion of the individual, that they thus produce incomplete accounts of individuals and that their investigations thus “are a bit unsteady on their feet”. I will proceed as follows. First (F. I.), I will summarise Ernst Tugendhat’s theory of the person. Tugendhat provides a useful starting point for the discussion, as he gives us the most all-encompassing approach to the individual. From there, I will branch off to pursue my second aim (F. II.). I will turn to anthropological studies which focus on specific individuals as their centre of interest. I have chosen studies by Lois Beck, Unni Wikan, João Biehl and Vincent Crapanzano as each of these authors represents a different style of dealing with individuals in their studies. I will discuss their different approaches in the light of Tugendhat’s theoretical contribution. This will enable me, I hope, to show that these anthropologists did indeed use different notions of the individual. I will then (F. II. 5. and F. II. 6.) argue that this gave each of their studies a certain bias and try to show how they could have overcome these biases if they had reflected explicitly on the notion of the individual.1 Based on this evidence, I will argue that a conscious use of the notion of the individual within anthropology would benefit the discipline. I will then come back to my other aim in this chapter. The encounter between Tugendhat and the anthropological authors has repercussions on Tugendhat’s the1

Notwithstanding my criticism, these books are milestones in anthropology.

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ory. This gives rise to the endeavour to find out how Tugendhat’s theory could fruitfully be developed further and leads to a discussion (F. III.) of more authors who have explicitly theorized about the individual. As noted in the introduction, anthropology does not propose an explicit or all-encompassing theory of the individual, except in the work of Albert Piette (2009, 2011, 2015). I will thus draw again also on literature from outside the field of anthropology. The relevant literature is, of course, extensive. Virtually any classical sociological author, from Weber, to Marx, to Simmel or to Foucault could be considered relevant here (cf. Lüdtke and Matsuzaki 2011). It would, however, be far beyond the scope of this empirical study to deal with all the theoretical authors who might appear relevant. I have therefore had to make a selection. I will turn to ideas by Gary Becker, Anthony Giddens and Albert Piette. I chose these authors, because their ideas about the nature of actors are from different perspectives, one being an economist, one a sociologist and the latter an anthropologist. This approach which searches for contrasting cases holds the promise of providing us with a wide array of ideas which cover important aspects of the theme.2 In F. III. 4. I will summarize the results of the comparison between Tugendhat’s approach and theirs. Next, I will discuss (F. IV.) the book “Existential anthropology” by Michael Jackson, the title of which already indicates that it takes a similar approach as this book. The purpose of this discussion is to see what Jackson’s contribution is to the discussion about the study of individuals. Finally, I will try to relate (F. V.) the pictures that these diverse authors draw of the individual to the notion of the individual, as I have applied it in this book and hope thereby to modestly contribute to the discussion.

I. Tugendhat’s Theory of the Person Tugendhat is a philosopher. In Egozentrizität und Mystik, Tugendhat’s primary aim is to understand mysticism. This interest does not seem to be very close to what is relevant here. However, Tugendhat develops his argument on the basis of a reflection on the fundamental structures of human action and the individual. A summary of Tugendhat’s ideas will serve as the point of departure for the discussion in this chapter. In view of my aim to relate the other authors’ contributions to Tugendhat’s ideas later on, I will summarise his ideas according to several thematic clusters of notions inherent in his theory. There is, first of all, the subject of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of courses of action and motivation that form the centre of what is conventionally called theory of action. 2 I do also not need to provide a complete exegesis of the complete oeuvre of these authors here, as I am looking for ideas to understand a subject. This entitles me to draw on parts of their work.

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Man has desires. He can strive for his objects of desire with more or less reflection (2006: 54). While reflecting, he can compare and order the alternative ways of acting that are open to him (2006: 32) according to what he considers to be good and to what he considers to be important (2006: 41). He can then define an aim, take a decision and exert an action. Aims are of differential scope, they can refer to the next situation, but also to the whole of one’s life (2006: 35, 88). Man knows about a whole life in front of him. The question of how he wants to live and what is important in his life imposes itself upon him (2206: 35). Man becomes distracted in his many activities; he thus needs to gather himself time and again to re-capture a state of collectedness.

Secondly, there is the notional field of motivation, self-activation, virtues and self-esteem which, for Tugendhat’s view, are elements of – or conditions for – action. However, these are often beyond the focus of conventional theory of action. In order to act, man has to address and activate himself (2006: 62). Man derives his motivation from his ideas about what he considers to be good (2006: 32), from the emotions that accompany his actions (2006: 59) and from praise or criticism by others. In order to focus on his aim, he has to exert control over the other desires and inclinations that are active within him (2006: 50–1). Virtues such as patience or endurance are instrumental to overcoming those desires and inclinations that divert man from orientating himself towards what he considers to be good (2006: 82). However, in order to execute his actions, man also needs to have a sense of self-esteem, i. e. he needs to attribute a certain value to himself (2006: 42–5).

Thirdly, Tugendhat deals with the topics of emotion and mood, which are intertwined with the other aspects in several ways. Actions can produce the intended results, but this often depends upon the contingent circumstances surrounding the action rather than on the actor’s actual efforts himself. Actors thus often hope or worry about an action’s outcome (2006: 37). When an actor evaluates an action as good or bad, he might draw on three fields of what he considers to be good. He can ask, what is good in terms of his own interests, what is morally good, and he can ask whether he has delivered a good performance (2006: 66). Failure or success in any of these fields of goodness triggers certain emotions. For instance, an immoral action triggers shame and guilt in the actor, and disdain and indignation in the observer (2006: 71–2). Besides having specific emotions, man is also in a certain mood. The mood reflects to what extent his present life corresponds to his wishes as a whole (2006: 90–1).

Fourthly, Tugendhat speaks about self-relativisation with respect to others. Man is aware of the fact that the world is populated by others who are in the same condition as he is. When relating to others, he might attribute greater importance to himself and to his own actions than to others, but he may also abandon his own desires and attribute more importance to others and their actions (2006: 40). When altruistic, man identifies with others and makes their aims his own aims (2006: 37–9).

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And, finally, he speaks about religion and mysticism. Man knows that he is part of a universe. Facing the universe, as such, triggers the experience of the numinous (2006: 119) in which man perceives himself to be small and unimportant. The experience of numinosity helps man to capture a mental state of collectedness, but it also plays its role for the development of religion and mysticism. Since man is unable to fulfil his desires, he lives in a permanent state of tension between contentment, deception and frustration. Religion and mysticism are instrumental for man to cope with this situation. Religion interprets the numinosity in terms of a God who offers man his help for achieving his goals, thus offering the devout peace of mind (2006: 122). Mysticism teaches man to use the experience of the numinous to understand his limited importance in the world and thus either to reduce the strength of his own desires (Taoism) (2006: 125) or to overcome them altogether (Buddhism) (2006: 128); it thus offers peace of mind through self-relativization and overcoming ego-centricity (2006: 122). Both responses can mix in ‘religious mysticism’. In ‘religious mysticism’, the believer calls upon God, but accepts the given circumstances which are beyond his own control as God’s will. Mystical attitudes that strive for peace of mind are still egocentred. The radical mystical attitude that overcomes all egocentricity is the idea of unconditional love towards everybody (2006: 149).

II. Anthropological Studies As noted above, I will now discuss anthropological studies in which individuals play a major role. I will draw on the following studies: Nomad by Lois Beck, Managing Turbulent Hearts by Unni Wikan, Vita – Life in a Zone of Social Abandonment by João Biehl and Tuhami – Portrait of a Moroccan by Vincent Crapanzano. In each of these monographs, an individual plays a prominent role and each monograph represents a different approach in studying it. These studies work with implicit notions of the individual. Using Tugendhat’s theory as a backdrop for this discussion, I shall endeavour to make these implicit notions explicit. This will enable me, I hope, to show that these anthropologists did indeed use different notions of the individual. I will then (F. II. 5. and F. II. 6.) argue that this gave their studies a bias and try to show that they could have overcome their biases if they had reflected explicitly on the notion of the individual. Based on this evidence, I will argue that a conscious use of the notion of the individual within anthropology would benefit the discipline as a whole. At the same time, the encounter between Tugendhat and the anthropological authors also has repercussions on Tugendhat’s theory. It will give rise to a question which Tugendhat has not addressed. 1. Lois Beck (1991): Nomad The Qashqa’i-nomads of Iran are divided up into several lineages, one lineage being that of the Qermezi. Borzu is the headman of the Qermezi-lineage. Every year, Borzu leads the Qermezi on their migration between their summer and their

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winter pastures. Lois Beck accompanies the Qermezi on their annual migration. Throughout this time, Beck stays in Borzu’s household. She describes what happens throughout the year. The nomads leave their summer pastures, they set up and break up their camps, they decide on their migratory path, they interact with the sedentary population, they negotiate with peasants and state employees about access to pastures and water for their herds etc. As Beck travels with Borzu and spends most of her time with him, Borzu is often the focus of the study. Thus, the reader learns much about Borzu’s actions and decisions.

As noted above, Borzu is the central figure in Beck’s book. Yet, Beck’s notion of the person remains implicit. I will try to make it explicit and relate it to Tugendhat’s theory. Beck’s person defines its situation, it has aims and carries out actions: “Borzu rode ahead of the caravan of people and pack animals to confront with his authority and power any possible threats to the group.” (1991: 28)

Aims and action are triggered by wishes: “Borzu also rode ahead because he wanted to choose the most suitable campsite for his group . . .” (1991: 28)

Beck’s person reflects and decides before acting: “. . . he tried to calculate his potential savings . . . But with the cost of interest payments, little if any savings seemed likely, so he abandoned the idea.” (1991: 36)

Individuals also have a specific character that influences their reflections and decisions: “People’s concerns about Borzu’s fairness kept many men from getting too close to him. They expected to be taken advantage of and sometimes were . . .” (1991: 62)

Emotions accompany the processes of reflection, decision-taking and action: “Borzu often rode back to Semirom to handle transactions with merchants and government officials, but he still became bored and impatient sitting in camp all day with little to do.” (1991: 40)

Briefly, Beck’s person has wishes, defines his situation, reflects on it, defines an aim and carries out the corresponding action. Features of the person’s character influence the actions and emotions accompany it. Furthermore, Beck’s person engages in social relations. Within these relations, it has roles and behaves according to rules: “Borzu tapped a spot and instructed his camel herder Yadollah . . . to dig a fire pit and make tea.” (1991: 32)

Persons are held responsible for their actions: “Borzu was accountable for his group . . .” (1991: 37)

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Within these relations, persons ascribe prestige to each other on the basis of certain criteria: “The reputations of tribal headmen such as Borzu were known far and wide, but Qashqa’i and other people were often able to assess these men personally only during the migration. (1991: 29)

Persons in relations dispose of means of power: “On Borzu’s first night back at camp, he instructed his wife Falak to cook a large pot of rice . . .” (1991: 55)

Within social relations, persons can coordinate their wishes and co-operate: “Morad and Hasel, Borzu’s campmates and kinsmen, saw him return and walked over to his tent to discuss strategy for the days to come.” (1991: 37)

But they can also engage in conflict: “. . ., in early summer he had engaged in an escalating, then violent conflict with a Persian man whom the government had permitted to cultivate in Hanalishah . . .”. (1991: 35)

Interacting persons can also build groups and communities: “The people migrating and camping with Borzu consisted primarily of his closest male relatives and their families. . . ., all these individuals were closely interrelated and linked in many directions through blood and marriage.” (1991: 38)

Thus, besides defining situations, reflecting and acting, Beck’s person also interacts with others. Persons assume roles, follow rules, are held responsible, ascribe prestige to each other, dispose of means of power, cooperate or have conflicts with one another; they build up groups and communities. Furthermore, Beck’s person jumps from one social situation to the next throughout the day. Sometimes, Borzu acts as a husband within the context of the family. At other times, he acts as a representative of the Qermezi towards the representatives of the Iranian state. By and large, this seems to be Beck’s implicit notion of the person. Beck’s notion thus covers a certain part of what an individual is according to Tugendhat but it leaves out other aspects. Beck focuses on those aspects of a person that belong to the field of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of courses of action and motivation. She stresses the actions which are carried out, the reflections that determine the actions and the reasons the actors have. Although she also refers to a person’s character, she nevertheless pays little attention to the other notional fields, i. e. to those of self-activation, virtues and self-esteem, of emotions and mood, of self-relativisation and of religion and mysticism. Hence, as an individual, Borzu remains rather unexplored in terms of these domains. At the same time, however, she pays more attention than Tugendhat to the social dimensions of a person’s behaviour, to the ascription of status, the formation

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of groups, the shifting between different social settings. One might argue that Tugendhat implicitly covers these themes. A move in an interaction is then just an action, the ascription of identity to an interaction partner just the application of knowledge, and the feeling of inferiority or superiority towards an interaction partner just an emotion. Yet, Beck makes it clear with regard to Tugendhat that a person is always embedded in a social setting and withdraws from it, enters into it or moves to another social setting. 2. Unni Wikan (1990): Managing Turbulent Hearts In her book Managing Turbulent Hearts, Unni Wikan analyses the way, Balinese women deal with the emotion of grief. She focuses on a young Balinese woman whom she calls Suriati. Suriati’s prospective husband suddenly dies. His death causes grief and despair. However, Suriati only allows herself to cry in privacy. In public, she makes a conscious effort to suppress her emotion and smiles. Wikan explains this behaviour. She discovers a variety of factors that are conducive to this behaviour: (1) A specific set of ideas. The Balinese believe that people can determine their inner states themselves, i. e. that they can transform a negative inner state into a positive one. Smiling helps to transform oneself. (2) Norms: Everyone is obliged to transform a negative inner state into a positive one, partly because one is not allowed to let one’s own negative feelings affect other people’s moods. (3) Prudence: It is advisable to be or, at least, to appear to be in a positive inner state. Otherwise others could feel insulted and resort to black magic to take revenge.

Wikan’s notion of the individual partly differs from Beck’s. Whereas Beck thinks of the individual as an active person, i. e. someone who tries to fulfil his wishes in the world through his own actions, Wikan stresses the passive side of people. Her main actor, Suriati, is affected by her prospective husband’s death. The latter dies, Suriati thinks of the deceased and feels his loss as grief. This makes her want to cry. In Wikan’s view, a person’s environment might thus affect the person beyond its own will or control and thrust it into a specific cognitive and affective condition. These emotions create an impulse for a specific – spontaneous – response. This situation then becomes the point of departure for Suriati’s action. What Suriati does in response to her grief and the corresponding impulse comes close to Beck’s version of the actor again. Suriati perceives something, reflects on it and chooses to act. Suriati feels grief, but also objectifies her emotion and her impulse to cry. She reflects on it, applies evaluative criteria to the expression of the emotion and chooses to hide it behind a smile in public. By describing how Suriati was thrust into an emotion of grief, Wikan introduces a layer of meaning to the notion of the individual that is largely neglected by Beck. According to Wikan, a person relates to its environment in such a way that its features affect that person emotionally beyond their control and create in

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them a propensity to give way to a certain kind of behaviour. In Beck’s view, emotions do not play an important role and appear rather as accompanying behaviour and actions. Comparing Wikan with Tugendhat, one can discern a parallel between the two authors. Whereas Beck had largely kept within the limits of the notional field of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of courses of action and motivation, Wikan pays more attention to the notional field of emotion and mood and her implicit view largely corresponds to Tugendhat’s ideas in this notional field. Tugendhat writes that emotions motivate an actor to perform a certain form of behaviour. Drawing on criteria of goodness, an actor can, however, also objectify himself, he can evaluate his behaviour and choose a different kind of behaviour. However, acting still implies making an effort against the resistance and diversions caused by the emotions that push the actor in a different direction. We can easily subsume Wikan’s description under this analysis. The grief which makes Suriati cry, her ideas about what one should do under these circumstances, i. e. her criteria of goodness, make her retreat from her emotion and she chooses to smile instead. However, smiling can only be achieved by suppressing the impulse to cry. Thus, we can see that Beck’s and Wikan’s implicit notions of the individual deviated from each other. Both share a view of individual as being actively involved in fulfilling their desires in a given world. However, Wikan also stresses the emotional-affective side of what it means to be an individual. 3. João Biehl (2005): Vita – Life in a Zone of Social Abandonment In Vita, Biehl focuses on a single person, Catarina. He meets her in an asylum. The asylum provides shelter for those who are shunted off by their relatives as mentally ill. Catarina’s living conditions in the asylum are harsh and she is isolated from the outside world. When Biehl meets Catarina, he finds out that Catarina writes poems in order to come to terms with her situation and to keep her hope of finding a way out of the asylum alive. In Biehl’s view, Catarina is a mentally healthy, even creative person. Biehl sees Catarina’s being in the asylum as scandalous, and shows how political decisions, healthcare practices and the behaviour of Catarina’s family all intertwined and forced Catarina into the asylum.

Biehl elaborates on the notion of the individual, as we have come to know it, from Beck and Wikan. Borzu encountered problems time and again. Whenever he desired something, but found it difficult to fulfil his wish, he searched for a solution. Once, for instance, the Qermezi were on a pasture where they could not find water for their sheep. As a solution to this problem, Borzu bought a pick-up that carried water to the pasture. Catarina, however, is in a different situation. Whereas in Beck’s account Borzu has individual wishes, encounters single problems and reflects on a solution to these problems, Catarina’s life as a whole is

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blocked. She cannot fulfil any of her wishes, be it for respect, health or social belonging. Accordingly, she not only reflects on individual problems, but on her life as a whole. She ponders about her family, about her relationship with her former husband, about her relationship with her children, about her periods in psychiatric institutions and about her illness. In Biehl’s account, Catarina has a set of desires that, taken together, describe how her life as a whole should be like: “As for Catarina, she was still able to resort to her roles as a working-class mother and an independent thinker in order to envision something for her fragmented body: not as a semblance, a typical patient, or a subjugated married woman, but as the autonomous worker she wanted to be. She wanted a sewing machine, her children at home, another chance in life.” (2005: 158)

In a different section of his book, Biehl comments on Catarina’s emotional life. At times, she is aggressive, gets angry (2005: 75) and falls into depression. “Oscar explained that, as far as he knew, a hospital had sent Catarina to Vita because her family did not want to care for her. [. . .] She is very depressed. Like the others, she feels rejected and imprisoned here. They are placed here, and nobody visits them.” (2005: 79)

Biehl does not connect the two passages explicitly. If we draw on Tugendhat’s theory, however, we can construe such a connection. Tugendhat points out that man is always in a certain mood. The mood reflects to what extent his present life corresponds to his wishes as a whole. If one’s lived reality differs to a high degree from one’s life’s wishes, one falls into a depression. The above-mentioned fact that Catarina’s wishes for a certain life have been thwarted thus seems to relate to her affective life. A comparison with Suriati makes this even clearer. Suriati’s prospective husband has died and Suriati mourns. The emotion of grief refers to a single event that thwarted one of Suriati’s major desires. By contrast, Catarina’s desires for a certain life as a whole have been thwarted and this shapes her overall affective condition, her mood. Biehl thus implicitly hints at the fact that people not only try to fulfil their individual wishes, not only reflect on the world as a singular wish requires them to do and do not only undergo emotions that refer to such single wishes. He also makes it clear that people also have more encompassing wishes, a set of wishes that they would like to see fulfilled during their lives and that they go through affective states that relate to this overall set of wishes. At the same time, Biehl also partly deviates from Beck’s notion of the individual. He sees Catarina as a victim of other people’s actions. It is her husband and the psychiatric doctors that determine the course of her life, not Catarina herself. Biehl limits her role as an actor to those moments when she writes about her destiny. He thus does not perceive Catarina to be a fully-fledged actor who has not only endured the consequences of other people’s actions but also actively

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contributed to the course of her life. He thus does not consider her to be an actor in Beck’s sense. 4. Vincent Crapanzano (1980): Tuhami – Portrait of A Moroccan Vincent Crapanzano meets Tuhami while he is doing research in Morocco. He conducts several interviews with him. In these interviews, Crapanzano and Tuhami discuss several episodes of the latter’s life. Tuhami is a poor and lonely Moroccan brick-maker. His father died when he was very young and, after that, Tuhami had a difficult life. His step-father did not like him and he did not get any support from his mother. So he ran away from home. For a certain time, a French family took care of him. However, he fell sick and later he also lost the French family’s support. In the meantime, he finds refuge with his grandfather, but the old man does not like him either and eventually dies. Later, Tuhami has visions and a demon takes possession of him. After this, he continues to visit holy places in order to free himself of his visions. Later, Tuhami tells Crapanzano about an incident that Crapanzano takes to be decisive for Tuhami’s life. As a child, Tuhami saves his own life in an accident but cannot help his friend who eventually dies.

Within the notional field of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of courses of action and motivation, Crapanzano’s implicit understanding of the individual resembles that of the other authors. Tuhami has, for instance, wishes that are important to him. Similarly, Crapanzano is sensitive to the notional field of emotions and mood. He writes about the anger Tuhami feels towards his mother (1980: 40) and about the depression from which he suffers time and again (1980: 33). However, whereas Crapanzano has some common ground with the other anthropological authors in these notional fields, he differs from them in another respect: Borzu has wishes that trigger intentions to change the world and thus to fulfil his wishes. Catarina also has wishes. Although she is cut off from any possibilities to act, she still clings to her hope for a future in which her wishes will be fulfilled. Crapanzano, however, reports differently about Tuhami. In Crapanzano’s account, Tuhami has wishes and the possibility of fulfilling them. However, he does not fulfil them and resorts to excuses to justify the fact that he does not strive to fulfil his wishes. “Dreams, recitations, pilgrimages, moralism, even fugue – they all served to protect him from sexual encounters.” (1980: 128)

This kind of behaviour can be seen at several points in Tuhami’s life. Tuhami runs away, for instance, when his mother marries a new man after his father’s death and the new husband does not treat him well: “I stayed with them [his mother and stepfather; jph] for a month, and then it was finished . . . Then I ran off without saying a word.” (1980: 41)

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Contrary to people who actively engage in the world in order to pursue their aims, Crapanzano presents the reader with a person who evades the active behaviour needed to find a solution to his problems and has stopped caring about his own wishes. Besides pointing out that people might behave in this way, Crapanzano also tries to find an explanation for Tuhami’s behaviour. After a number of interviews, Tuhami tells Crapanzano about a traumatic childhood experience: “I was a shepherd. My friend fell into the river and was carried away. [. . .] There was thunder, and suddenly the river swelled and carried him away. We were trying to climb on a mule at the moment, and the mule fell into the river. My friend let go, but I held onto the mule. I didn’t know how to swim. I couldn’t help him.” (1980: 129)

Crapanzano interprets this event as the cause of Tuhami’s passive stance, “the root of his emptiness” (1980: 129). The traumatic experience undermines Tuhami’s ability to care about his own desires. Here, as in other parts of his book (1980: 42, 70, 93) Crapanzano thus points at the subconscious as a part of a person and the ways in which it relates to consciousness. Crapanzano’s implicit notion of the individual thus shifts again. Crapanzano does not take it for granted that the actor is capable of action, but describes an actor who proves unable to act, his inability not residing in adverse circumstances like those in Catarina’s case, but because they are intrinsic to the actor himself. Crapanzano assumes his actor to be influenced by his subconscious mind, which holds a traumatic memory. The other anthropological authors did not seem to pay attention to such a phenomenon which would have required a specific methodology anyway. If we try to relate Crapanzano’s notion of the actor to Tugendhat, we can discern some similarities and differences. Tugendhat also writes about actors who are unable to act. Crapanzano offers the explanation that a traumatic experience in the subconscious mind of the actor undermines his ability to act. Tugendhat offers two explanations for action that is not being taken although it is desired. The actor, he says, might not have sufficient self-esteem or the actor is not able to exert control over those inclinations within him that push him to act differently. Tugendhat’s book is written in the spirit of a person who becomes more and more aware of himself in the course of his life. What he is not aware of at a given moment, he might become aware of later on. Yet, his theory does not comprise a notion of the subconscious. Both authors thus differ from one another, and a more thorough discussion and more data would probably be needed to examine the relationship between their explanations.

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5. Intermediate result In the preceding section, I focused on anthropological authors in whose work an individual plays a central role. We have seen that although these anthropological authors attribute such an important role to individual people, they did not work on the basis of an explicit theory of the individual. In each case, it was thus my task to make their implicit notion explicit. At the same time, it became evident that their respective notion of the individual had shifted. Beck sees the individual as an active person. She stresses all those aspects of the individual that are instrumental in contriving modes of action and acting. Her individual actors have wishes, reflect and define aims, and try to realize them in the natural and social world they live in. The other authors, Wikan, Biehl and Crapanzano, however, go beyond this. They stress and develop aspects of the individual that are not of great importance in Beck’s account. Wikan, for instance, pays attention to the passive side of a person. Her main protagonist is struck by the world’s events, and responds to them with emotions which she then brings under control. Biehl presents us an individual who is not only affected by a single event that thwarts a single wish. In Catarina’s case, her wishes as a whole, her aspiration for a certain life, are obstructed by her actual life and this thrusts her into a depression. At the same time, he sees Catarina as a victim of others, a person who has hardly ever actively contributed to their own destiny. Finally, Crapanzano focuses on the subconscious mind. According to him, there is a layer of subconscious anxieties, frustrations and traumatic experiences in a person that infiltrate his thinking and partly organise his actions. This might make a person even shy away from satisfying his own wishes and pursuing his own aims. At the same time, it appears as if, with the exception of Crapanzano, the different notions could largely be accommodated by Tugendhat’s theory. 6. Overcoming bias As noted above, I argue that the partial notions of the individual, as the anthropological authors used them, gave each of their studies a bias. Furthermore, I wish to put forward the argument that they could have overcome their biases if they had reflected explicitly on the notion of the individual and had worked with Tugendhat’s theory. It would, however, be too early to conclude that the different notions the authors apply in their studies are at the root of the differing interpretations of their field subjects. One could object that their different notions of the individual might diverge from each other because the anthropological authors dealt with different field subjects. Borzu might be an active person and so he was appropriately described as such by Beck, whereas Suriati was, at the moment of research, affected by the death of her prospective husband. It would thus be the object that

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determines the notion of the person employed. Anthropologists would draw on a theory of the individual that corresponds to the reality they are trying to analyse. Furthermore, one might argue that it is the specific research interest that determines which notion of a person is applied to reality. Beck is interested in Borzu’s actions, whereas Crapanzano wants to know more about Tuhami’s subconscious mind. It would thus be a specific research question that defines the section of reality we are interested in and the authors would apply a theory of the individual that corresponds to that reality. Of course, all three arguments are always true and it is not a question of playing one statement off against the other. Yet, one can still contend that even within the scope of their research-interest, their analyses would have improved by applying a more detailed idea about what an individual is. I will try to corroborate this contention by way of some examples. Borzu, for instance, appears as an active person. Yet, Borzu and his group experience difficult times and their way of life even seems to be coming to an end. Beck mentions this, but does not go further in exploring how this rather dim perspective affects Borzu. If Beck had had a clearer idea about the emotive-affective side of people, she might have discovered this part of Borzu as well. Wikan does not relate Suriati’s emotions to the question of mood. Tugendhat argued that the relationship between the totality of a person’s wishes and the reality of their life is reflected in a certain mood. Wikan, however, presents Suriati as a person who is mainly related to her prospective husband’s death and overcomes her affective situation by working on her emotions. Within this narrow perspective on Suriati’s emotional life, Suriati’s relation to other aspects of her life does not come into Wikan’s focus, although they might well have played a decisive role in her coming to terms with her situation. A more detailed reflection on the phenomenon of mood, for instance, might have thus given us a better understanding of Suriati’s ability to overcome her grief. Biehl considers Catarina as a victim of other people’s actions. It is her husband and the psychiatric doctors who determine her life-course, not Catarina herself. Biehl limits Catarina’s role as an actor to those moments when she writes about her destiny. Biehl does not perceive Catarina to be a fully-fledged actor who has not only endured the consequences of other people’s actions but also actively contributed to her own life-course. He thus does not see her as an actor in Beck’s or Tugendhat’s sense. However, it does not seem to be entirely plausible to conceive of a field subject in these terms. Biehl thus seems to work on the basis of an arbitrary theoretical assumption about the nature of Catarina as a person. A similar caveat can be brought to bear against Crapanzano. One could read Crapanzano’s account as being biased by his prioritisation of the subconscious. Thus, when Crapanzano tries to explain why Tuhami repeatedly escapes from the difficulties that make up part of his life, he favours Tuhami’s (assumed) trauma

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from childhood as an explanation. Guided by his preference for a psycho-analytic explanation, Crapanzano does not, however, explore the adverse circumstances under which Tuhami lives as a poor, sick and marginal man in Moroccan society. The fact that Tuhami runs away from his family, for instance, might have had to do less with an (assumed) trauma than with the impasse in which he found himself. A more explicit reflection on the nature of human beings might have widened the scope of Crapanzano’s research and changed his conclusions or made them more convincing. While the notions as they are held by the anthropological authors could largely be accommodated by Tugendhat’s theory, the anthropological authors have also modified or supplemented Tugendhat’s approach. As it appeared from Beck’s description of Borzu, a person shifts from one social situation to another. He or she constantly has to adapt to others. If this shifting is a permanent feature of human existence, how are we to view it? By contrast, Tugendhat’s actor appears to be quite stable, as if he has always been embedded in the same social environment.

III. Theoretical Authors So far, I have argued that Tugendhat’s theory is able to accommodate most of the notions of the individual as the anthropological authors implicitly use them. At the same time, the encounter between Tugendhat and the anthropological authors also has repercussions on Tugendhat’s theory. Where does Tugendhat’s theory need to be refined or supplemented then? In this section, I will compare Tugendhat’s position with the writings of other theorisers to find out if and where his theory could be developed further. As noted above, I will draw on Becker, Giddens and Piette. 1. Gary Becker (1976): The Economic Approach to Human Behaviour Gary Becker is an economist. In the introduction to The Economic Approach to Human Behaviour, he makes his idea of what an actor is explicit. An actor has preferences, desires or wishes. He desires, for instance, health, prestige and sensual pleasure (1976: 5). He is embedded in a situation. Given his set of preferences, it is his aim to maximize benefit in a given situation. He weighs up the alternative ways to act that are open to him in the situation and chooses the one that promises the maximum benefit. Sometimes, the actor does not dispose of sufficient relevant information to make his choice and searches for it. The efforts made in order to acquire information are one of the factors that the actor takes into account when analysing his situation and taking his decision. The resultant action is always rational. Wrong decisions or inefficient action are due to a lack of information (1976: 7). The processes of analysing situations and taking decisions might be partly conscious and partly subconscious.

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Tugendhat tries to build a theory that is compatible with how the actors experience themselves. Becker would probably contend that he does not strive for such a theory. He rather aims at a model that explains the actors’ behaviour irrespective of how they experience themselves, a model that replaces what happens within the actor and yet is able to predict what he does. However, for the purposes of an anthropological study that is interested in the specific thoughts and feelings a person has, it has to be read as a theory equivalent to Tugendhat’s. Becker describes a process with which Tugendhat deals as well when he discusses the notions of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of different courses of action and motivation. Both speak about contriving and evaluating alternative courses of action against the background of certain criteria. What Becker has in mind is, from Tugendhat’s point of view, a rather special case of reflection and deliberation. Becker states that the actor wants to maximize benefit in a given situation, i. e. to get the most out of a situation, on the basis of all his desires. Tugendhat could probably translate this idea into his own theory as an actor who strives for the best decision. It does not follow from Tugendhat’s ideas, however, that an actor always reflects against the background of all his wishes, that he reflects until he reaches a decision or until the time available has come to an end. Nor does it mean that he can ever attain such an ideal under real-life circumstances. In Tugendhat’s theory, an actor might, for instance, be too lazy, i. e. lack the necessary virtues to carry on the process of reflection until he reaches a decision. Similarly, Becker states that, given the information available, an actor’s action is always rational. However, if we assume that actors act rationally if they consistently relate the situation to their desires and have the strength to carry out the corresponding action, from Tugendhat’s point of view, Becker’s contention seems to hinge on many preconditions. Although Tugendhat does not discuss this issue, he would not necessarily need to follow Becker in assuming that in this way actors always act successfully. They might fall short of achieving the aim of thinking consistently, of relating appropriately means and ends or of carrying out the corresponding action. What Becker seems to have in mind, then, is an impoverished version of what Tugendhat considers to be action. Becker’s actor, for instance, does not reflect on life as such, he does not have emotions, is not in a certain mood, does not relativise his own importance with respect to others or restrict the extent to which his desires rule over him. Anxieties, for instance, do not influence his behaviour. On the other hand, Becker introduces the distinction between consciousness und sub-consciousness. Becker himself contends that this difference is of no importance for the explanation of action. In Becker’s model, some of the thought processes that lead to action take place in the conscious, and others in the sub-

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conscious. As we have seen before, Tugendhat does not, however, discuss the difference between conscious and subconscious elements in action either. To summarize, we can see that Becker’s theory falls short of contributing significantly to the theory proposed by Tugendhat. We nevertheless derive the distinction of the conscious and the subconscious from Becker. 2. Giddens (1984): The Constitution of Society In his book The Constitution of Society, sociologist Anthony Giddens presents an outline of a general theory of society. It contrasts with other theories like, for instance, Luhmann’s theory of social systems (1985), which stresses social mechanisms over social actors, Giddens takes the (socially embedded) actor as the basis for his theory. He sums up his ideas about the actor in the first chapter of his book (1984: 1–40). Actors follow routines. The way actors carry out these practices resembles a flow rather than a sequence of acts. Throughout their actions, actors monitor them. In doing that, they have an understanding of what they are doing and why they are doing it. If asked, they are able to provide the reasons they have for carrying out their actions. Giddens differentiates between discursive consciousness, practical consciousness and the subconscious. Discursive consciousness is explicit knowledge. It is filled with what people can verbally express, e. g. the reasons for their actions. Practical consciousness is implicit knowledge. While carrying out his activities, the actor implicitly knows, for instance, how to demonstrate to an interaction partner that his verbal expression is coming to an end. The actor finds it more difficult, however, to verbalize practical knowledge. In the subconscious mind, we find cognitions and impulses (1984: 4), repressions and a basic security system (1984: 49), but a ‘bar’ prevents the actor from becoming aware of the subconscious. (The basic security system is the locus of mechanisms for the avoidance of anxieties and the preservation of self-esteem (1984: 57)). Wishes trigger the actors’ actions3 and supply the actors with overall action plans (1984: 6). The actor is not aware of many of his wishes. When routines break down or the actor devotes special attention to an aspect of his experience, the actor thinks explicitly about a theme and/or his motives (1984: 3, 5). Actions lead to consequences, but the scope of one’s control is often limited to the immediate context of action. As action transforms the world, power is inherent to any action. The course of action depends on rules and resources, and so does the exertion of power.

3 “If reasons refer to the grounds for action, motives refer to the wishes that prompt them” (Giddens 1984: 6).

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Like Becker, Giddens focuses on the topic of desire, reflection, action, evaluation of courses of action and motivation. Similarly to Tugendhat and Becker, Giddens embeds the actor in a situation. A major difference to the other two authors, however, lies in the fact that Giddens’ actor does not normally consciously objectify and analyse his situation or weigh up alternative ways of acting before he acts. Giddens’ actor is instead engaged in a form of automatic and sequential behaviour that constitutes a ‘flow’. What Tugendhat and Becker describe as the main mode of action, namely action that comprises explicit reflection and decision-making, appears in Giddens’ account as a special situation. It mainly occurs when “there is a fracture in competency” or if something is “puzzling” (1984: 6). As Giddens seems to think of conscious reflection as being mainly prompted by practical problems, his actors start to reflect when their routines break down. However, Tugendhat suggests a wider range of causes for conscious deliberation and decision-making. Tugendhat’s actor can, for instance, also reflect on the direction he would like to give to his life as such or on his position within the universe. As we have seen before, Tugendhat does not discuss the existence and importance of the subconscious for the person. Becker introduces the distinction between the conscious and the subconscious but declares it to be unimportant for explaining action. Here, Giddens distances himself from both authors when he discusses the subconscious and attributes an important role to it. In Giddens’ theory, the subconscious mind infiltrates a person’s actions. However, the nature of the subconscious remains somehow unexplored in Giddens’ theory. The subconscious rather appears as a space for storing unconscious motivation, needs, anxieties and ideas. Moreover, the relationship between the subconscious and action largely remain unclear. At the same time, Tugendhat would not deny the fact that actors are only partially aware of all their cognitions, desires, emotions and characteristics and that, over and above this, the actor will become aware of some of them only with some difficulty. Tugendhat’s actor only partially understands himself and is only slowly developing an awareness of himself. Nevertheless, Tugendhat does not address the question of the subconscious directly and does not try to explore its relationship with the conscious mind. By speaking about an actor’s anxieties as elements of his subconscious, Giddens also touches upon the theme of emotions and mood, although he does not explore this theme any further. As far as Giddens is concerned, emotions only seem to have a place in the subconscious. Another difference to Becker’s and Tugendhat’s models lies in the importance Giddens assigns to the aspect of power in human action and interaction. He perceives power as inherent to any action or interaction.

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In summary, Giddens points out the important fact neglected by Tugendhat and Becker, that action often consists of routines rather than of separate acts. The processes of deliberation and decision-making that are so important to Becker and Tugendhat are taking place alongside or embedded in the daily routines of action and interaction. Yet, Tugendhat shows that they can serve a wider set of purposes than just for resolving practical problems. Similarly, Giddens makes the important point against both other authors that actors have a subconscious mind. The content of it and its relevance for daily life, however, remain largely unexplored. He also points out the importance of power as inherent to any interaction. 3. Piette (2009): L’Acte d’Exister In L’Acte d’Exister, the Belgian anthropologist Albert Piette expresses his concern about the neglect of the study of individual persons in anthropology (cf. Piette 2015). His main interest is theoretical, he wants to develop a theory to capture the human form of existence. In the process of developing his theory, he does not present an encompassing theory of the individual, but rather tries to highlight aspects of a theory of the individual that have, so far, been neglected by general theory. According to Piette, anthropology is interested in what people do. It takes into account those elements of action (for instance, roles, norms, ideas), that are relevant for the action an actor is carrying out. These constitute le mode majeur. However, the human mind is not only preoccupied with the main action; it also turns to other objects that are not important for the main path of action, it perceives, for instance, details. The phenomena that occur beyond le mode majeur constitute le mode mineur. Le mode mineur finds expression in such diverse phenomena as secondary gestures, hesitation during action, indecisiveness of the actor, incomplete deliberations, distraction of attention, humorous side-remarks etc. Besides mentioning examples, Piette also defines some of the components of the mode mineur more systematically. He observes, for instance, a priest who examines his own words or deeds while he is talking and acting. The priest wonders constantly if what he said or did was good, if he should carry on as before, or if he should speak or act differently (2009: 52). Next, Piette examines another aspect of the mode mineur, i. e. a person’s perception of details. He describes how his father became a major theme for him when he (the father) died, but slowly developed into a detail of his life that accompanies him wherever he goes, but does not play a major role anymore (2009: 94). After that, Piette speaks about the mode mineur as it pertains to religiosity. He criticizes the idea that believers would steadfastly believe in religious doctrines. Instead, he observes that he himself often leaves his religious beliefs in a state of cognitive indeterminacy, not thinking them through (2009: 100–1). Moreover, Piette defines four inner states human beings are in, i. e. the state of tranquillité (relaxation), the state of familiarité (familiarity), that of fatigue (hardship or effort) and that of tension (tension). The person is tranquille when he is in a situation he is well acquainted with. In this inner state, meaningless details may come to his mind. In a familiar situation, changes occur in a situa-

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tion and bind the actor’s attention. However, the person can master them on the basis of his everyday competencies. In the state of fatigue, more important changes occur in a given situation. They demand a person’s reaction which might, for instance, arouse resistance against the action within him. In the state of tension, the person concentrates on fragments of a situation and carries out an action attentively. This latter state largely corresponds to a state in which the elements of the mode majeur prevail. However, Piette points out that any of these states are always present in a person, albeit to different degrees – each situation comprises relaxation and work (2009: 149). According to Piette, however, anthropologists describing their field subjects’ actions, do not pay attention to the aspects of action which constitute le mode mineur. Rather, they discard these observations, as Piette says, in their dust-bins.

Piette reads as if he was arguing against Becker’s model of action. In Becker’s model, the actor has a very simple and straightforward relation to his beliefs, his situation and to his action. However Piette believes that this is rather a special case, which only seldom occurs. For Piette, Becker’s model might rather represent a person acting under stress (being in a state of tension). In his view, however, most situations differ from the realities Becker depicts. Neither do actors think or act so stringently, nor do they attribute to all their beliefs the same degree of certainty, nor do their inner states uniquely relate to the main action they are carrying out. Piette tries to show where reality is more complex than Becker assumes. He speaks about the above-mentioned mental shift of the priest, about the perception of details, about the indeterminacy of religious beliefs and about the co-existence of four interior states. To a large degree, Piette’s ideas seem to be compatible with Giddens’ thoughts about action. Piette acknowledges, for instance, the importance of routines and rules in everyday conduct. Furthermore, the above-mentioned behaviour of the priest seems to be closely related to what Giddens calls the reflexive monitoring of action, i. e. the actor’s “self-observation” during the performance of the act. Yet, Piette also diverges from Giddens. Giddens does not, for instance, discuss the perception of details but focuses on the mode majeur of action. As Tugendhat’s ideas are more differentiated than Giddens’, the relationship between Piette and Tugendhat is more intricate. Piette’s priest scrutinizes his own behaviour while he is talking and acting. This observation not only relates to Giddens’ idea of the reflexive monitoring of action but also to Tugendhat’s three fields of goodness, as Piette’s priest not only observes himself but also evaluates his performance. At the same time, Tugendhat does not discuss the relationship between the actor and his beliefs. Tugendhat does not discuss the perception of details or the co-occurrence of the four inner states. However, Piette’s ideas about these phenomena could be productively associated with Tugendhat. Tugendhat shows that action always depends on self-control. Tugendhat’s actor is only able to act if he is able to constrain the influence of emotions that are not conducive to his actions. Some of

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the desires, questions and emotions a person has are thus conducive to action, others do not influence the moment of action and yet others have to be encapsulated, muted or actively ignored by the actor when he is acting. This encapsulation of desires, emotions and questions should thus leave behind traces in the actors. They might, for instance, prompt many of the features which Piette summarizes under the heading of mode mineur. They might cause hesitation, secondary gestures or thoughts that appear in the actor’s mind. They might undermine his motivation or create resistance to action (fatigue). In summary, Piette makes us aware of the fact that the actor is not an entity that is stringently organised towards an end. Besides the main action, other processes occur in the actor and appear in his behaviour (possibly also influencing the mode majeur); and therein lies the importance for this topic. Neither of the other authors pays much attention to this fact. Yet, what Piette summarizes under the title of mode mineur are rather different phenomena. What constitutes the mode mineur are those phenomena that do not belong to the mode majeur. The exact nature of these processes might be manifold and Piette’s insights deserve an effort to integrate them into an encompassing theory of the actor. This, however, cannot be done here. 4. Intermediate result So far, I have summarized Tugendhat’s view of persons. I then discussed authors who carried out empirical research on individual persons. They worked on implicit assumptions on the nature of the person. I have argued that their implicit views of the person could largely be accommodated by Tugendhat. Yet their studies always focused on certain aspects of the individual and neglected others. This, I argued, gave their studies a bias which could have been avoided if they had reflected explicitly on their notion of the individual. At the same time, a comparison between Tugendhat and other theorists has also broadened the idea of the individual beyond Tugendhat’s position. Over and above the ideas presented by Tugendhat, we learn from Giddens that action consists more of routines than separate acts. The processes of deliberation and decisions, which are so important to Becker and Tugendhat, are taking place alongside or embedded in the daily routines of action and interaction. I would like to point out, however, that Tugendhat shows that reflection and decision-taking can serve a broader range of purposes than merely those of resolving practical problems, as Giddens seems to assume. Processes of reflection and deliberation might, for instance, serve to provide an answer to the question of how to lead one’s life or an answer to the question as to who one is. Moreover, Giddens makes the point that actors have a subconscious mind. In his writing, the subconscious appears to be like a storage room for subconscious motivation, needs, anxieties and cognitions. The relationship between the subcon-

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scious and action, however, largely remains unclear. In a way, Crapanzano’s approach reflects this position. He assumes that Tuhami’s behaviour was based on a traumatic experience in his childhood. When Tuhami told him about the traumatic experience, Crapanzano concluded that it must have been this experience that determined Tuhami’s behaviour. The question of how to accommodate the subconscious to Tugendhat’s ideas remains an open one. However, Giddens also emphasizes the role power plays in human relationships. This links up with the insight we gained from Beck. Borzu shifted from social setting to social setting. Beck implicitly pointed out that this shifting is a permanent feature of human existence. Tugendhat did not integrate this phenomenon into his theory. Tugendhat’s actor rather seems to be stable, as if he were always embedded in the same social environment. Moreover, he does not seem to be embedded in any relations of power. In accordance with Tugendhat, Piette makes us aware of the fact that the actor is not an entity that is stringently organised to achieve its chosen aims. From Tugendhat we have already learned that stringent action tends to be subject to many preconditions. The actor needs to control inclinations and emotions that are not conducive to deliberation and action. The actor might think or act inconsistently. He might not reflect long enough or he might not bring his action to completion. The actor needs self-esteem to carry out the processes of deliberation and action, etc. Becker’s model seems so clear and convincing but it appears to be depicting a special case; rational action is not a matter of course, but has to be achieved time and again. Piette would praise Tugendhat’s efforts to break up Becker’s idea of stringent rational action, but he would also argue that Tugendhat still approaches the actor from an “action-centred” perspective. In Piette’s view, Tugendhat is mainly interested in what is relevant to the main action and is oblivious to what is “in the individual”, but relates neither conducively nor obstructively to the main action. In contrast to this, Piette approaches action from a different vantage-point. He highlights phenomena that do not belong to the major action an actor carries out. However, as Becker’s ideas seem to provide the “other” for Piette, it remains unclear how his observations relate to Tugendhat’s position. In a way, both distance themselves from Becker, but a systematic integration of Piette’s and Tugendhat’s observations turns out to be a desideratum. To integrate both positions is beyond the scope of this study, but we might begin with a first tentative thought, as we have seen above regarding Tugendhat’s idea that actors are only able to act if they are able to constrain the influence of emotions that are not conducive to their actions. Some of the desires, questions and emotions a person has are thus conducive to action, others are not active at the moment of action and yet others still have to be encapsulated, muted or actively ignored by the actor when he is acting. These might reappear in behaviour as secondary gestures, perceived details or passing thoughts.

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IV. Michael Jackson’s Existential Anthropology A further anthropological author needs to be mentioned and discussed, Michael Jackson and his project on Existential Anthropology (2008) [2005]. Jackson pursues two different aims in his book. Firstly, he seeks to bring out some features of human life or existence. Secondly, he selects specific events and interprets them. In interpreting these events, he applies anthropological knowledge and theories, but also his ideas about the structure of human existence. The relevance of Michael Jackson’s project is thus self-explanatory as he tries to unravel basic features of human existence. In as far as Jackson makes statements about the condition humaine, I should have discussed him in section F. III. However, he does not try to establish a theory of the individual. He rather produces single insights into the nature of man and does not contextualize them within a larger framework of a theory of the individual. This would have made it difficult to integrate his book into section F. III. According to Jackson, humans are endowed with habits and capacities and inserted into a specific environment. But a human being’s action does not simply flow from the confrontation of his capacities with his environment. Rather, man also has a “capacity for life”, i. e. he confronts the world with his own will and desire and tries to create a life that he considers worth living (2008: xxii). To live a life according to one’s own ideas implies struggling with others, struggling with the material conditions of one’s own life and with the end of one’s own life (2008: xiv). This feeds into a continuous process of “experimentation in how the given world can be lived decisively, on one’s own terms” (2008: xii). In trying to construct his own life, man is thus always in a situation whereby he has to change or influence the circumstances he is living in. If, and to what degree, actors can alter these circumstances depends on their respective position in society (2008: xxiii). However, regardless of the degree to which actors can exert influence on their living circumstances, they always need to maintain a sense of being an actor. Actors can achieve that – even under adverse circumstances – by taking a wide variety of attitudes: from an attitude of conformity to an attitude of active resistance. They thus maintain the idea that their free will has at least partly determined what has happened. When human actors cannot change the circumstances shaping their lives, they might also resort to changing their experience of reality in their imaginations and, in this way at least, perceive themselves as actors. However, people can also become alienated, when they cannot find the wherewithal of life in their environment anymore. Or, they can give themselves up when they have to live a life they cannot identify with (2008: xv). Man feels that he has a right to a proper life. Moreover, intersubjective relations are governed by the logic of reciprocity (2008: 42). If man cannot live a ‘proper’ life, he might thus also violently take from others what he considers to be his. Finally, Jackson points to what one might call the possibility of mystical experience: “At such times, the extra-human world, the world of others and of oneself appear to merge – as if the infinite being of the world and our own finite being were one.” (2008: 190)

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In ten further chapters, Jackson chooses ten different events and interprets these. He applies the above-mentioned ideas and other elements of anthropological theory to make sense of these.

As Jackson’s ideas about the nature of human existence are of importance within the context of this study, I will briefly describe them here. Firstly, Jackson states that man’s life is a struggle. Secondly, Jackson says that man’s life results in an “experimentation of how the given world can be lived decisively, on one’s own terms” (2008: xii). Hereby, Jackson points to the idea that man needs to have or needs to enact a certain degree of autonomy in his life. Otherwise, he will become alienated from his life or give himself up. Thirdly, Jackson purports that man has the idea of deserving a proper life. Fourthly, inter-subjective relations are largely governed by the idea of reciprocity. In summary, Jackson characterises human existence. However, he neither determines the place of his insights within the context of a theory of the individual, nor does he explore the validity or scope of his theoretical insights on the basis of empirical data. In how far life is a struggle, how much autonomy different people need, how important the idea of deserving a proper life is to different people remains largely unexplored. Notwithstanding this criticism, however, Jackson makes it possible to use these ideas and to experiment with them. The value of his book appears rather to lie in the interpretation of the different events to which Jackson applies these ideas, as well as a wide variety of other anthropological ideas.

V. And this Book? In the preceding sections, I have discussed the notions of the person as they pertain to different anthropological and theoretical authors. In the process, I tried to show that Tugendhat’s theory provides the most encompassing approach to capturing what an individual might be. Furthermore, I tried to show where Tugendhat’s and the other authors’ theories do not entirely coincide. These ‘disagreements’ between the authors might provide a point of departure for a modification of Tugendhat’s contribution and eventually lead to a theory better adapted to anthropological research. In this section, I will try to outline if and how this book might contribute to this purpose as well. However, the development of a more comprehensive theoretical approach towards the individual in anthropology seems to me to lie outside the possibilities of this book. By and large, my interpretation or analysis of Musa’s life is in line with the ideas presented by the above-mentioned authors. I have, for instance, incorporated Giddens’ routines, as an essential part of the analysis, and I have drawn attention to the issue of power in social relations. There remain, however, some points I would like to point at. These might be worth to be taken into consideration in the discussion about the theory of the person that would serve the needs of anthropology.

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1. The actor as I have conceived of it in this book is driven by desires, has a distinct character, value orientations and the like. When he partakes in social situations, he brings these distinct features of his into the situation and implements a certain action. Referring to Böhler (1985), Joas (1992: 236) explains how to conceive of such a process in which a person confronts a situation and finally chooses to act. “Situationen lösen unsere Handlungen nicht aus, stellen aber auch nicht nur das Terrain für die Exekution von Intentionen bereit. Unsere Wahrnehmung der Situation ist vorgeformt in unseren Handlungsfähigkeiten und unseren aktuellen Handlungsdispositionen; welche Handlung realisiert wird, entscheidet sich dann durch eine reflexive Beziehung auf die in der Situation erlebte Herausforderung.”

There is an interplay of answer and response then between the situation and the actor. In the process of this interplay, an actor develops his intention and implements an action. Part of an individual is activated or comes into being in this ‘back and forth’ between an actor and the situation, but another part becomes muted. In a different situation, a similar process takes place and the behaviour is not the same anymore, because another part of the person becomes activated, while a different part becomes muted. Mariama and the children were able to influence Musa because he loves them. They “trigger” his love for them and his decisions become more lenient. In other situations, Musa responds differently. When Musa speaks to Maigari Dengi, pride and humour become an issue between them. When Musa acts, he always does so in a specific social context. Some desires, elements of his knowledge, social relations, traits of character are relevant in the social context in which he acts. Some are in the background which might be activated in a different social context in which he might act later. He will then suddenly appear to be a different person. Yet, herein lies a theoretical problem. The person suddenly appears fluid. Becker, Giddens, Tugendhat conceive the person as a rather stable entity to whom we can ascribe a certain stock of knowledge, the command of a certain set of competencies, and certain traits of character. However, this seems to be an abstraction from reality that does not entirely correspond to empirical observations as it bypasses the individuals’ fluidity. Neither does it take into account the processes which take place when a person enters and exits from a situation, nor the long-lasting processes which take place when a person enters a new social setting for a longer time, remains therein and slowly changes. What remains stable over a variety of situations and what changes? In what sense can we then speak of the essence of an individual? It does not seem to be an appropriate answer to contend that a person is always stable in all its components. Nor would it be correct to contend that an individual is completely malleable and changes entirely according to the social context it is embedded in, as Kearney (1989: 141) suggests with his idea of the polybian:

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“. . ., whereas the kinds of categorical migrants with which we are dealing move in and out of multiple niches and are therefore more correctly called polybians (poly, many). The polybian is rather like a chameleon, which can adjust its color to match that of its immediate environment. But unlike such protective coloration, which is but deep-skin, polybians adapt their being to different modes of existence as they opportunistically move in and out of different life spaces.”

Piette takes a similar approach and conceives the inner states of individuals to be fluid in a situation or a series of situations (2009: 77–137). He describes how an individual changes in a situation or a series of situations. However, he does not seem to think of relating the individual in its overall complexity to the elements of the situation and thus to unravel the totality of the interplay between what an individual comprises and the situation he is in. 2. Tugendhat as well as Becker, Giddens, and Piette conceive of individuals in a specific situation and a specific moment. As the actor is confronted with a specific situation, the actor deals with the situation and implements an action. Then, so we might continue this train of thought, the actor withdraws and engages in another situation. This idea was slightly changed by what I said before. As we have seen above, the actor confronts a situation with the whole of his being, whereby one part of it is active and another remains muted or in the background. But the actor also has long-term desires and long-term questions which are relevant to him beyond the situation he is engaged in at a certain point in time. Different situations an actor encounters over time might then be relevant to these questions and desires and he pursues the quest for an answer or fulfilment over a long time as well. A situation might thus only be a single element in a more encompassing endeavour to pursue his long-term questions or to fulfil his long-term desires. The actor thus remains occupied not only with the questions that relate to the situation at hand, but also to the other questions and desires he has. It is as if an actor engages in a situation that is not only relevant to his immediate interests, but also to his long-term interests, then gives it some thought, engages much later in another situation that might be relevant to his long-term interests and, again, gives it some thought until he comes up much later with an answer or a decision. We have seen this process occurring in Musa’s life when he took a decision not to emigrate to Nigeria and when he rationalized the way in which he pursued his life project (cf. E. IV.). This process is well-known to everyday actors, yet the authors do not seem to have taken this into consideration, at least not to the degree this phenomenon deserves. German vernacular refers to this process as the Heranreifen einer Entscheidung.

G. Explaining Musa’s Life In chapters C. and D., I have described Musa’s life. In chapter E., I have tried to draw together the main threads of this discussion and to present an outline of Musa as a person. In chapter F., I have turned my attention to the notion of the individual in anthropology. In this chapter, I will come back to chapter E. As I have described the main features of Musa’s life in chapter E., the question arises of how to explain these features of his life. Musa’s life is, as we have seen, a composite of many a feature and each of it has its historical roots and plays its role in the functioning of society. To explain them conclusively would be a task that is beyond the scope of this book. A short view on Weber’s protestant ethic corroborates this statement. It required him to be a “genius”. He had to study an enormous amount of sources and it took him about 200 pages to pin down the factors that shaped the diverse components of what he called the protestant ethic. Musa and his life as he lived it stand in a similarly complex societal arrangement and historical space as that of the capitalist at the turn of the 19th to the 20th century, and it comprises more features than the protestant ethic, but its explanation cannot be based on the same wealth of written sources nor can it be carried out by a “genius”. When Weber tried to explain the protestant ethic, he worked within a holistic paradigm. He considered the protestant ethic as the result of a “. . . ungeheuren Gewirrs gegenseitiger Beeinflussungen zwischen den materiellen Grundlagen, den sozialen und politischen Organisationsformen und dem geistigen Gehalte der reformatorischen Kulturepochen . . .” (1905: 83). An approach that aims – however tentatively – to explain the features of Musa’s life also has to adopt a holistic outlook and, thus, be open to the diverse perspectives – historical, social, political, cultural and religious – which might have exerted their influence on it. At the same time, an approach which tries to explain features of Musa’s life can only be based on the sources that are available. Moreover, it is under considerable time constraints, as most of the available research time had to be spent on empirical field work, in the course of which the explananda had to be determined. Given these conditions, it seems to me that the best strategy in unravelling the factors that have influenced or shaped Musa’s ways of behaviour might be to address and examine some strands of literature that are as closely and directly related to the data at hand as possible. Among these strands of literature is the literature on peasant societies, supplemented by some literature on the market

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and historical studies. In view of filtering out explanations for Musa’s life, I will relate this strand of literature to the description of Musa’s life in chapter G. I. I will also relate the empirical data to the literature on Islam in the region. As we will see, this strand of literature is not as well developed as the literature on peasant societies. It is a tricky question to relate religious beliefs to everyday social practices, but I could not ignore the resemblances I had noticed between religious doctrines and Musa’s behaviour and thus decided to address the question of how far Musa’s behaviour might be explained by religious ideas in chapter G. III. Chapters G. II. and G. IV. serve to draw conclusions regarding the usefulness of the study of individuals for the strands of literature dealt with in chapters G. I. and G. III., or for anthropology in a more general sense.

I. Peasant Societies The heydays of peasant studies seem to be over. Peasant studies were flourishing between the 50s and the 90s. I thus draw on the main writings that stem from this period. I chose Robert Redfield’s Peasant Society and Culture (1956), Eric Wolf ’s Peasants (1966), Claude Meillassoux’s Femmes, Greniers et Capitaux (1975), Gudeman and Rivera’s Conversations in Colombia (1990) and Michael Kearney’s Reconceptualizing the Peasantry (1996). Having said this, I will now examine the literature on peasant studies and relate it to the data. I will summarise the authors’ main ideas and systematically relate them to the data from Kimoram. I will thus try to filter out possible explanations for some of the features pertaining to Musa’s life. 1. What is a peasant? There is a general consensus in the literature about what a peasant is. Although the notion of the peasant shifts from author to author, there is a substantial amount of overlapping. At the centre of the notion is a rural population that cultivates land, is subsistence-oriented, produces within the framework of a domestic mode of production, interacts with an elite and transfers part of its produce to other parts of society by market-exchange and by paying taxes or tribute (Kearney 1996: 59–61, Redfield 1956: 29–34, Wolf 1966: 2–4). This definition largely fits the description of the village of Kimoram where Musa lives, and thus also his own living conditions. The region where Kimoram lies is characterized by a divide between urban and rural space. Zinder which accommodates about 300,000 inhabitants and which lies at a greater distance from Kimoram is an urban space but there was not much traffic between the two places. Villagers would have had to go to Garin Gabas first and to wait for a car to pass by and they rarely did that. In the immediate vicinity of Kimoram, Garin Gabas has some of the features of an urban space as well. The chef de canton, the

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gendarmerie, the customs, the maire, all resided in Garin Gabas and Garin Gabas is connected by a road to Zinder. However, the distance between Kimoram and Garin Gabas cannot easily be bridged and, except for market days, traffic between both places was rare. The life in Kimoram was thus largely a local life. Moreover, its economy was based on field cultivation, other ways of generating income were supplementary and no state functionaries lived in Kimoram. It seems safe, therefore, to regard Kimoram as lying in a rural space and to regard the villagers as a rural population that cultivates land. Even though the above-mentioned state functionaries in Garin Gabas formed an inferior stratum within the national elite, they nevertheless were the local elite, and the peasants acknowledged them as a superior stratum in their society. The elite in Garin Gabas encompassed three different types of people. Firstly, there were the “traditional” authorities, i. e. the chef de canton and his immediate entourage. Secondly, there were the “modern” state functionaries like the maire, the gendarmes, customs officers, the staff of the dispensaire and school teachers. Thirdly, there was a commercial elite. Kimoram thus also fulfilled this criterion for the definition of the category of peasants. Furthermore, the villagers transferred through the sarki part of their income to the state, although it was only a small sum of money. Moreover, all inhabitants of Kimoram cultivated land and they also had a subsistence orientation. They cultivated to eat and meet their basic needs, and when they sold agricultural goods on the market or worked in order to earn money, the purpose of this was to sustain themselves and their families. It was rare to find people who primarily had trading capital at their disposal. Similarly, they all produced within the framework of a domestic economy. The labour force was made up of family members. Moreover, the peasants exchanged their products at the market. They sold cowpeas and bought items of daily use there. Thus, the village of Kimoram proved to be a rather ideal-typical example of a peasant village. Equally, Musa proved to be a rather ideal-typical peasant. He lived in rural space, cultivated land, had a subsistence orientation, produced within the framework of a domestic mode of production, engaged in market activity, paid taxes and belonged to an inferior stratum in society. When Redfield defined his notion of the peasant, he also explicitly identified a set of peasant attitudes and values. The other contributors to the discussion about peasant society hardly discuss this issue and his suggestions were also sharply criticized by other authors, as Redfield explained in his book. In response to this criticism, Redfield carefully proposed that the peasantry might be characterized by an “intense attachment to native soil; a reverent disposition toward habitat and ancestral ways; a restraint on individual self-seeking in favour of family and community; a certain suspiciousness, mixed with appreciation, of town life; a sober and earthy ethic.” (1956: 140).

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However, this description hardly seems to relate to the villagers or to Musa. They did not have an intensive attachment to the native soil1 nor “a reverent disposition toward habitat and ancestral ways”.2 Moreover, Redfield proposed that peasants step back from their own interests in favour of those of their family and their community. Some behaviour in Kimoram conformed to this ideal (see, for instance, Issu who sold a bull in order to meet the marriage expenses for a relative), but there were also examples where people valued their own interests above those of others. It is difficult to assess if the villagers were more altruistic than non-peasants were, especially as many villagers, poverty-stricken as they were, lacked the resources which they could grant to others. The same consideration, it seems to me, also pertained to Musa. Redfield also proposed that peasants were suspicious of town life and, at the same time, appreciated it. The villagers of Kimoram were certainly suspicious of part of the elite, the police and the chef de canton. However, town life itself did not inspire suspiciousness or awe in the villagers. Furthermore, Redfield attributed to peasants what he called a sober and earthy ethic. Unfortunately, this term is, as Redfield admitted himself (1956: 140), not very precise and this makes it difficult to apply it to the data. All in all, the notion of a peasant largely applies, as we have seen, to the village of Kimoram, to the villagers and to Musa. With respect to attitudes and values, however, the picture is more nuanced, as the village, its inhabitants and also Musa hardly held the values Redfield ascribed to peasants. 2. The diversity of social forms among peasants In his book “Peasants” (1966), Wolf diligently accumulated knowledge about peasants in order to identify the different social, economic and religious forms peasant societies had. For example, Wolf described the various types of land cultivation that existed among peasants. Thus, he distinguished swidden cultivation, sectorial fallowing systems, short-fallowing systems, permanent cultivation, the permanent cultivation of favoured plots and he specified their respective features (1966: 21–34). Similarly, he showed the diversity of social units that existed in 1 No rituals and no ideologies seemed to apply to the soil and there did not seem to be a discourse about the attachment of individual people to individual plots. Such an attitude might develop, one might surmise, only when people remain in the same places for a longer period of time. Historically, however, this has not been the case in Nigerien Hausaland. Spittler (1977) reports about Hausa peasants from the region of Gobir. Many of the settlements had been founded after the establishment of the pax Gallica and had thus not existed for long. Kimoram itself was a rather new settlement as well. 2 The peasants did not take a respectful stance towards part of their environment, protect it or venerate it for specific reasons. Similarly, although the villagers ascribe to the elder generation knowledge that they themselves lack, their respect for what they consider right rather derives from their deontic stance towards values and norms than from the fact that things have been done in a certain way by their ancestors.

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peasant societies. He identified, for instance, peasant societies in which the nuclear family prevailed and societies in which the extended family was more common (1966: 61). Given the wide variety of different forms that Wolf found in peasant societies, it becomes difficult to distinguish the features that pertain to peasant societies in general beyond the criteria I have mentioned above. Going through those sections of Wolf ’s book, which deal with the economic and the social sphere, one can retrieve only a small number of such features. However, Wolf was also interested in the causes that shaped the different features and forms that pertained to peasant societies and in the effects that emanated from them. He showed, for instance, that centralized political institutions meet difficulties when they try to exert control over swidden cultivators, as these are rather mobile (1966: 24). Wolf contextualized many of the features of peasant societies in this way, but the contextualization usually referred, as in the above-mentioned example, to selected features of sub-types of peasant societies, in this example, to swidden cultivators. I will try to relate Wolf to the situation in Kimoram and to Musa’s condition. As noted above, Wolf found, other than the above-mentioned criteria of definition, some more features pertaining to peasant societies as such. Wolf pointed out, for instance, that peasants have to invest their field produce into the replacement of the goods they have consumed the year before (replacement fund), into social relations (ceremonial fund) and into the transfer of money to the elite (fund of rent) (1966: 6–10). Moreover, peasants have two alternatives in order to respond to scarcity of means: they can either produce more or reduce consumption (1966: 15). Furthermore, the economic units in a peasant society, Wolf argued, maintain antagonistic relations with each other, value their autonomy and are driven rather by their individual short-term interests than by their collective long-term ends (1966: 108). These features, so it seems to me, also pertained to the villagers of Kimoram and to Musa. Furthermore, Wolf defined several modes of field cultivation. The villagers’ mode of field cultivation comes closest to what Wolf defined as sectorial fallowing systems (1966: 20–1). Cultivable land was divided into several sections which were planted for some years and left fallow in other years. Unfortunately, Wolf did not discuss this type of field cultivation any further. With regard to Wolf ’s categorization of the exchange system between economic units (1966: 37–40), Kimoram ranges on the side of those peasants who do not perform many specialised crafts (e. g. carpentry) themselves, but who instead obtain these in exchange for their unprocessed produce which they trade on the market. The markets in which the peasants participated are what Wolf called network markets, as the villagers were free to trade their goods with any other person. However, Wolf did not only introduce the concept of the “network market“, he

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also developed its effects upon peasants. Participants to a network market, Wolf argued, are often subject to the fluctuations of prices that develop quite independently from the local conditions, and they are often not able to react flexibly to these price fluctuations, as they depend on a small number of tradable goods. Moreover, the majority of them lack withholding power (1966: 45) to evade the impact of price fluctuations or even turn it into an economic advantage. All these aspects apply to the majority of the peasants in Kimoram and to Musa. He was indeed subject to great fluctuations of prices and could not evade their influence because his only tradable goods were cowpeas. As Wolf pointed out, another corollary of the dependency on the market is to make peasants take up part-time occupations, e. g. to participate in a labour market. Again, we find this to have been the case in Kimoram. However, contrary to what Wolf said, the peasants of Kimoram were not only forced by price fluctuations into other forms of gaining income, but also by the poor harvests. Wolf then addressed the question of rights to land (1966: 50–9). He differentiated between different systems of “ultimate ownership over land”. His categories do not fit the situation in Kimoram neatly. The system in Kimoram comes closest to the category of mercantile domain, as the peasants held individual rights over the land and had the right to sell it. It also bears some resemblances to a patrimonial domain as the chef de canton might, under certain conditions, expropriate peasants and sell their land to new users. With respect to the social forms of life among peasants (1966: 65–72), Wolf distinguished between peasant societies which favour nuclear families and those which are organised in extended families. The situation in the village covered the middle ground between the two poles. Wolf singled out factors which contribute to the dissolving of extended families into nuclear families and which also applied to Kimoram. Thus, the labour process in Kimoram did not necessitate the existence of a greater cooperative labour force over time and labour peaks like in harvesting could easily be met by occasionally stepping up the labour force within frameworks of kinship relations and mutual help. According to Wolf, such a situation lends itself to the splitting up of larger economic units into smaller ones. Moreover, land in the region was abundant in the past (cf. Spittler 1977 for Gobir), which would have encouraged the disintegration of extended families. In present times, however, the disintegration of extended families might have been reinforced by the scarcity of land, by declining productivity and labour migration, factors, Wolf mentioned as well. That the region’s peasants were organised in extended families in former times seems possible3, and a process of disintegra3 Cf. Nicolas (1975: 127) who describes the more ‘corporate’ social structures of non-Muslim Hausa around Maradi. Moreover, the region was known for slave-raiding in pre-colonial times. The formation of larger groups would also have been necessary to provide mutual protection.

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tion might have taken place.4 If such a process has indeed taken place and if the factors, Wolf points at, have indeed worked on the social fabric of Kimoram is difficult to assess, however. Yet, such a process of transformation from extended families into nuclear families would not have been completed in Kimoram. Thus, the villagers’ social organisation showed some features that, according to Wolf, seem to be characteristic of societies with extended families. Firstly, the villagers assigned greater importance to the bonds between generations and kinsmen than on the ties between husband and wife. Secondly, the nuclear families were linked to each other through an ideology of kinship, mutual sharing and assistance that encouraged the seeking of economic support from the kinship group. Thirdly, the larger kinship groups were plagued by the tensions that pertained to extended families, namely conflicts between its various members. Fourthly, the villagers put a strong emphasis on self-control, the suppression of aggression and the condemnation or hiding of illegitimate sexual desires (1966: 70). With respect to the social forms of peasant societies, Wolf further explained that the status of the father or husband is strong within the nuclear family when he contributes significantly to the household income and when he plays important roles in social and ceremonial life. We found such a situation in Kimoram. There were more occupational roles for men than for women. Women could not leave for labour migration as they cared for the children, and land was mainly owned by men. Moreover, the local interpretation of Islam granted men privileges that strengthened their position vis-à-vis women (see the transfer of Bintu into Musa’s household). Furthermore, the man represented the household in village politics. According to Wolf, peasants also have to cope with economic, ecological or social pressures. Wolf differentiated between a strategy that enables each household to deal with his own problems and a strategy that levels out the effects of these pressures by resource-sharing arrangements (1966: 77–80). At the same time, peasants, Wolf argued, maintain a degree of autonomy that allows them to withdraw from such arrangements if they put the respective household under more strain. Again, we can apply this idea to the villagers of Kimoram who occupy the middle ground between the two poles. Ecological and economic problems weighed heavily on them, but they did not allow these economic problems to affect only the individual household and had access to institutions of mutual help and resource-sharing (they shared evening meals together, for instance). 4 Such a process of transformation is testified for the region around Maradi, see Raynaut (1972: 25) and Cooper (1997: 41–3). Cf. Clough (2014: 54) who also sees Islam as a major cause of such a transformation process in Marmara village of northern Nigeria: “Before conversion, farming had been based on the very extended family work unit (gandu) comprising up to three generations of men and their wives. [. . .] After conversion, women withdrew from most farming operations. The gandu contracted to a smaller male unit linking mainly fathers and sons.”

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Moreover, they were obliged to help each other under the norms of kinship ideology. Yet the willingness to help also had its limits (see the example of Alhassan who was denied help by his kinsmen).5 According to Wolf, peasant religion (1966: 96–106) mainly deals with human beings and the natural objects that surround them. Moreover, peasant religion often serves a normative function and defines what people ought to do. At the same time peasant religion defines social norms as supernatural, valid beyond criticism. Hence, peasants will tend to accept rituals and beliefs as given. Furthermore, peasants are rarely inclined towards inventing religious customs as they are generally too involved in their everyday activities. However, peasant religion does also interact with the ideas and practices of actors who live beyond the local sphere. If we come back to Musa, we can apply Wolf ’s ideas to him. As we have seen, religion did indeed have a predominantly normative function for Musa and the other villagers. At the same time, Musa considered religious ideas and norms as supernaturally bestowed upon man. In contrast to Wolf ’s idea about peasants, however, Musa knew that religious ideas and norms could be subject to interpretation and interpretations might be questioned. However, he did not actively engage in the interpretation of the Qur’an. He did also not strive for religious innovation. Musa’s religious thinking mainly seemed to revolve around what Wolf called “first-order explanations”. It explained illnesses, rainfall, it provided guidance for behaviour towards the elderly, the sick and fellow villagers or guidance for overcoming difficult situations. Yet, it would be wrong to assume that Musa was not aware of more ‘philosophical’ aspects of religion. Musa rather saw himself at a stage in Islamic scholarship in which his primary task was to acquire the basic knowledge, not yet a higher level of knowledge. In summary, Musa and most villagers can be characterised by many of the categories Wolf introduced. The way the villagers cultivated their fields comes closest to what Wolf defined as sectorial fallowing systems. Moreover, the villagers were not self-sufficient: they thus did not produce many of the special crafts which they needed, but rather acquired goods on the market. The markets they participated in were network markets. The system of land rights in place was partly patrimonial in kind and partly mercantile. Kimoram covered the middle ground between a society that favoured the nuclear family and a society that favoured the extended family. However, the (assumed) process of transformation from extended families to nuclear families had not been completed. The relations between peasants were also influenced by the pressures that befell their society. The villagers covered the middle ground between those societies that collectivized

5 Wolf discussed the theme of peasant coalitions as well. However, in this discussion, so it seems to me, Wolf ’s desire for categorization went astray. I will thus skip this part of Wolf ’s book here.

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economic problems and those societies that individualized them. The villagers also had a strong sense of autonomy. Religion had a predominantly normative function for Musa and the other villagers. Moreover, they considered religious ideas and norms as supernaturally bestowed upon man and did not question their validity. Nevertheless, Musa knew that what really counted as religiously warranted was open to change. However, he did not strive for religious innovation himself. Musa’s religious thinking seemed to revolve around what Wolf called “first-order explanations”. Musa was thus not primarily concerned with the philosophical aspects of his religion, but it would be wrong to assume that he did not know about these issues or that he was not interested in them. While Wolf significantly helped to place Musa and the villagers within the set of possible forms of peasant societies, he also provided explanations for some of the features of Musa’s and the villagers’ lives. For Wolf, the villagers’ dependency on network markets explains, for instance, why they were subject to immense fluctuations of prices to which they were unable to respond flexibly. Moreover, the dependency on the network market could drive the peasants into part-time occupations and contribute to the need to migrate for labour. Wolf also cited conditions that strengthened the prevalence of the nuclear family above the extended family. The labour process itself did not necessitate the existence of a greater cooperative labour force over a longer period of time. Land scarcity and declining productivity might have created tensions within the group and contributed to their dissolving into smaller units. Finally, land scarcity and declining productivity might have increased the need for labour migration which would have transformed the larger units into smaller units as well. Wolf also offered explanations for the pre-eminent role of the father in the families. His position was strong because he contributed significantly to the household income and played an important role in social and ceremonial life. 3. The ecology, society and culture of pre-statal cereal producers In “Femmes, greniers et capitaux”, Meillassoux was not concerned with peasants in the strict sense. He dealt with agriculturers who form a segmentary society and are thus not subject to an elite. Moreover, his agriculturers only produce cereals. This second criterion reduces the scope of his category even further. Nevertheless, Meillassoux thought of his cereal-producing agriculturers as historical forerunners to peasants, as well as to the domestic units of our capitalist era (1975: 14). To a certain degree, one can thus apply his ideas about cereal-producing agriculturers to peasant societies. This seems all the more legitimate as he used his ideas about pre-statal cereal producers to elucidate the articulation of the economy and the society of cereal producers in South Africa with the South African capitalist economy in the second part of his book.

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a) Mode of production More stringently than Wolf, Meillassoux applied Marxist ideas to the analysis of agriculturers. He contended that the mode of production that is prevalent in a given society largely determines the societal structures at large.6 Meillassoux dubbed the mode of production of his cereal producing agriculturists domestic mode of production. The cultivators in a domestic economy use land and simple tools as a means of production. They invest effort into the land and benefit from the produce only after a prolonged period of work. Hence, they have an incentive to stay together for a longer period of time, and so they form more permanent groups and their marriages are also more stable than, for instance, those among hunters and gatherers. As agricultural work benefits from children’s labour, the producers have an economic interest in having children. Correspondingly, they consider relations of filiation important as these define who can rightfully benefit from the children’s present and future labour. At the same time, cereal-producing agriculturists are productive enough to support a larger group from harvest to harvest. Accordingly, a domestic unit comprises three generations, those who are productive, those who are not yet productive (the youngest) and those who are not productive anymore (the oldest) (1975: 58–71). To what extent does this analysis pertain to the situation in Kimoram? In line with Meillassoux’s ideas, cultivators in Kimoram used land and simple tools as a means of production. They also initially invested effort into the land and benefitted from the produce later – after a prolonged period of work. They also formed more permanent groups. Agricultural work benefitted from children’s work and the producers had an economic interest in their children. Very much in line with Meillassoux’s arguments, relations of filiation were indeed important for the villagers. In contrast to Meillassoux’s arguments, however, marriages were not very stable among the villagers of Kimoram7, although I do not know if they were more stable than among hunters and gatherers. Moreover, many economic units were not productive enough to support the group of producers over the period until the next production process. Consequently, a domestic unit in Kimoram normally only comprised three generations over a limited period of time. If a son was old enough, he would establish his own household. Nevertheless, the three generations maintained ties of solidarity amongst each other. The younger ones still had to feed their parents when they were old.

6 In order to define the mode of production, Meillassoux first ascertained who were the producers, what were their means of production, which relations were established between the producer and his means of production, and which social relations were established between the producers themselves as a necessary pre-condition for production (1975: 11). 7 Cf. Hill (1972: 226): “Divorce is extremely common in Hausaland generally; . . .”.

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b) Kinship reckoning, the exchange of women and the desire for children Meillassoux carried on with his argument. Domestic units not only have to resolve their production problems, but also to organise reproduction. The domestic units thus have to exchange either men or women. Exchanging women has more advantages as one man would suffice to guarantee the continuity of the group. Exchanging women, however, is more conflict-prone than exchanging men. This system of exchange thus necessitates the existence of mediating institutions like councils of elders to prevent conflicts from arising. Cereal production is, however, productive enough to support such institutions. When women are exchanged and men form the core of the group, the chosen mode of kinship reckoning is patrilineal (1975: 71–81). I will now relate Meillassoux’s argument to the situation in Kimoram. The villagers do not have corporate unilineal descent groups and kinship reckoning in Kimoram is cognatic. Yet, as land passes from father to son and sons live in their father’s vicinity, we find clusters of kinsmen who are linked mainly via patrilineal ties. These form political or interest groups in the village but they do not form corporate groups that hold common land or exchange women. As men mostly remain in their local area, it is women who move in and out. There is thus some similarity to the situation described by Meillassoux. However, marriage partners are not exchanged between unilateral kinship groups, as these do not exist in Kimoram. Correspondingly, authority over the choice of marriage partners is not in the hands of a descent group, but assigned to parents, uncles, aunts and the marriage partners themselves. The idea of exchanging women does not seem to exist either. However, if problems arise in arranging marriages or in the course of married life, mediating institutions might become involved. The kinsmen of each marriage partner play their role in these processes, and appeals can also be made to the Imam, the masu gari or the chef de canton in case of conflict. Meillassoux further stated that high rates of mortality and illness undermine the groups’ ability to produce. They thus strive to have more members than they actually need for the production process itself. This also corresponded to the situation in Kimoram. In Kimoram, having a great number of able-bodied male members improved a household’s economic situation and, correspondingly, the villagers in Kimoram generally wanted to have many children. c) Authority and power Meillassoux continued his analysis. The harvest is stored in granaries. The elders control the harvest and redistribute it within the group. Moreover, the elders distribute the seed and the food for the younger ones each year. The younger ones

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are thus continuously indebted towards the older ones and pay back their debts through their work. The older generation wields authority over the younger generation by controlling the means of production and keeping the younger generation in debt. The elder generation further strengthens its authority by controlling the exchange of women and through the institution of exogamy, which prevents the younger ones from finding marriage partners within their own group and makes them dependent upon their elders who are in control of the outside relations of the group (1975: 66–78). In accordance with Meillassoux’s analysis, the elders in Kimoram controlled the harvest and had the right to choose their children’s marriage partners. There was also a strong sense of moral obligation towards the elder generation, epitomised in the value of obedience. At the same time, the fathers in Kimoram did not control the material resources for as long a time as the fathers in Meillassoux’s analysis. A son in Kimoram did sooner or later establish his own household, dispose of his own seeds and food, and paid for his own marriages. The older ones were then partly deprived of the material means of wielding power and could only wield power over the younger ones on the basis of moral obligations or mutual emotional bonds. By and large, the elders’ authority in Kimoram was much weaker than that of the elders in Meillassoux’s account. (However, Meillassoux recognised the partial independence of the younger men, as we have seen it in Kimoram. Young men, he explained, depend on their elders for obtaining a wife who then enables them to become independent. This initially translates into the younger men’s submission. The younger ones have to follow strict rules of obedience; they lack control of the produce of their labour and do not participate in the political process. This often creates tensions between the younger men and their elders. These tensions might later be resolved through segmentation. Younger men then slowly develop into older men, replacing them and wielding authority themselves (1975: 121–6).)

d) Commensality and adoptive practices Meillassoux further argued that the number of members of a domestic unit would not always match its resources. Differences between economic units are then levelled out through a variety of institutions. Commensality, for instance, levels out resources. Adoptive practices or the mobility of individuals levels out differences in the number of dependants. Systems of classificatory kinship facilitate these practices (1975: 93–6). As we have seen with Musa’s kinship group, commensality also existed in Kimoram. Similarly, practices of adoption, fosterage or temporary child-lending levelled out a lack or a surplus in available labour. Balkisa’s affiliation to Musa’s household was a case in point.

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e) The status of women Among cereal cultivators, Meillassoux argued, men are interested in women because of their reproductive capacities. As women are objects of exchange, they are deprived of rights over their progeny. Correspondingly, they are kept in a position of submission towards men. Men exploit women by benefiting from women’s labour and from their procreative capacities. In some societies, exploitation is mitigated by according to women the right to use a plot of land for their own purposes (1975: 116–21). What Meillassoux wrote partly also held for the villagers in Kimoram. As we have seen with Musa, he was also interested in his wife because of her reproductive capacities. Moreover, although women were not considered to be objects of exchange, they were nevertheless accorded hardly any rights over their progeny. Bintu was thus brought to Musa’s household after having been separated from her mother. It therefore seems possible to argue that women were exploited with respect to their reproductive capacities in Kimoram. It was more difficult to argue, however, that they were also exploited with respect to their labour. Their labour did not give them an equal right over the harvest, although the harvest also partly depended on their labour in the household. This was partly balanced, however, by their right to be fed by their husband. When there was a deficit, their right to be fed by the husband and their control over the produce from their own plot of land might even put them into a position of advantage towards their husbands. f) Articulation of modes of production Meillassoux’s ideas about the articulation of the domestic mode of production and the capitalist economy are also of interest in the present context. Meillassoux wrote that the domestic mode of production is a historical construction that does not exist as such anymore. Drawing on examples from South Africa, however, he also spoke about the articulation of the domestic mode of production with the capitalist mode of production through migration. He thus made it implicitly clear that many of the features of the domestic economy still persisted under the influence of states, the market, trade and migration. Unfortunately, he did not explain which of the features would persist under these conditions. According to Meillassoux, migrant workers can be integrated into the capitalist economy in three ways: firstly, as workers who receive a salary that covers their own means of subsistence as well as some social protection through insurances (“salaire direct et indirect”), secondly, as workers who just receive enough to feed themselves and reproduce their own labour force only, thirdly, as workers who do not even receive enough to sustain themselves (1975: 150–7).

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He stated that migrant labourers in South Africa rarely received a salary that enabled them to sustain themselves and their families, including the younger and the older generation. He thus concluded that the domestic economy would subsidise the capitalist enterprises, if part of the salary did not enable the worker to sustain his family or even himself (1975: 165–174). If we come back to the villagers’ situation and consider Malam Isa’s bakery as a capitalist venture, we see that the villagers were not integrated into the capitalist system as labourers, but rather were entrepreneurs in the informal sector. At the same time, they did not subsidise Isa’s enterprise. Isa provided them with accommodation and they thus saved part of their expenses in Nimari. In exchange for that, the villagers exclusively sold Isa’s bread. The villagers benefitted from this agreement, as they would otherwise have had to find accommodation elsewhere. At the same time, they would still have to buy bread from other bakeries at the same price if they did not buy it from Isa as Isa sold his bread for the same price as the other bakeries. In other words, they did not transfer value from their own pockets to the bakery. In addition, Meillassoux stated that the articulation of the domestic economy with the capitalist economy would – in the long run – undermine the viability of the domestic economy. Furthermore, he argued that as migrant workers would not have a stable existence in the capitalist economy, they would maintain their relations to the rural areas. They would make “sociological investments” in their home communities; they would construct, for instance, village mosques. The rural workers would also try to invest into economic projects that exist outside of their home communities and slowly become strangers to their home communities (1975: 192–9). Yet, this did not seem to hold true for the situation in Kimoram. g) Values In contrast to Redfield, Meillassoux did not discuss the question of peasant attitudes and values explicitly. Meillassoux’s theory does, however, imply certain value orientations. Agriculturers in a domestic economy assign priority to relations of filiation, they consider patrilineal links to be more important than matrilineal links, they value cohesion within the economic unit, they desire numerical strength for their own group, they consider the younger generation’s obedience towards the elder generation to be good, they bestow privileges on men, not on women, they also maintain their affiliation to their home community and they value physical strength. Returning to Kimoram, we can see that these value orientations also largely apply to Musa and the villagers. (I will come back to this point later when I discuss the possible influence of Islam on Musa’s living practices in chapters G. III. and G. IV.) In summary, the situation Meillassoux described is similar to but does not coincide with the situation in Kimoram. If one assumes that Meillassoux’s attempt

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at historical reconstruction is accurate, this similarity might be read as a consequence of the transformation of the original situation. Land and simple tools were the major means of production in Kimoram and the domestic unit defined the relations of production. These original driving forces that structured the early agriculturers’ society would still partly have been effective in Kimoram then and would partly have moulded society. Their impact on social structures would be reflected in the similarities between present society in Kimoram and the reconstructed original state. To cite some examples from above, the villagers formed, for instance, more permanent groups than hunters and gatherers, they had an economic interest in their children, they considered relations of filiation to be important, and they strived for having more members in their domestic units than they actually needed for the production process itself. The elders controlled the harvest and had the right to choose their children’s marriage partners, and the value orientations that Meillassoux attributed to his agriculturers largely applied to these villagers, too. At the same time, there were differences between the situation in Kimoram and society as Meillassoux depicts it. In contrast to Meillassoux’s arguments, marriages were not stable among the villagers. The villagers did not have corporate unilineal descent groups that held land or exchanged women; kinship reckoning was cognatic; authority over the choice of marriage partners devolved upon parents, uncles, aunts and the marriage partners themselves, men did not strictly exploit women’s labour, etc. Moreover, the way the village economy interacted with the capitalist system differed from the way Meillassoux described it. Society in Kimoram would thus possibly have undergone a transformation. The corporate kinship groups, for instance, would have lost some of their functions and could not have organised reproduction anymore. A system that allocates the right to choose marriage partners to the elder generation of unilineal descent groups would have been replaced by a system that concentrated power in marriage arrangements in the hands of the elders of the marriage partners, etc. Meillassoux did not discuss the factors that would have moved society in this direction. I am not in a position to replace him and think this issue through from a strictly systemic and neo-Marxist point of view. However, the market, the state and desertification would be factors that would have to be taken into consideration. Integration into network markets might have created larger differences between the income levels of different households and thus have undermined solidarity (cf. Scott 1976). Dependency on network markets might have been a major factor in making labour migration necessary (cf. Wolf 1966). Land scarcity and declining productivity might have created tensions within the larger domestic units and might have split them up (Wolf 1966). The colonial pax gallica might have lessened cohesion in the village as cooperation for security purposes had become unnecessary (cf. Spittler 1977, cf. Balandier 1955).

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4. Cultural models For Redfield, Wolf and Meillassoux the idea of social structure was basic. They also referred to cultural understanding, but the two latter did not take up culture as a theme of its own. However, Gudeman and Rivera shifted their focus of interest onto the interpretations Colombian peasants have of their world. One cultural model as Colombian peasants have it, for instance, defines the relationship between God, the earth, food, man and ownership. According to rural Colombians, God created the earth and supplied it with strength. The earth’s strength is contained in the harvest and enables man to live. Man thus takes his strength from the land and expends it in his work that enables the land to provide new strength via a new harvest (1990: 18–27). These ideas also inform the Colombian peasants’ understanding of ownership. Whoever provides the strength for work, for instance, through providing food for workers, owns the results of their work (1990: 29). Gudeman and Rivera also investigated into the peasants’ understandings of the Colombian domestic economy. The peasants talk metaphorically about the domestic economy. They refer to a rural economic group as a house. Its wealth is said to be its foundation or base. It is the house’s project to maintain and augment the base. Goods produced by the house are to be kept “inside”. When they are sold, they pass “from the inside to the outside”, and when they are acquired, they come “from the outside to the inside” (1990: 39–42). Money is used as a means of transfer, part of the base that leaves the house is converted into money and the money is then re-converted into a new part of the base. Part of the base is, however, also processed within the house; it changes its form but is kept as a part of the base (1990: 44). Gudeman and Rivera also discussed how the Colombian peasants manage their households over the year. The peasants set a part of the harvest aside to be used as seed in the next agricultural period, then they earmark one part for consumption. Next, they set one part aside that is to be fed to their animals, and the rest is to be sold on the market (1990: 119). The part of the harvest that is fed to animals is hoarded in them (1990: 70). This practice serves to keep the products “inside the doors” (1990: 160). Moreover, Gudeman and Rivera found out that the economic units unknowingly “subsidize” the costs for the production of market goods through homeproduced materials. The work and the food needed for the production of onions, for instance, are not reflected in the price the peasants demand for onions (1990: 157). The peasants calculate in the following way: “If we inquired about the production of domestic crops, they would tell us about seed ratios, land areas used, and the amount of labor required; but if we talked about “profit”, they would say, “We don’t keep accounts of that.” In contrast, when we asked about market crops, the rural folk could and would tell us about

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money costs and revenues, adding that a profit was seldom made. But when we then asked about the domestic labor or foodstuffs that went into the cash crops, they answered again, “We don’t keep accounts of that, they are a house expenditure.” (1990: 158–9)

Thus, Gudeman and Rivera discussed themes that were also discussed by the other authors, the domestic unit, the goods owned by the domestic unit, strategies of building up wealth, rules of ownership, or market exchange. In any of these issues, cultural elements play a constitutive role. However, Redfield, Wolf and Meillassoux dealt with these cultural elements in a way that is different from Gudeman and Rivera’s. Redfield, Wolf or Meillassoux mentioned cultural elements in the interactional context in which they appeared and did not put them together into larger models. In contrast to these authors, Gudeman and Rivera brought together different elements of knowledge and integrated them into cultural models. Even though putting elements of knowledge together to form a unified model is a worthwhile effort to pursue, a caveat is still necessary. Firstly, as Gudeman and Rivera gained their knowledge about the peasants’ interpretations from conversations with them and hardly from participant observation, they could not know which ideas were relevant in which context of action. Implicitly, Gudeman and Rivera seemed to assume that knowledge and beliefs were held by the actors, believed in and translated into action. Even though it is a useful procedure to contrive cultural models, it would still have been equally useful to show that they serve as a basis or foundation for action. This is a theoretical point, the non-observance of which produces inconsistency in Gudeman and Rivera’s book itself. Gudeman and Rivera describe, for instance, the emic understanding of ownership. The product of work is owned by the person who provides the food that sustains the working force (1990: 29). Yet, later in their book they talk about share-cropping arrangements, whereby the owner of the field can claim part of the product, although he has not provided a working force or food to the labour process (1990: 125–7). There is thus an inconsistency between the peasants’ cultural model and their practices that the authors do not endeavour to resolve. Secondly, it is far from clear whether a people’s world view, construed on the basis of conversational data alone, constitutes such a coherent whole. In their everyday activities, people might rather draw on a variety of models which might resemble each other but do not necessarily form consistent wholes if put together. Proceeding like Redfield, Wolf or Meillassoux therefore still has the advantage of presenting knowledge in its practical context, relating it to the actors and allowing for the possibility of inconsistencies in the actors’ knowledge systems. Nevertheless, by devoting much attention to the peasants’ knowledge systems, Gudeman and Rivera point at the importance of cultural models and at the knowledge base of peasant action. Moreover, they add some analytical dimensions to the question of the peasants’ knowledge that have gone unnoticed by the

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other authors in this chapter. They point, for instance, at peasants’ ideas about managing a household economically. Wolf, for instance, only touched on this issue when he wrote about the different forms of funds (1966: 6–10), but did not look at it in further detail. What is the relationship of Gudeman and Rivera’s writings to the villagers of Kimoram and to Musa then, and do they contribute to an explanation of Musa’s life? Evidently, the perception of things and the performance of actions among the villagers are mediated through interpretations or knowledge. Musa believed, for instance, in God and he trusted in him when he considered the future. Musa knew that women feared that their husbands might marry a second wife. I could thus have tried to conceive Musa’s cultural model of the role of God in life or his cultural model of marriage. However, although it might have been a worthwhile endeavour, this was not my approach.8 So I cannot directly compare the Colombian peasants’ models with the villagers’ or Musa’s. At the same time, the models the Colombian peasants hold do not seem to match Musa’s models or those of the villagers in Kimoram. For instance, they didn’t speak about ownership in the Colombian peasants’ terms, nor about the domestic economy. When I dealt with Musa’s knowledge, I was closer to the other authors’ approach. I often mentioned Musa’s knowledge in the (inter-)actional context from which I had retrieved it. In contrast to Gudeman and Rivera’s de-contextualizing approach, this approach enabled me – in some instances – to characterize Musa’s relationship to his knowledge. Some knowledge, for instance, gained in plausibility for Musa, as it was tied closely to his social identity (D. VIII. 16. a)). Different stocks of knowledge became relevant when Musa sold tea to the traders on Nimari market and to the young car washers on the motor park of Nimari (D. VII. 11.). When Musa rationalized his life-project, he replaced old stocks of knowledge with new ones (E. IV.). But Gudeman and Rivera also introduced another point into the discussion. They did not search for explanations for the existence of the Colombian peasants’ models in the social structures in which these models are embedded. In their view, these models and the corresponding social practices rested on a shared cultural legacy. As they saw it, the practices and cultural models derive, at least partly, from ancient Europe and were brought to Colombia by Spanish settlers (1990: 1–2). This opens up another perspective of the villagers and of Musa. This perspective becomes even more plausible if one comes back to Redfield’s discussion of peasant attitudes and values. As his difficulty to pin down peasant attitudes and values shows, it seems as if peasant social structures could accommodate a wide variety of cultural elements. Knowledge, values and social prac8 I followed up this approach for the emic model of plant growth in a different publication (Heiss, 2001). For cultural models among Hausa in the political sphere, see Spittler (1978).

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tices can thus be “imported”, reshuffled and integrated into local society and culture. We are also reminded here of Redfield and Wolf who pointed out that peasants always interact intellectually with the upper class. Of course, Gudeman and Rivera did not provide us with cultural models that could historically have influenced those of the Sahel nor did they develop a theory of the mechanisms that might underlie such transfers. In summary, going beyond what the other authors have already contributed to the subject, Gudeman and Rivera pointed at cultural models as foundations or elements of behaviour. Both authors also pointed at some aspects of peasant societies that other authors had neglected, including, for instance, peasants ideas about managing a household economically. At the same time, Gudeman and Rivera did not explain the features of peasant culture and society by the functioning of peasant social systems, but by a model of cultural transfer and legacy. Given the long history of Islam in the region, one might assume, that Islam qualifies as a major factor here. 5. The ‘death’ of the peasantry Michael Kearney worked in a Mixtec village. His field subjects did not seamlessly fall under the ‘classical’ notion of a peasant. The villagers pursue agricultural work in their village, but agricultural work provides only a minor part of their income. Moreover, the Mixtecs are not strictly tied to a location. They rather live in five different settings, firstly, in the village community at home, secondly, in workplaces organised by agri-business, thirdly, in shanty towns in Mexican cities, fourthly, in the informal sector on both sides of the MexicanAmerican border, fifthly, as small merchants, moneylenders, entrepreneurs in cities and larger towns (1996: 174). Kearney thus spoke of them as ‘post-peasants’. Kearney’s post-peasants still consider their home town to be the focal point of their life, but they have businesses and houses elsewhere and they spend a substantial part of their lives in other places. In each of these five settings, Kearney’s post-peasants are involved in exchange relations that put them at a disadvantage. The farm labourers in agri-business, for instance, work hard but only receive low wages. In response to this, the Mixtecs tried to improve their lot in each of these settings, be it through community petitions to government agencies or through the formation of trade unions. All of these attempts, however, failed. In reaction to this, the Mixtecs formed an ethnic organisation that united the subaltern Mixtecs in the different settings, and served to define and defend their interests. Their ethnic organisations also took advantage of the new intellectual environment that dealt with human rights and with environmental problems to pursue their interests: “Ethnicity is the common fabric of this new inclusive identity, and human rights constitute the common political issue that can mobilize Mixtecs and non-Mixtecs in the defense of Mixtecs throughout their diaspora. (1996: 185)”

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Kearney then argued that the theoretical tools used to describe and analyse peasants are no longer appropriate to analyse post-peasants. According to Kearney, the locally bounded communities that have characterized the past have developed into transnational communities. The villagers still form a community, but this community now spreads across national borders. Kearney proposes to regard the social structure of transnational communities as networks. Within this network, people move around as do money, services, information and so on. These networks can extend themselves without limit and they are without formal internal structure (1996: 125). Furthermore, Kearney argued that post-peasants often partake in production processes that are detached from specific places and that are manned by people who are strangers to each other. Orange picking, for instance, always takes place in different locations and the new labourers are recruited, time and again. Kearney called such places hyperspaces (1996: 118). According to Kearney, post-peasants move in and out from different social spaces and thereby adopt the contextually appropriate identity or way of being (1996: 168). They are, for instance, moneylenders, orange pickers, youths, adults, consumers of pop culture, of different religious persuasions, with different sexual orientations, etc. “. . . the kinds of categorical migrants . . . move in and out of multiple niches and are therefore more correctly called polybians (poly, many). The polybian is rather like a chameleon, which can adjust its colour to match that of its immediate environment. But unlike such protective coloration, which is but skin-deep, polybians adapt their being to different modes of existence as they opportunistically move in and out of different living spaces.” (1996: 141)

Kearney called post-peasants “slippery creatures” and likened their identities to “hats one puts on and takes off according to the job at the moment” (1996: 147). Kearney also reflected on the post-peasants’ position in wider society. In the U.S., the post-peasants are part of a class society within which they form the lower stratum as workers, street vendors or as the unemployed. Only a comparatively small amount of economic value accrues to them. However, they transform their income into a variety of other values. For instance, they acquire consumer goods, invest money into more permanent structures like houses or build up intellectual capacities by sending their children to school. Yet, the diversity of forms of capital that accrue to them barely conceals their inferior economic position. In Kearney’s theory, the post-peasants still possess a disadvantageous economic position, but it is hidden behind other forms of value (1996: 151–69). What is the relationship of Kearney’s ideas to the villagers of Kimoram and to Musa then, and does it contribute to an explanation of Musa’s life? Kearney took a critical stance towards the authors discussed so far. He contended that peasants, as defined by Redfield or Wolf, hardly exist anymore. Unfortunately, Kearney

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did not provide ample evidence for his hypothesis. He based his conclusion exclusively on his observations of the Mixtecs. However, in contrast to Kearney’s thesis, we have seen that the classical definition of peasants does in fact apply quite well to the villagers of Kimoram. In other words, the villagers in Kimoram and Musa differed from Kearney’s post-peasants in most respects. They did not stay abroad for a substantial period of their lives, but engaged in temporary migration and returned home every year. Similarly, they did not form a transnational community. With rare exceptions, the movement back and forth between Niger and Nigeria did not lead to a permanent or longer-lasting settlement of villagers from the region around Kimoram in other regions. They did not establish organisations in order to influence other actors like the government. At the same time, it does not seem to be appropriate to speak about the community of villagers in Niger and Nigeria in terms of a network without a formal internal structure. Using the term ‘network’ in this sense creates the impression that the members of the network are comparatively free to forge their social relations. In a way, it is always true to conceive of a set of people who maintain relations with each other as a kind of network. In this sense, the villagers in Kimoram and in Nigeria did form a network. However, we have seen that the labour migrants in Nimari drew on the social structures that they knew from Kimoram. Even though there was also a greater degree of freedom in forging mutual relations among the labour migrants in Nimari than there was at home, they still drew, for instance, on their sense of belonging to a common village and on the age structure. Similarly, the idea of hyperspaces does not pertain to the situation of the villagers. They returned to the same places and knew the people there. Moreover, we have seen that the villagers of Kimoram did not have an identity that was as flexible as that which Kearney had in mind. When they moved from a peasant way of life to life as a labour migrant they maintained their subsistence orientation (Redfield 1956: 31, Wolf 1966: 2–4), their desire for autonomy (Wolf 1966: 91, cf. Heiss 2003: 136–7), the importance of generational structure (Meillassoux 1975), etc. Furthermore, the villagers were not as deeply integrated into modern statehood, into the capitalist system or into a consumer culture as Kearney’s Mixtecs were. The state in Niger extracted value from the peasants and guaranteed security, but the villagers did not receive benefits from the state. Hence, the state in Niger was not modern in its full sense. Moreover, the villagers from Kimoram did not engage in politics as an interest group. Finally, the villagers could not turn the small amount of money which they earned in Nimari into other forms of value. They might buy a new shirt or sun-glasses or go to the cinema. Yet they needed the majority of their income to feed their families. Kearney explained the Mixtecs’ situation as a result of societal transformations that were due to globalization and transnationalisation (1996: 117). In the wake of these processes, the spaces that had been divided into city and country transformed into “high density population centres” (1996: 117), hyperspaces came

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into existence (1996: 118), people became “polybians”, migration became “multipolar with complex flows among the poles” (1996: 122), communities unbounded (1996: 123), persons, things, values, signs, and information flowed through networks (1996: 124). However, globalisation and transnationalisation had not, it seemed, had a great impact on Kimoram so far. The Sahel has, of course, been a region that had been connected to other parts of the world through the mobility of people, goods and symbols for centuries. The slave trade, the production of ostrich feathers for European courts, the spread of Islam, colonialism, labour migration, the introduction of schools are all cases in point (cf. Dunbar 1971, Fuglestad 1983). However, the integration of the region with other regions seemed not to have been dense enough to bring about the phenomena Kearney spoke about. In summary, Kearney investigated into the livelihoods of Mexican farmers. He found that they had been widely influenced by processes of globalisation. Due to this process, they were no longer peasants, but post-peasants, and played their role in a wider and more encompassing economic and social system. However, the peasants in Kimoram did not participate to the same extent in these flows of people, goods and symbols, and many of the social phenomena that are characteristic of globalised communities did not pertain to them.

6. Summary Kimoram proved to be a rather ideal-typical example of a peasant village and Musa emerged as a rather “classical” peasant. The way the villagers cultivated their fields comes closest to what Wolf defined as sectorial fallowing systems. The villagers participated in network markets, etc. However, the authors not only categorised peasant societies, they also, at least in part, tried to explain the features they attributed to these societies. They offered a variety of explanations. If Meillassoux’s line of argument is valid, some of the features that pertained to Musa’s life and the villagers can be put down to the fact that land and simple tools were the principal means of production and that the domestic unit defined the relations of production. Meillassoux might attribute the following features to this basic mode of organising the economy: The existence of more permanent groups, the economic interest in children, the importance of relations of filiation, the desire for more members in the domestic units than were needed for the production process itself, the elders’ control over the harvest and their right to choose their children’s marriage partners, the strong sense of moral obligation towards the elder generation, the importance of mediating institutions in the resolution of marital problems, men’s interest in their wives’ reproductive capacities, women’s deprivation of possible rights over their progeny and a specific value orientation that corresponds to these social phenomena (see G. I. 3. g)).

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Wolf also offered explanations for a variety of aspects of Musa’s and the villagers’ lives. He put the prevalence of part-time occupations and the need to migrate for labour down to the villagers’ dependency on network markets and to the fluctuations in prices. Wolf also cited conditions that strengthened the prevalence of the nuclear family over and above the extended family. Thus, the labour process itself did not necessitate the existence of a greater cooperative labour force over a longer period of time. Moreover, land scarcity and declining productivity might have created tensions within the group. Finally, land scarcity and declining productivity might have increased the need for labour migration. Wolf also offered explanations for the pre-eminent role of the father in the families. His position was strong because he contributed significantly to the household income and played an important role in social and ceremonial life. However, it has equally become clear that other factors which Wolf and Meillassoux did not expand upon have also influenced Musa’s and the villagers’ lives. The market, the state and desertification would be factors which would need to be taken into consideration. Processes of globalisation and transnationalisation that would reshape the social structures in Kimoram were clearly visible in the village economy and culture, but appear to have exerted only little influence on local society. Besides pointing at the importance of cultural models, Gudeman and Rivera also chose a different mode of explanation for the features of peasant culture and society. They explained aspects of the Colombian peasants’ lives by way of cultural transfer and legacy. There are, of course, many possible origins for cultural models. As Gudeman and Rivera argued, peasants can bring these ideas with them when they migrate (for another example see Atran et al. 2002). They might, however, also spread among a peasant population through modern media or through the “long arm” of multinational business organisations. As Kimoram was, however, a peasant village in the “classical” sense, we were also reminded of Redfield who emphasized the relations between peasants and the elite for the transfer of ideas and values into peasant society. However, we were not able to retrieve information from Gudeman and Rivera about cultural ideas that might have influenced Musa’s and the villagers’ ideas and values. Yet, given the long history of Islam in the region, Islam qualifies as a major factor here.

II. Individuals in Peasant Studies The literature on peasants thus offers some possible explanations for features of Musa’s life. One can, of course, also ask if this study contributes to the study of peasant society. There are some aspects to Musa’s life which the literature on peasant societies does not pay much attention to. Among these are, for instance, the role of material goods in the management of social relations, the processes of decision-making and the everyday skills which peasants need to live their life.

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Similarly, none of the above-mentioned authors appear to have addressed aspects of the mutual affection, identification and care for each other that existed among the members of Musa’s family. The “softer” parts of peasant family life did not seem to rouse these authors’ interest. They also did not inquire into the intersection between the religious and the economic spheres in peasant societies, an aspect of Musa’s life to which I will come back in chapter G. IV. There is one further point to be mentioned. In Wolf ’s or Meillassoux’s view, peasants are economic, social, political and religious beings and they strive for economic survival. Meillassoux also ascribes to his agriculturers a keen desire for power that is based on the ownership of means of production and translates into coercion, conflict and ideology. Kearney presents us with an image of actors who engage in a wide variety of activities. In Gudeman and Rivera’s account, peasants appear as intellectually interested and competent people. However, all these authors approach their peasants from a “generalising” point of view. They are only interested in those features which many representatives of the peasantry have. Peasants, it seems, are schematic beings, the sum total of a number of general features which they have in common with all others. As a corollary of that, the authors also lose sight of the fact that peasants pursue individual life projects. This was, however, different with Musa. One rather has to search in fiction and in poetry to find a representation of peasants as actors who pursue individual life projects. In Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (1975), for instance, we encounter the novel’s hero Okonkwo who pursues such a life project, strives hard for economic success and for a pre-eminent position in his village.

III. Islam in the Region In view of finding explanations for Musa’s life, I will now relate the data from chapter E to the literature on Islam. There are two problems involved here, however. Firstly, Islam is a global phenomenon, but it takes on very different forms in different settings (Launay 1992). As a corollary of that, Islam could only shape Musa’s life and behaviour as the local variety that was or had been in place in those parts of Niger and Nigeria in which Musa and his ancestors had been living.9 Secondly, literature on the local variety of Islam is scarce. Even though there is some literature on religion among the elite, particularly on brotherhoods, there are hardly any writings on Islam among peasants in the region. Notwithstanding that, I will try to deal with this issue. This is, as far as I can see, possible nevertheless because the teaching of Islam displays some uniformity throughout West Africa and because some sources are indeed available. I will proceed as follows. Firstly, I will give an overview of the relevant literature. Secondly, I will try to make the idea plausible that in the region Islam prob9

I thank Mahir Saul for having sensitized me to this point.

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ably spread from spheres of higher Islamic learning to spheres of lower Islamic learning, namely the Islamic learning in the rural village. Thirdly, I will examine a printed document and two sermons from audio cassettes which represent the Islamic learning on an upper level and relate their contents to Musa’s thinking and behaviour. I thus want to identify those parts of Musa’s thinking and behaviour that might have been influenced by the local variety of Islam as taught on the upper level. Fourthly, I conclude – albeit with some caution – that Islamic scholarship did indeed interact with and exert some influence on Musa’s ontology, value orientation and behaviour. In chapter G. IV. I try to further qualify the relationship between the ideology of the Muslim scholars and Musa’s thinking and behaviour and contend that Musa’s value-orientation might better be explained by socio-structural arguments than by religious influence. 1. Lower and higher levels of learning The learning of Qur’anic students in West Africa follows a certain trajectory. Brigaglia (2009) describes this trajectory for Kano, Fortier (1997) for Mauritania. Both authors differentiate between an elementary level of learning and a higher level of learning. According to Brigaglia (2009), the main concern on the elementary level is to learn the “religious markers”, e. g. the performance of prayers, and to learn the Qur’an by rote. On the higher level, the students search for more scholarly knowledge. They study Maliki law, Arabic literature and grammar, Ashari theology, Sufism, they learn how to use Islamic knowledge for practical and esoteric purposes and, as the climax of their educational path, they engage in the study of tafsir. Tafsir is the practice of oral Qur’anic exegesis. In performing tafsir, a Qur’anic scholar translates and interprets the Qur’an to a lay audience. He recites passages from the Qur’an in Arabic, translates them into a language understood by his lay audience and comments on these passages. Fortier (1997) paints a similar picture for Mauritania.10 By and large, Brigaglia and Fortier present us with an idea of Islamic scholarship that begins with the recitation of the Qur’an and knowledge of ritual duties, which then becomes more and more diversified, ultimately ending with the study of Islamic literature and the art of tafsir. This process of learning stretches over a long period of time. According to Brigaglia, students of Islam attend the elementary level before puberty, the higher level after puberty and, if they carry on with

10 In Mauritania, the same distinction is made between a lower and a higher level of Islamic learning (1997: 88). In the beginning, the students learn about their religious duties, prayer, fasting and pilgrimage, and memorize the Qur’an. In some regions of Mauritania, students have to memorize the entire Qur’an before they deal with other texts (1997: 91). In other regions, however, they already study other texts before they have memorized the entire Qur’an.

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their studies for a prolonged period of time, reach the level of studying tafsir at the age of 40 (2009: 343–4). The organisational features of the learning process are different for the lower and the higher levels. According to Brigaglia, the students acquire their elementary education in “ordinary” Qur’anic schools (2009: 346). Fortier (1997) describes the learning process on this level in some detail. A teacher assembles his students (1997: 100) and teaches them how to read parts of the Qur’an aloud, then how to write passages, finally how to memorize and properly recite it. In order to facilitate the task, the Qur’an is divided into 60 sections, each of which is further divided into eight sub-sections. The students start with the shorter suras from the end of the Qur’an. The main instrument of learning at this stage is the wooden plate. A teacher might assemble his students for teaching at specific times of the day (1997: 92). However, teaching can also be done informally, for instance, when a student recites in front of his teacher who is carrying out his work as a craftsman at the same time. Whereas, according to Brigaglia, the students acquire their elementary education in “ordinary” Qur’anic schools (2009: 346), they undergo higher education in specialized schools, where the students follow certain “masters” and search for knowledge under their guidance. However, neither Brigaglia nor Fortier explains how teaching is performed at the higher level, but Fortier mentions that students of the highest level may also work in libraries (1997: 89). The accounts of Islamic education, as they have been provided by Brigaglia and Fortier, strongly resemble each other. Fortier thus appears to be correct when she says “La forme de cet enseignement dans la société maure est à peu près identique à celle des autres sociétés musulmanes” (1997: 85). The situation depicted by Brigaglia and by Fortier resembles the situation in Kimoram. In Kimoram, learning was done within the framework of the Qur’anic school and under the guidance of an Islamic teacher, and learning mainly proceeded at the elementary level. The students’ main preoccupation was learning the Qur’an by rote as well as some basic texts. Although students and teachers from different villages connected with each other through the peripatetic tradition, it seemed to be difficult for rural students to go far on the path of Islamic learning if they did not have the financial support to withdraw from agriculture and to move to the city where they could carry on studying in specialized institutions or under the guidance of more advanced scholars. This seemed hardly to have happened and I have only heard of one such case in Samia. 2. Sufi brotherhoods What aroused much more interest among students of West African Islam than the practices of learning by the common populace, are the Islamic Sufi brotherhoods in the region. They occupy such a central position in the literature that the

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texts that deal with them arouse the impression that the religious life and thinking of brotherhoods corresponds to religious life and thinking in the region.11 A brotherhood is an organisation at the peak of which is a sheikh. Adherence to a brotherhood implies accepting the sheikh as one’s spiritual guide. In the course of attracting more and more members, a brotherhood may also develop intermediate positions in its internal hierarchy and establish regional branches. A brotherhood is defined by a specific devotional practice, the most important part of which is the wird. The wird is a ritual prayer that is specific to the brotherhood. Teachers pass on the wird to learners. The brotherhood’s devotional practice is supposed to enable the practitioner to reach a personal religious experience (Vikør 2000: 441). Practitioners perform their devotional practice either individually or, collectively in a dhikr session. As they progress on the path towards spiritual knowledge and experience, they might also become teachers themselves. As formal organisations, brotherhoods can also serve non-religious purposes. One example is the Senegalese Murides who exerted control over the peanut trade and who own a large part of the Senegalese transportation system today. Brotherhoods also become nodal points in Islamic scholarship. According to Vikør (2000: 464), a survey of brotherhood manuscripts showed that these mainly deal with piety, the praise of the prophet and fiqh (legal writings), yet hardly with Sufism. Brigaglia (2001) reports about the content of the teachings of the Fayda Tijaniyya, a branch of the Tijaniyya brotherhood. The branch was founded by the Senegalese Ibrahim Niasse, but it also spread in northern Nigeria. For his followers, Ibrahim Niasse, the sheikh, is the key to access the spiritual reality of Ahmad al-Tijani, the founder of the Tijaniyya order, who in turn conveys the spiritual reality of the Prophet who then is the key for the practitioner’s self-annihilation in the divine essence of God (2011: 88–9). In accordance with the idea of self-annihilation, the Fayda Tijaniyya stresses that “God’s being absorbs all entities” (2009: 362). The practitioner’s spiritual journey passes through five stages.12 Ibrahim Niasse contended to know an efficient devotional practice that 11 Another topic that the literature deals with is that of Islamic movements like the izala movement in northern Nigeria (see, for instance, Masquelier 2009: 66–111). I will leave these aside, however, as they do not appear to play a role in Musa’s or in his kinsmen’s lives. 12 See Hiskett (1980) for a more detailed description of the five stages: “. . . the most intriguing of the metaphysical doctrines . . . is that of the hadrat . . . for which the dictionary meaning is ‘presences’. [. . .] There are five hadrat in the mystic cosmos, the lowest of which is Nasut, the stage of material existence; then Malakut, the stage of divine light, which extends from the first to the seventh heaven of the cosmological architecture. It is also the world of the incorporeal things and of the planets. Then comes the stage of Jabarut. This extends from the seventh heaven to the Throne of God. It is the stage of the divine secrets and the world of the angels. After it is the stage of Lahut, in which the Names of God and His divine attributes become manifest. Finally is the summit, Hahut, the stage of the divine essence.” (1980: 118–9)

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would enable any student, not only the religious specialist, to pass quickly through these five stages of spiritual experience (Hiskett 1980: 122). Of central importance to the order’s teachings is also the idea of self-perfection. Through devotional practice, man is ideally transformed into a “perfect man” (Brigaglia 2001: 45, 2007: 198, 206). Moreover, the order teaches that the world’s end is imminent (Brigaglia 2011: 83). The teachers of the Fayda Tijaniyya also wrote commentaries on theology, Maliki law, ethics, Sufism, prosody and Arabic grammar (Brigaglia 2011: 89). They translated classical works into Hausa (2011: 89) and wrote mystical poetry (2011: 95). In their writings, they defended the Ashari theology against the Wahhabi movement (2011: 97) and tried to fight local religious doctrines that deviated from their own understanding of Islamic faith (2011: 98). Brigaglia provides further insight into the brotherhood’s ideas by characterizing a tafsir by Ibrahim Niasse. In his tafsir, Niasse deals with cosmological, metaphysical and legal aspects of Islam: “Shaykh Ibrahim’s exegesis was punctuated with metaphysical and cosmological themes. Reference was often made to the symbolic architecture of the Qur’an, through references to the doctrine of numbers. The underlying idea was that God’s creation is disseminated with marks linking mundane and ultra-mundane realities . . . A central place is reserved in particular to the number 5, the cipher of the created worlds, . . . In the realm of macrocosmic reality number 5 corresponds to the five ‘presences’ . . . or stratified realms of cosmic existence, that provide the architecture for the flood of spiritual knowledge to the disciple as it is conceptualized in the process of tarbiya (Sufi training). In the microcosmic realm it corresponds to the five organs of knowledge: . . . To these meanings allude . . . the five names of God mentioned in the Fatiha . . . These Names . . . correspond to the fundamental rulings of the sacred Law (shari’a), enclosed in the five pillars . . . of Islam . . .” (2009: 355–6)

Each brotherhood has its own characteristics. Other orders, for instance, do not endorse Niasse’s claim of enabling followers to attain the highest state of religious experience so quickly. Brigaglia also compares the literary products of the Fodiawa network of the 19th century with those of the ‘Yan Faila network of scholars who affiliated with the Fayda Tijaniyya (2011: 103). Brigaglia finds differences. He points out, for instance, that the scholars of the Fodiawa network paid more attention to legal and political theory, whereas the Fayda Tijaniyya scholars stressed mystical knowledge, praised the Prophet and defended Sufism (2011: 104). Yet, by and large, the similarities are far more substantial than the differences. He finds, for instance, that the writings of both networks largely deal with the same themes and also use the same core texts (2011: 103). For instance, they mainly base their tafsirai on the tafsir al-jajalayn (2005: 428). The great similarities between the Sufi brotherhoods also became evident in the Radio Kaduna Tafsir (Brigaglia 2007), where proponents of the Sufi brotherhoods took a common stance against the teachings of Abubakar Gumi, the founder of the izala

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movement in Nigeria that has adopted an anti-Sufi stance. It thus appears that the above-mentioned teachings and doctrines, although they stem from the Fayda Tijaniyya, are more or less emblematic for the teachings and doctrines of the brotherhoods in general. As noted above, Brigaglia introduces the reader to the doctrines and ideas of the Sufi brotherhoods. At the same time, it is evident that these doctrines and ideas pertain to the members of the highest ranks of the Sufi brotherhoods who lead the brotherhoods and engage in scholarly writings. This gives rise to the question of what might be the relationship between the brotherhoods and their doctrines with the rest of society. This question comprises two parts. Firstly, we do not know exactly how the Sufi brotherhoods relate to the religious elite, i. e. the scholars who teach in the institutions of higher Islamic learning. It appears from Brigaglia’s text that the specialised schools of Islamic learning are institutions that are independent from the brotherhoods and that, at the same time, the scholars who teach in these schools might be affiliated with brotherhoods. The brotherhoods do not seem to run the schools, or at least not all of them. They rather dispose of zawiyas, centres of devotional activities. Secondly, we do not know exactly how the brotherhoods and their teachings relate to the Islamic doctrines and practices of the common population and especially of the peasantry. With respect to Kano, Brigaglia assumes that these doctrines and teachings directly translate into public discourse. In a side-remark, he states that the brotherhoods were deeply involved in the intellectual life of the scholars and of the city population. The brotherhood’s teachings became “a popular thing and object of discussion in the city” (2009: 362). However, Brigaglia does not provide any empirical data on the effect that the brotherhoods’ teachings had on the general public. In order to better understand the relationship between the higher ranks of the brotherhoods and the common believers, we should turn to an older article published by Mervyn Hiskett (1980). Hiskett worked among the Hausa-speaking population of Ghana. The above-mentioned Ibrahim Niasse came to Ghana in 1952 and was met with, as Hiskett notes, “remarkable enthusiasm in the major urban centres to which he came” (1980: 107). Hiskett’s experience seems to be in line with Brigaglia’s statement. However, whilst Brigaglia suggests that the discourse of the brotherhoods is directly reflected in the discourse of the followers, Hiskett sees a hiatus between the two sides. Hiskett differentiates between two different status groups in relation to the movement. The functionaries of the order are often wealthy merchants and businessmen, whereas the majority of Niasse’s followers belong to the poorer and illiterate Muslim population. According to Hiskett, both status groups have different motives to affiliate with the movement. The functionaries are attracted by the philosophical and intellectual aspects of the teachings, by the fact that the movement legitimizes their worldly success, by the emotional aspects of worship and by their belief that the sheikh

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can mediate worldly prosperity and eternal salvation through his prayers. The followers, however, are motivated by the two latter factors only, namely, the emotional aspect and the mediation of prosperity and salvation. The doctrinal aspects do not play an important role for them. Hiskett even goes so far as to explain the movement’s wide success through these latter factors (1980: 113–4) and labels the relationship between the order and its lay followers as “Schwärmerei” (1980: 110) meaning excessive enthusiasm. Another publication we can draw on in order to better understand the relationship between the higher ranks of the brotherhoods and the common believers is Robert Launay’s study of Islam among the Dyula of Koko, a city quarter of Korhogo in northern Côte d’Ivoire (1992: 179–195). When the village scholars of Koko have attained higher age, they dedicate themselves more thoroughly to religious practices than earlier in their life and affiliate to the Tijaniyya or the Quadiriyya order. Affiliation to a brotherhood, however, only implies that the adherents carry out their devotional practices according to the style prescribed by the brotherhood. No participation in any other activities ensues from affiliation to a brotherhood. As Launay sees it, affiliation to a brotherhood at the village level rather serves as a status marker of religiously minded adults. Similarly, Works reports about the minor importance of Sufi brotherhoods among Hausa migrants in Chad: “To no degree, however, was the Tijaniyya coextensive with the Hausa community in Chad. Many pilgrims and settlers did not identify with either the Tijaniyya or Qadiriyya, and sectarian disputes did not seem to play the important part they have in Hausaland . . . (1976: 160)

Brigaglia presents us with common believers who are highly interested in the doctrines discussed among the Islamic elite. However, he does this on rather hypothetical grounds.13 Hiskett’s common believers, however, are not very interested by the movement’s doctrinal aspects, as they are rather drawn by emotional satisfaction and salvation. Launay’s common believers try to symbolize their status. We might therefore conclude that the doctrinal aspects discussed by the Islamic elite do not necessarily loom large in the believers’ interests and religious awareness and might not find their way easily into the commoners’ ways of thinking and behaviour. 3. Religious influence of the elite on the common believers These diverse observations create the impression that, in several parts of West Africa, there are by and large two religious groups: on one side, a religious elite which include the leading figures of the brotherhoods and the scholars teaching in the higher institutions of learning and, on the other side, the common believers. This picture holds true, at least, for the region in which Kimoram lies. 13 As I have mentioned before, I refer to a side-remark in Brigaglia’s text. This sideremark does not diminish the value of his work.

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This raises the question of whether and how ideas from the upper level might nevertheless reach and influence the lower level. Some other scholarly writings, in fact, present a variety of “avenues” along which such ideas might spread. In their article “The role of language in West African Islam”, Brenner and Last provide some examples. Before 1900, Brenner and Last argue, scholars tried to reach their Fulfuld’e-speaking public via poems (1985: 434). These poems were read to laymen and memorised. More important, however, was the public translation of and commentary on the Qur’an during the month of Ramadan (1985: 435). Furthermore, Islamic scholars disposed of a collection of classical texts known as the kabbe. The scholars used the kabbe to teach the basic tenets of the Islamic creed. However, the kabbe and the scholars’ teachings developed a dynamic of its own among the populace. The populace adopted part of the teachings, integrated it into its religious life and developed it further. The kabbe was not only used then by elite scholars, but also by illiterate teachers and it served to develop an initiatory, esoteric teaching among the latter. Here, we find early examples of religiosity in the region that is intertwined with, but not controlled by elite scholars. In spite of its being a partly autonomous endeavour, however, the population’s religion remained connected to elite scholarship. Islamic scholars educated the populace through poems and in tafsir sessions. Moreover, the kabbe, even though it was transformed in the hands of the populace, was based on a classical Islamic text. More clarification comes from an article by Tal Tamari (1996). Tamari has carried out research on tafsir sessions in Mali and provides a detailed picture of this “avenue” of knowledge transfer. In Mali, tafsir is the final stage in Qur’anic education and students learn to interpret the Qur’an after 10 to 20 years of study. It is thus performed by advanced and skilled students. Tafsir is normally performed during the month of Ramadan. The teachers translate the Qur’an literally to their audience, but they also draw on other sources like the hadith, on their knowledge about the circumstances of revelation of the diverse suras and on their knowledge of Arabic grammar in order to develop their commentary. Tamari mentions major themes in the tafsirai she has attended: “Les commentaires de cette sourate donnent déjà un bon aperçu de l’Islam tel qu’il est compris au Mali, et en particulier des thèmes suivants: la toute-puissance de Dieu et la complète dépendance des créatures par rapport au Créateur; la supériorité de l’islam sur les autres religions actuelles, et la perversité de celles-ci; le grand bonheur réservé aux croyants au Paradis.” (1996: 67)

Tamari thus supports Brenner and Last who had presented the tafsir sessions as a linking device between the class of scholars and the public. Nevertheless, the audience’s understanding of the tafsirai does not necessarily match the teachings. Similar to the lay Muslims in Brenner and Last’s example who dealt with the kabbe in an autonomous way and to the believers in Hiskett’s example who autonomously defined which aspects of the Fayda Tijaniyya were important to

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them, the Malian audience applies its own structures of importance towards the teachings, too: “Parmi les passages qui ont suscité le plus de réactions, on peut noter ceux relatifs à la cosmologie, aux phénomènes métérologiques et astronomiques; la succession des saisons, du jour et de la nuit, la séparation des eaux douces et des eaux salées; certains passages relatifs à la reproduction humaine; et surtout, l’utilité des animaux, qui fournissent lait, laine et moyens de transport . . . En particulier, l’existence du lait . . . Les auditeurs sont aussi très attirés par des passages qui evoquent le renversement brutal des fortunes . . ., ainsi que par les récits concernant les rois et les peuples anéantis. Les nombreuses références, dans le Coran, au domaine de l’écrit . . . suscitent aussi une attention admirative. Ce sont, cependant, les passages qui exhortent à supporter patiemment son échec réproductif . . . qui suscitent l’attention la plus marquée et les réactions les plus fortes de la part des auditeurs – jeunes gens commes hommes et femmes adultes.” (1996: 62)

Nevertheless, Tamari contends that the influence of tafsirai in spreading Islamic ideas among the audience is considerable and thus far greater than one might expect: “Si l’étude spécialisée du tafsir n’est le fait que d’une petite élite, en revanche les concepts et idées développées par cette science touchent la majorité des musulmans du Mali ainsi que beaucoup de non-musulmans.” (1996: 48)

This effect is enhanced by tape recordings of tafsirai that circulate among the listeners and can thus be listened to independently from the sessions (1996: 49). Moreover, the tafsirai of different scholars of Manding language not only resemble each other closely (1996: 48, 51, 58) but are also very similar to the classical Qur’anic commentaries (1996: 58). Tamari thus develops a picture of Islamic learning in which the written sources that underlie Islamic learning as well as the tafsirai produce some degree of cohesion in religious thinking on the higher level and on the lower level. I have now gone through some writings on Islamic scholarship in rural Mauritania, on brotherhoods and their intellectual discourse in northern Nigeria, on the variety of ways in which brotherhoods might become relevant to the wider public in Ghana, Chad and Côte d’Ivoire, and on the practice of tafsir in Mali. The sources are disparate and do not allow me to paint a thoroughly researched picture. Yet, some remarks can be made, even if they are made on tentative grounds. There is a higher and a lower level of scholarship and both spheres are partly autonomous. They exist and develop in different social milieus: that of the urban elite on the one side and that of the rural or urban populace on the other side. Yet, despite all the dissipative tendencies that this autonomy entails, there are also factors that strengthen the coherence within each sphere and between them. Firstly, as Tamari demonstrates for Mali, scholars of the higher level largely rely on the same textual sources. Accordingly, their interpretations of the Qur’an re-

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semble each other and those of the classical commentaries (1996: 58). Secondly, as Fortier (1997) has shown, all students follow more or less the same steps in Islamic education. The lower level does not have its own agenda, it simply doesn’t proceed to the higher level. Thirdly, teaching on both levels partly refers to the same corpus of texts. There are, of course, the Qur’an and the Hadith, but also the kabbe was based, as Brenner and Last show, on al-Sanusi’s al-Aqida al Sughra (1985: 435). Fourthly, as Brenner, Last and Tamari point out, tafsir provides a link between the higher levels of learning and the lower levels. This influence is fostered by the availability of radio transmissions and audio cassettes that enable scholars to reach a far greater audience than they did before (Tamari 1996: 49, Launay 1992: 163). These days, scholars can also benefit from the possibilities of printing. The new translations of the Qur’an, Brenner, Last and Brigaglia mention, are a case in point, but also other religious treatises and comments have been published in Hausa (Heiss 1993) and are available in rural space. Given this degree of coherence in content and teaching at each level of learning and between them, it seems as if a point could be made for the possibility that learning on a higher level might have an influence on religious thinking and religiously motivated behaviour on the lower level. In the following section, I will try to follow up this thought with respect to Musa. I will argue that his thinking and behaviour corresponds to many aspects of religious learning on the higher level and I will, furthermore, try to make plausible the idea that this might partly be due to the influence of religious learning on the higher level onto Musa’s thinking and behaviour. 4. The influence of religious doctrine onto Musa’s thinking and behaviour Musa defined himself as a Muslim. In the empirical part, I have shown what role Islam played for Musa and I could identify some of the ways in which Islam could have exerted an influence on his thinking and behaviour. Thus, Musa acquired an elementary level of Islamic learning. He received instruction in a Qur’anic school and learned the Qur’an by rote. Before he had established a family of his own, he also participated in the peripatetic tradition. Moreover, his father was one of the Imams in Kimoram. Musa listened to tafsirai on cassettes, studied and memorised books of religious knowledge which he had bought on the market. He asked for advice from a more advanced scholar in Nimari when he was there on labour migration in 2008. Moreover, his society had been islamised for a long time. Islam began to penetrate Hausaland in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (Adeleye 1976: 582) and the process of Islamization has continued since then. Islam became, as Baier (1980: 25) expresses it, officially established in Damagaram (Hausa for Zinder) in 1870, and a more profound Islamisation of Damagaram occurred under the reign of Tanimu D’an Suleiman

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(1854–1884) (Dunbar 1971: 44). Islam spread significantly during the colonial period (Fuglestad 1983: 116) and these days the so-called Anna (Hausa who adhere to pre-Islamic religion) are rare in number and only live in small pockets in the region in which Kimoram lies. There were thus a variety of ways in which scholarship from the upper level might have had an impact onto Musa’s thinking and behaviour. I will now turn to a printed document of local scholarship and to two tafsirai from audio cassettes. I thereby want to show how closely the contents of the printed document and the audio cassettes relate to Musa’s thinking and behaviour and thus identify those parts of Musa’s thinking and behaviour that might have been influenced by the local variety of Islam. a) The Al-Kitab ‘Ulum al-Mu’amala by Uthman dan Fodio ([n.d.]1978) The printed document is the Al-Kitab ‘Ulum al-Mu’amala by Uthman dan Fodio ([n.d.]1978). The English title of the book is “The Sciences of Behaviour”. Uthman dan Fodio is the founder of the Sokoto Caliphate and lived from 1754 to 1817. He put many of his teachings in writing that were meant to reach and educate the public. I am not in a position to ascertain whether this book of his is widely used among present-day scholars. Three points, however, seem to warrant my decision to rely on this book. Firstly, Abdoulaye Sounaye (2012) has shown that the present-day protagonists of the izala movement in Niger refer to Uthman dan Fodio and his writings. Dan Fodio is thus still a figure who is considered to be important in contemporary scholarly circles. Secondly, the fact that the late Ibrahim Yaro Yahaya in his book Hausa A Rubuce: Tarihin Rubuce-Rubuce cikin Hausa (Written Hausa: the History of Writings in Hausa) dedicates a chapter to the literary works of Uthman dan Fodio and his followers (1988: 49–60) seems to point to the same direction. Thirdly, the similarity of his writing to many features of Musa’s thinking and behaviour render the idea plausible that it relates closely to Islamic thinking, as it prevails in the region. In the book’s first section Islam, the science of fiqh, Usman D’an Fodio writes about the basic ritual obligations of Muslims, about what is pure and impure, about ablutions, the way to take a bath properly, the purification with sand, menstruation and ritual purity, the proper times and way of performing prayers, the qualifications for acquiring the position of Imam, fasting, paying zakkat and about the pilgrimage. In the second section Imam, the science of tawhid, he specifies the attributes of God and the prophet, and he enumerates various pieces of evidence for the truth of these tenets. In the third section Ihsan, the science of tasawwuf (Sufism), Usman D’an Fodio gives moral advice to the believer. He explains which virtues are to be searched and which vices have to be avoided. In this section, Usman D’an Fodio warns the believer against

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– (1) the devil. The devil tries to influence the believer. D’an Fodio advises the believer on how to repel the devil. – (2) conceit. Beauty, power, wealth, children, or the performance of righteous action are blessings from God. The conceited man, however, considers these blessings as an attribute of his own. Conceit thus also implies a lack of gratitude towards God. – (3) pride. Pride consists in the assumption that one occupies a rank above another person and the corresponding feeling of satisfaction. It is at the root of many other moral flaws. A proud man cannot, for instance, be free from anger or envy. – (4) the false assumption of having ample time. It adduces the believer to postpone doing the good and right things. – (5) anger without reason. Man ought to become angry when things happen that are forbidden or blameworthy. Anger should, however, always remain moderate and thus allow a person to execute his reason. Excessive anger adduces a person to feel resentment, envy, to conceal evil or to divulge secrets. – (6) envy. Envy is the feeling that corresponds to the wish that a blessing may depart from the person who has received it. – (7) showing off. Showing off is the desire to gain reputation in the eyes of others, more specifically through carrying out one’s religious duties. It derives from the pleasure of being praised, from fear of criticism and from greed.

After the warnings, D’an Fodio turns to what is praiseworthy. He advises the believer to – (8) repent. The believer thus frees himself from the weight of wrong actions. – (9) renounce. The believer ought to renounce to things that have disappeared from this world, to his possessions, to executing his will. Moreover, he can renounce to the world at large by maintaining “coolness in the heart towards this world”. – (10) obey God out of fear for him. This attitude finds expression in the following of the rules ordained by him. – (11) trust in God. It is the knowledge and confidence that not man, but God provides for the good. – (12) seek help from God. This attitude derives from the conviction that it is God who can preserve a person from anything that may befall him. – (13) accept what has been ordained by God. This attitude derives from the conviction that all that happens comes from God and that he does not have to justify himself. It makes a believer overcome anger against anything that happens. – (14) fear God and hope for his favours. The believer should be afraid of the possible punishments by God and hope, at the same time, for his mercy and generosity.

I have said that I would compare the contents of Uthman D’an Fodio’s text to Musa’s thinking and behaviour. It is evident that the demands for ritual obliga-

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tions have permeated Musa’s daily life. He performs the five prayers, takes the bath in the way prescribed and fasts during the month of Ramadan. However, there are also striking parallels between the moral teachings of Usman D’an Fodio and Musa’s thinking and behaviour. Firstly, Usman D’an Fodio speaks about the devil (see (1) in the list above) and his attempts to exert influence on man. This idea is reflected in Musa’s thinking. Musa described the dangers that are due to the devil’s activities (D. VIII. 2., D. VIII. 6.). Secondly, Musa tried to control anger (see (5) in the list above) and also explained to me the different mental devices he employed to do that (E. III. 4.). In the same passage of Usman D’an Fodio’s treatise (see (5) in the list above), the author refers to a model according to which man is governed by passions and needs to exert self-control in order to safeguard reason. Musa gave expression to this idea as well (E. III. 3. and E. III. 4.). Thirdly, when I described Musa’s way of behaviour, I mentioned that while he compared himself with others, he did not seem to be envious (see (6) above) of them. Equally, I had never heard him utter an envious remark, he rather seemed to consider it a virtue to accept things as they were and to concentrate on carrying on within the range of actions that was open to him (E. III. 9.). Fourthly, when we spoke about death penalty, Musa suddenly produced the idea that life sentences might be better as they would enable the culprit to repent (see (8)). Fifthly, Usman D’an Fodio speaks at several points about the ability to accept losses and reality (see (9), (13)). This, I argued, was also an ability of Musa’s (E. III. 9.). Fifthly, the idea of obedience towards God (see (10)) loomed large in Musa’s thinking and reinforced his willingness to follow social rules (D. VIII. 4.). Finally, Musa put much hope (see (14)) in God and he derived some confidence from the fact that God promised to grant people those things they were asking him to grant them (D. VIII. 16. b)). We thus find a significant degree of similarities between Uthman D’an Fodio’s teaching and Musa’s thought and behaviour. The parallels will become even more extensive when I now turn to the tafsir recordings. b) The tafsir recordings The two audio cassettes are live recordings made by two scholars. One of them is Malam Yakuba and one is a scholar whose name is not known to me. I bought the audio cassette by Malam Yakuba in Sabon Gari market, Kano, in 2005. Musa knew Malam Yakuba and considered him to be a good scholar. I bought the other cassette on the market in Nimari. Musa accompanied me at that time and recommended this scholar to me. For the sake of convenience, I will call him Malam Nimari. To give the reader a better idea about the content and method of tafsir, I will describe here how Malam Yakuba proceeded. Moreover, I could not find descrip-

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tions of tafsirai by Hausa scholars in the literature, this, too, seems to me to warrant such an approach. In his tafsir, Malam Yakuba interprets the suras 96 to 104. In the beginning, he greets the audience, introduces his tafsir session, explains his intention and how he wishes to proceed. He then utters pious wishes for the success of the session and makes some general remarks on the nature of God. Following that, Malam Yakuba deals with the suras one by one. A reciter supports Malam Yakuba in doing this. The reciter reads the beginning of a verse or set of verses of a sura loudly. Then he stops; Malam Yakuba takes over and comments on the passage recited. After that, the reciter reads the next verse or verses of the sura to the audience and Malam Yakuba interprets it again. Both of them go on like that until Malam Yakuba has finished a sura and they turn to the next. One member of the audience intersperses Malam Yakuba’s tafsir with ratifying exclamations like na’am, with pious wishes like Allah ya bada lada [May God bestow reward on us!]. Malam Yakuba finishes his tafsir with a prayer. When Malam Yakuba interprets a verse which the reciter has read loudly, he keeps to a certain procedure. First, Malam Yakuba informs the audience about the meaning of the verse that has been recited. He translates the literal meaning of the verse into Hausa or he paraphrases it, thereby, adding the information that is necessary to understand it. In doing so, he often also provides contextual information about the circumstances of the revelation of the sura under discussion and he sometimes draws on some relevant hadiths. When he speaks about sura 96, for instance, he tells the audience that this was the first sura to be revealed and he also relates a hadith that details the circumstances of the revelation. Sometimes the content of the suras and of the hadiths make Malam Yakuba swerve away from his theme and turn to themes that are related by association to what he has said so far. When he speaks about the ‘pen of fate’ mentioned in sura 96, for instance, he informs the audience that some scholars consider the pen as the first thing created. He then talks about the opposite thesis defended by other scholars who claim that the first thing that was created was water. This makes him think about three different types of pens: the ‘pen of fate’, the ‘pen of the angels’ and the pen used by the audience when they write letters. However, Malam Yakuba’s intention goes farther. He also develops the implications of the suras for the believers’ behaviour. This makes up the largest part of the tafsir. In sura 96, for instance, archangel Jibril tells the prophet to read. Malam Yakuba then deals with the topic of literacy. He tells the audience that acquiring literacy is a religious duty. It is a precondition for gaining knowledge of God and for self-knowledge. He admonishes his listeners to go to school and to read everything available because it might be of use. He warns them against reading out of selfish needs, it should be done for the sake of God and out of

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self-respect. He also calls on his audience to encourage their kin, friends and neighbours to acquire knowledge. Proceeding in this way, Malam Yakuba covers a wide variety of themes. He speaks about the circumstances of the revelation of the 96th sura; the first followers of prophet Muhammad; the creation of man out of a clot of blood; the importance of reading, school and moral education for Muslims; performing acts for the sake of God; God’s generosity; the fact that the world’s destiny has been written down; God as the source of all existing knowledge, competencies and understanding; man’s disobedience towards God; God’s punishment for those who do not believe in him or disobey him; the history of Moses and the destruction of the Pharaoh’s army; about prostration and coming close to God; the certainty with which God replies to one’s prayers of solicitation; the creation of the Qur’an; the bounty that God grants to believers who worship God on the night of the anniversary of the world’s creation; the visits of archangel Jibril on earth on the same day; one’s duties towards one’s parents; the circumstances of the revelation of the 98th sura; about the Jews’ and Christians’ reluctance to follow the prophet; the fact that only a small number of people will get into paradise; about the virtues which the prophet’s followers lived by and which present-day Muslims fail to acquire; the good fortune of being a Muslim; the fact that the Jews, Christians and Polytheists who reject the prophet will end up in hell; the circumstances of resurrection; how one’s good and bad deeds will become evident on Judgment Day; the sorting of the resurrected into those who go to paradise and those who go to hell; the importance of remembering Judgment Day in one’s daily life; the final battle against the Jews; the place of dogs in Islam; legitimate fighting against non-believers who refuse to pay their dues; the value of the early morning; warfare in the times of the prophet; the different forms of shahada death; the wealth God provides for man and the gratitude man owes to God; the spontaneous knowledge any person has of his own moral status; behaviour that man should avoid; the fact that reading the 102nd sura equals the reading of a thousand suras; the danger of being diverted from the important things through earthly aims and a lack of self-control; the usefulness of prayers of solicitation for the dead; the fact that one’s deeds are registered according to their moral and religious value; the importance of using one’s time for doing righteous deeds; the value of giving good counsel to others; the importance of patience and self-restriction; hell-fire that consumes parts of the human body. Malam Nimari adopts a similar method for his tafsir and it appears superfluous to describe his style of preaching in detail here. Suffice it to say that the cassette did not record his sermon in its entirety. So I did not find out which sura he was interpreting. In the recording, Malam Nimari mainly relates stories from the hadith, and, time and again, instructs his listeners on the believer’s duties. His main thrust seems to be to remind his audience of their duty to obey God and their parents.

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I will now compare Malam Yakuba’s and Malam Nimari’s teachings with Musa’s thinking and behaviour in order to make clear the range of similarities between the two. As I have said above, I thus hope to identify those elements in Musa’s thinking and behaviour that might have been influenced by the regional variety of Islam. aa) Ontological tenets Malam Yakuba’s and Malam Nimari’s ontological convictions correspond to Musa’s. In chapter D.VIII, we have seen that Musa’s world was also made up of God, the devil and the reality of the after-life. This is endorsed by Malam Yakuba’s and Malam Nimari’s tafsirai as they speak about God, the devil and the reality of the after-life: (Malam Yakuba) [The prophet; jph] said [to his followers; jph] that Jibril has come [to the mosque where they were at that moment; jph] to pray. He said, whoever stops with his everyday business in order to fulfil his religious duties in the month of Ramadan, the prosperity and sympathy God grants in this month, eight of the gates of paradise will be open, seven of the gates of hell will be closed, evil spirits have been imprisoned . . .14 (Malam Nimari) [Archangel Jibril speaks to prophet Mohammad:] “God told me that I should tell you that among your followers there is a man who will one day commit a sin . . . a thousand times worse than that of this [another; jph] man. . . . God said, Jibril, you shall speak to Muhammadu . . .!”15

bb) Religiously motivated rules for daily life practice Moreover, Malam Yakuba and Malam Nimari speak about religious rules that, as we have seen, also guided Musa’s life. This pertains, for instance, to the five pillars that were also at the centre of Musa’s religiosity: (Malam Yakuba) [The angels question the dead after they have resurrected on Judgment Day] “Who is your Lord? . . . What is your religion? If it is Islam, you have bowed to, five prayers, supererogatory devotions, fasting, Ramadan . . ., you paid zakkat, you gave alms . . . you performed the hajj . . .”.16

It equally pertains to the practice of getting up early in the morning (C. III.): (Malam Yakuba) At dawn. You know, dawn, of every day, it is a time that is really precious. This is the reason why . . . one does not want to be late in the early morn14 Ya ce Jibrilu ne ya zo ya yi addu’a, ya ce duk mutumin da wantan Ramadan ya tsaya, irin falala da jin k’ai sa Allah ke a wannan wata, an bud’e k’ofar Aljanna takwas, an k’ulle K’ofar Jahannamaa bakwai, an d’aure shaidannu . . . 15 Ubangiji ya ce in gaya maka a cikin al’Mariamarka akwai wani zamani yana zuwa mutum d’aya daga cikinsu zai yi zunub’i . . . dubu irin da wannan mutumin . . . Ya ce, to, Ubangiji ya ce, Jibrilu, ka gaya Muhammadu . . .! 16 Wanene Ubangijinka? . . . Menene addininka? In Musulunci ka bautatawa, Salla 5 cikakkiya, da nafulfulli, azumi, Ramadan, na ta . . ., ka yi zakka, ka yi sadaka, ka yi zumunci, ka yi aikin hajji.

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ing. Yes, one does not want to sleep in the early morning. [. . .] God has said, the believers, at dawn, they are seeking forgiveness . . . Dawn is a precious time, brethren, Muslims, we should keep on getting up at dawn, on the day, when we have slept long, we have cheated ourselves. You have done your evening prayers (isha’i), instead of going there, having conversations . . . go to sleep and wake up early!17

cc) Behaviour towards God: fear of God and obedience towards God Malam Yakuba and Malam Nimari instruct their listeners on how to relate to God. God is the supreme being who created the world, to whom everything belongs and who is always justified in whatever he does. Fear of and obedience towards God are thus highly important duties. Malam Yakuba supports the idea that man should be afraid of God. He tells his listeners about the judgment they will undergo after resurrection. (Malam Yakuba) They are weighing your deeds. . . . there remain two things. If you have gone to the right side, you will enter paradise forever. If you have been chased to the left, hell forever. Look at the work you have done, good one, you have done evil, you know yourself. Ah, everybody in this world, a good man, knows that he is a good man, a useless man, he knows, that he is useless.18 (Malam Yakuba) Who has done something, however small, however small it is, listen, however small, of good . . . God said . . . on this day he will receive his reward . . . who has done something, however small, of bad, even if it equals a small red ant . . . on that day he will suffer retaliation. This verse makes us feel afraid.19

Similarly, Malam Yakuba supports the view that man owes obedience to God. (Malam Yakuba) We are indebted to God, how are we going to pay back our debts? We have to behave towards God as the rules tell us, we have to behave in the same way towards God’s messenger. . . . Yes, we have to follow the Lord’s rules and to obey the prophet.20 17 Da asuba. Ka san ita, asuba, ta kowace rana, lokaci ne mai tsadar gaske. Ya sa, ka ga, ba’a so mu rik’a makara har da asuba. I, ba’a son bacci da asuba. [. . .] To, Allah ya ce, muminai, da asuba, neman gafara suke. . . . Asuba lokaci ne mai tsada, ‘yan’uwa, musulmi, mu rik’a tashi cikin asubashi, shi rannan, mu daina, mu yin doguwa, muna cutad da kanmu. Ka yi sallar asuba, isha’i, maimakon ka je can, ka kafa hira . . . ka je, ka kwanta barci, ka farka da wuri. 18 To, ana auna aiki, . . . , saura abu biyu. In ma ka yi hannun dama, ka tafi aljanna din-din-din, in ma aka kora ka hagu, wuta din-din.din. Ga aiki, zai ka kawo, mai kyau, ka yi marar kyau, kai ka sani. Ai, kowa nan duniya, mutumin kirki, ya san, shi mutumin kirki ne, mutumin banza, ya san, shi na banza ne. 19 Wanda ya aikata aiki, komai k’ank’anta, komai k’ank’antarsa, na alk’eri, komai k’ank’anta fa, Allah ya ce . . ., rannan zai ga ladansa, . . . wanda ya aikata aiki komai k’ank’anta na sharri, dai-dai da d’an jan k’iyashi . . ., rannan zai ga sàakayàa. Wannan aya tana da ban tsoro. 20 To, duk bashi muke ci, yaya zamu yi, mu biya bashi? Sai mun yi wa Allah d’a’a, mu yi wa manzon Allah. . . . I, sai an bi dokokin Ubangiji, an yi wa annabin biyayya.

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Malam Nimari exemplifies man’s need to fear God and to obey him with a story from the hadith. God orders the ‘pen of fate’ to write. The pen, who is also an angel, does not know what God expects him to write. However, he doesn’t want to disappoint God. He breaks into pieces. He thus cannot be accused of disobeying God. In view of this story, Malam Nimari raises the question if man is not in even greater need to obey God, when even an angel is so afraid of and obedient towards him.21 Obedience towards God and fear of him were evidently among Musa’s values (D. VIII. 1., D. VIII. 3., D. VIII. 5.). dd) Behaviour towards God: acceptance of God’s will Obedience does not necessarily imply acceptance. God being the supreme being, however, acceptance of God’s will is obligatory for human beings. Malam Yakuba gives expression to this idea: Those [are chosen by God; jph] who accept God’s punishment whatever it will be, who accept their destiny . . .22

In the account of Musa’s life, I could show that acceptance of reality and, by the same token, of God’s will was one of the features of Musa’s behaviour (E. III. 9.). ee) Behaviour towards God: acting for the sake of God Malam Yakuba stresses that one should not act in order to achieve one’s own aims, but for the sake of God: . . . do it in the name of your Lord. That means, do it with a good intention, not in order to achieve your own aims, not like this: only if I get this thing, only if I have done that thing, no, do it for the sake of God. Yes, then you safeguard your dignity.23 21 English: God told him [the angel], he told the pen to write. The pen failed to do that, he did not know what to write. He asked him “Didn’t I say that you should write?” Then the pen, the angel, broke apart. Because of his fear of God who told him to write. God didn’t point out to him what to write, in order not to write something God did not intend to be written down. . . . because he [the pen] knew God . . . we, however, as you see us, we do what we have the opportunity to do. You see a man who has an alcoholic beverage, he drinks it and laughs? Hausa: Ubangiji ya ce masa, yi rubutu, ya alk’alamin, alk’alamain ya kas’a, bai san abin da zai rubuta ba. Sa ya ce masa, alk’alamin, ban ce ka yi rubutu ba? Sai alk’alamin malam mala’ika, sai ya tsagi biyu. Saboda jin tsoron Allah, ya ce, yi rubutu, Allah bai ce abu kaza zaka rubuta ba, kar ya rubuta abin da bashi Allah yake nufi ya rubuta ba. . . . saboda sanin Allah . . . mu yanzu da ka ga, muke abin da muka ga dama, ka ga mutum rik’e da giya, yana shan giya, kuma yana dariya? 22 Sun yarda da duk hukuncin da Allah ya kawo, sun yarda da k’addara . . . 23 . . . yi da sunan Ubangijinka, ma’ana, da ka yi da kyakkyawan niyyar, ba son cimma wata buri naka, na sai ka samu kaza, sai ka yi kaza ba, a’a, ka yi domin Allah (tsoron Allah da tsoron mutum!), I, ka yi domin ka tsere da mutuncinka.

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This point is also stressed by Malam Nimari. He tells the story of prophet Haliru whom a man asks for money. The solicitor adds the formula don Allah [“for the sake of God”] to his request. By using this formula, the solicitor makes the act of giving compulsory to the prophet. However, the prophet does not have money. He then offers the man to sale him, the prophet, on the slave market to make up for the prophet’s “disobedience” towards God. (Malam Nimari) He [the man; jph] told him [Haliru; jph] “For the sake of God, I urged you to give me something I might sell on this market to bring s.th. to my family.” . . . Haliru . . . replied “It is a pity, this slave of God [the man; jph], you asked me about a great thing which I cannot refuse you because of Him [God; jph], but I do not have it. . . . I myself, I do not have money, but I will give myself to you, that you might sell me to get the money to buy something with and bring it to them.24

We have seen that acting for the sake of God also played a role in Musa’s thinking and behaviour (D. VIII. 1., D. VIII. 3., E. III. 2.). ff) Behaviour towards God: repentance In the tafsirai, those who disobey God and do not abide by his rules will be punished. However, Malam Nimari speaks about the possibility of repenting. Whoever repents and instantly corrects his behaviour, benefits from God’s mercy. Community of believers! [. . .] he [someone; jph] said, if he [a person; jph] repents, God will not accept the repentance, no! There is no sin of which man can say that God will . . . not accept his repentance.25 But, man ought not say, I will repent tomorrow, this is forbidden.26

When I once spoke with Musa about the death penalty, which he favoured as an appropriate punishment for heavy crimes, he suddenly saw that life sentences harbour the possibility for the culprit to repent. This reflected the fact that Musa held repentance to be a value. gg) Behaviour towards God: hope Malam Yakuba supports the view that the believer can turn to God in prayer and expect his prayers to be answered.

24 Ya ce masa, don Allah, na rok’e ka, ka ba ni wani abu wanda zan sai, wani abu a kasuwar nan, tafiya da iyalina, . . . Haliru . . . sai ya ce masa, kai, wannan bawan Allah, ka rok’e ni da babban abu wanda ba zan iya hana ka ba saboda shi, amma bani da shi . . . Ni kam, bani da kud’i, amma na ba ka kaina, ka je ka sai da ni, ka samu kud’in da zaka sai wa iyalinka wani abu ka kai musu. 25 Jama’a! [. . .] mutum ya ce in ya tuba Allah ba zai karb’a ba, a’a. Ba wani zunub’in da mutum zai iya ce Allah . . . ba zai karb’i tuba nasu ba. 26 Amma, kar mutum ya ce, sai gobe zan tuba, wannan kuma haramu ne.

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The prophet said . . . if you prostrate, if you relentlessly keep on praying, your prayers will be answered. This is the reason why, even if it is an obligatory prayer . . . mention God obstinately, ask him about whatsoever obstinately, even if you ask him to give you money . . . God will answer your prayers.27

Similarly, Musa held the idea that God interferes in one’s daily life on earth. He does so out of his own initiative when he decides whom to grant children, but he also does so in response to peoples’ requests. Moreover, according to Musa, God has promised to respond positively to his believers’ solicitation, and this gave, as we have seen, rise to hope (D. VIII. 16. b)). hh) Behaviour towards God: gratitude towards God As God provides much for man, man should also be grateful towards God: (Malam Yakuba) The night has come. . . . Who has brought the night? The sun has risen, you leave to work, where does the sun come from? Who has given you when you earn something? When you come home healthy, who has made you do so? The earth you are jumping on, where does it come from? Who holds the sky? . . . So, which fault did he commit? . . . only gratitude . . . God’s bounty, we cannot count it.28

I mentioned that Musa also considered gratitude a value, although I did not provide evidence for that (E. III., last paragraph). ii) Behaviour towards people: taking care of one’s parents and obedience According to Malam Yakuba, a virtuous person cares for his parents: (Malam Yakuba) Jibril, so the prophet said, . . . said, whoever lives with his parents, your mother, your father. If one of them is alive or both of them, . . . you are of no benefit to them, with respect to feeding, to drinking, to conversation in the evening, to providing a sleeping place for them, to make them feel happy, God will register your fault, because one finds forgiveness through one’s parents.29

27 Annabi ya ce . . . In kun sujada, ku yi ta k’ok’arin addu’a, za’a amsa muku. Ya sa ko sallar farilla ce, . . . da ambaton Allah, dage da rok’onsa komenene, ko ca zaka yi ya ba ka kud’i . . . Allah zai amsa maka. 28 Dare ya zo. . . . Waye ya kawo daren? Rana ta fito, kuka fita nema, ta wacece? Wa ya ba ku in kun fita? Kun dawo lafiya, waye ya dawo da ku lafiya? K’asar da ake tsalle-tsalle a kanta, ta waye? Saman nan, wa ya rik’e ta? . . . To, laifin me ya yi? . . . sai godiya. Ni’imomin Allah, ba zamu yi kilga su ba. 29 Jibrilu, Annabi ya ce . . . ya ce duk mutumin da suka zauna da mahaifansa, ga mahaifiyarka, ga mahaifinka, ko d’aya ne da rai ko duka biyu, zamansu da su, baka amfane su da komai ba, ta b’angaren ciyarwa, ko sha ruwa, ko da daren magana, ko gyara musu wurin kwana, ko d’auka da wani niyyarsu da wani k’ok’ari wadda zasu yi farin ciki ta wannan sanadiyya Allah ya fi maka laifinka domin ana samun gafarar Ubangiji ta hanyar iyaye.

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Malam Nimari stresses that man should obey his parents: (Malam Nimari) God said, even before you have left your mother’s womb, you, slave of God, . . ., God has already given him an order, he told you to obey your mother and your father, do not disagree with them . . . this verse shows us that, ah, he will not enter paradise, who has disagreed with his parents.30

Malam Nimari also tells a story from the hadith to support his claim. He tells his listeners about one of the prophet’s followers who got into disagreement with his mother. His mother had become jealous of the follower’s wife, so the follower made his mother move into a different house and made her live there. When the follower was about to die, he could not die because he repented what he had done to his mother and because she had not yet forgiven him. So the prophet intervened, urged his mother to forgive the son so that the latter could eventually die. In several instances, we have seen how important it was for Musa to obey his father (D. I. 5. (auren dole), D. III. 2.). jj) Behaviour towards people: social values One virtue that Malam Yakuba mentions many times is zumunci. Zumunci implies a relationship to another person that is structured by feelings of friendship and affection. It also encompasses the skills that are needed to live together, especially to be patient and helpful. It is ideally found among kinsmen. Malam Yakuba also explicitly mentions patience many times: [The prophet is; jph] a man who made people relate to each other in zumunci . . . Muslim brethren! We should emulate that. We should keep on being patient, we are exerting zumunci . . . your kinsmen, they should continuously feel well when being with you, yes, keep on being patient . . . in all ways you can think of.31

Malam Yakuba also mentions helpfulness as an important value: Who . . . are patient . . . they will help with prayer, they will help in all ways that are appropriate . . . they will give instructions to others, with patience, on how to follow God’s rules, . . . and they will show patience when a disaster has fallen upon them.32

30 Allah ya ce, daga ciki baka fito ba, kai bawan Allah, . . . sai da Allah ya yi mar wasiyya, ya ce, ka bi uwarka da ubanka, kar ka sab’a musu, . . . wannan aya tana nuna mana cewar, ah, ba zai samu aljanna ba, mutuk’aryar sab’a mahaifansa. 31 Mutum ne mai sa da zumunci. (S.A.W.) ‘Dan’uwa musulmi, mu rik’a d’aukar irin wannan. Mu rik’a daurewa, muna zumunci, . . ., ‘yan’uwa, su rik’a jin dad’in zama da kai, I, a rik’a daurewa, ko da ba abin ko da abin, a rik’a daurewa ta kowace hanya. 32 Wanda . . . sun dage . . . zasu taimaka da addu’a, zasu taimaka da duk abin da ya dace . . . da kuma suka yi wasici da hak’uri a kan yi wa Allah d’a’a, . . ., da hak’uri in masifa ta same su.

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Malam Yakuba also mentions giving advice: Even if you have seen a friend [who is about to make a mistake; jph], stop him from doing that! Whoever you see should receive a counsel regarding a sin or something evil, give him a counsel! If he does not heed it, pray for him, that is religious kinship.33 In Islam, everybody is an advisor.34

The virtuous person also always speaks the truth, is generous and takes responsibility for the community. [The prophet’s wife characterizes the prophet when he is afraid of being pursued by a devil who is, however, the archangel Jibril in reality; jph] “You are a person, when you speak, you only speak the truth, you have never lied . . . you give to someone who does not have what you have, you take responsibility for the community.”35

Malam Yakuba further defines the virtuous person by citing examples of behaviour that have to be avoided. Because Muslims nowadays, they do not like each other, they do not unite, they do not respect each other’s feelings, they do not exert zumunci, one or the other also wants to shoot his kinsman . . . The followers of the prophet like each other. They do good things . . .36 Alas! He has spilled someone else’s blood, he instigated a murder, he denied somebody’s right, he cheated this person, he insulted that person, he ate the meat of someone, he did this.37

Musa valued patience, helpfulness, giving advice, speaking the truth, generosity and the fulfilment of one’s duties towards one’s community (E. III. 2., C. III. (Musa critisizing Garba), E. III. 4. (closeness, kinship and friendship implied material assistance), E. I. (recognition through generosity)). kk) Behaviour towards oneself: self-control, reason and self-transformation Musa perceived man as having desires and passions. At the same time, he considered it necessary for man to control those desires. Man should exert self-con33 In ka ga masoyinka ma, hana shi! Duk wanda ka ga zai karb’a nasiha a kan sab’o ko a wane mummuna, ka masa, in ba zai karb’i nasiha ba, yi ma add’u’a, ‘Yan’uwantakar addini ke nan. 34 Kowa ma mai nasiha ne a Musulunci. 35 Kai, mutum ne, in zaka yi magana, sai gaskiya, baka tab’a k’arya ba, . . . kana bai wanda baya da shi, kana d’aukan nauyin jama’a. 36 Domin musulmai yanzu ba k’aunar juna, ba had’in kai, ba kara, ba zumunci, wani ma so yake ga d’an’uwansa ya bindidige . . . Sahabai suna da k’aunar juna. Suna da alk’eri, . . . 37 Amma, ina, ya zuba da jinin wannan, ya sa a kashe wannan, ya danne hakkin wannan, ya ciji wannan, ya zargi wannan, ya ci naman wannan, ya yi da wannan.

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trol and reason, and steer his behaviour accordingly (E. III. 3., E. III. 4.). The same idea appears in Malam Yakuba’s tafsir. He is not paying the dithe, he is not exerting zumunci, he is not praying on time, doing useless things and taking an interest in useless things, this is, what confuses a man, he does not know what is allowed and what is forbidden. Whenever he sees fit, . . ., he goes to bed when it pleases to him, he gets up when it pleases to him. When these things have confused a man, until death has come, God said . . . then you will understand.38 Indeed . . . man . . . is in jeopardy . . . when doing business, he is running back and forth, he is in jeopardy if he does not exert reason.39 The believers, too, take an interest in things that are not good, but . . . they suppress their passions . . . they will not live them out.40

Implicit to this enumeration of virtues and vices, and the wish to live by reason is also the motivation for pursuing self-transformation that we have encountered with Musa (D. VIII. 10.). I have compared features of Musa’s behaviour with Uthman d’an Fodio’s, Malam Yakuba’s and Malam Nimari’s teachings. I hope that I was able to show that there is an extensive range of similarities between the teachings of these scholars, on the one hand, and Musa’s value orientation and behaviour, on the other. This extensive range raises the question of whether both sides coincide arbitrarily or if they are historically interlinked. To provide a ‘proper proof or a plausibilization’ of the idea that both sides are indeed historically related, would require one to reconstruct the historical forms of Hausa society and religion in the region of interest and the transformations it has undergone. Existent historical scholarship, although valuable and fruitful in many respects41, does, however, not provide the basis for such an argument. Acting from necessity, I thus assume with some caution that this range of similarities should not be accidental, but rather inherently correlated. This contention could be furthermore corroborated by the facts that there are identifiable ways in which Islamic scholarship can penetrate the local peasantry and that interactions between the ideology of upper classes and the peasantry have been observed elsewhere (cf. Redfield 1956: 83–104). One might 38 Ba’a zakka, ba’a zumunci, ba’a Sallah a kan lokaci, shegalke-shegalke da kallekallen banza, shi ne, ya rud’e mutum, bashi da halal, bashi da haram. Duk abin da ya ga dama, sa’an da ya ga dama ya kwanta, sa’an da ya ga dama, ya tashi. To, in wannan ta rud’e mutum, yana abin da ya ga dama, har mutuwa ta zo, Allah ya ce . . . sa’an nan kwa sani. 39 Lalle . . . mutum . . . yana cikin asara . . . a kasuwancinsa, zirga-zirga da ake, a cikin asara ake in ba hankali ba. 40 Su ma muminai suna sha’awar abin da ba kyau, amma . . . su danne wa zuciyarsu, . . . ba za’a yi ba. 41 Cf. Kühme (2003) and Lange (1998) for the reconstruction of divine kingdoms in Hausaland, Dunbar (1970) for the history of Damagaram or Fuglestad (1983) for the general history of Niger.

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thus conclude – albeit with some caution – that Islamic scholarship did indeed interact with and exert some influence on Musa’s ontology, value orientation and behaviour, a thesis I will come back to later in chapter G. IV. in order to further qualify the relationship between the ideology of the Muslim scholars and Musa’s thinking and behaviour further. If the strong hypothesis that Islamic teaching had structured Musa’s ideas, value orientation and behaviour is (or was) correct, however, then the Islamic scholars’ teaching might have fostered Musa’s ontological conviction that there exists a God, a devil and the after-life. They might have supported the central importance that Musa attributed to the five pillars; they also reinforced the importance of observing the rule to get up early in the morning. Furthermore, they might have reinforced Musa’s willingness to obey God, to fear him, to be grateful to him, and they might have fostered his motivation to act for the sake of God. They possibly made it easier for him to accept reality as it was, to do without envy and they might have given rise to Musa’s hope that God would answer his prayers. The Islamic scholars might have supported his view that he should take care of his father and obey him. They admonished him to display zumunci and to exert patience, to help others and to speak the truth. Their teachings also coincided with Musa’s ideals of generosity and responsibility for the community. They also thought that man needed to control his passions and to exert self-control and reason to steer his own behaviour.

IV. Individuals and the Interaction of Societal Fields In chapter E., I characterized Musa as an individual. In chapter G., I tried to explain some of the features that pertained to Musa as a person. In section G. I. 6., I have summed up which of the features of Musa’s life could be explained by Meillassoux and Wolf. In contrast to both these authors who favoured a socio-structural approach, Gudeman and Rivera paid more attention to culture and thus rendered the idea plausible that part of the features of Musa’s life can be explained by reference to a certain cultural legacy or heritage. Given the long history of Islam in the region, Islam could qualify as a major factor here. I hope I was able to render the idea plausible that Islamic teaching might have influenced Musa in a variety of ways, among them Musa’s ontological convictions, daily practices and value orientations. The authors who wrote about peasants focused on explananda which partly overlap with what can possibly be explained by Islamic influences. The fact that the dependency on network markets brings about fluctuating prices can be explained by the way network markets function. At the same time, the duty to perform prayers five times a day is a religious exigency. However, as the sum of explananda shows, both approaches overlap. The socio-structural arguments fa-

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voured by Wolf and Meillassoux partly compete with arguments which emphasize the influence of Islam on Musa’s life. This is the case with respect to Musa’s value orientations. I could identify some of the values that Musa held and that partly guided his conduct. Among these values were peacefulness, patience, reason, self-control, shame-sensitivity, liking people, obedience, equanimity, accepting reality, gratitude, compassion, endurance, courage and work (see E. III.). If one now goes through the literature on the peasantry again, one obtains the following picture: Redfield (1956: 114) spoke about the peasants’ “restraint on individual selfseeking in favour of family and community”. According to Wolf, extended families demand that their members control their impulses, suppress or counteract aggression and illegitimate sexual desires (1966: 70), whereas societies with nuclear families are less rigid in these respects and have a stronger tendency to socialize their members into building up relationships on the basis of affinity. Also Meillassoux’s cereal producers value the cohesion of their social groups. We can thus assume that, according to these authors, “peacefulness”, “patience” and “self-control” should range among those values one might expect to count most among many peasants who are organised in extended families. They derive their validity from the need for social cohesion. Meillassoux also pointed out that elders deserve much respect among cereal producers and can demand obedience from the younger generation. Obedience would be a component then of the authority relations that exist between the generations among cereal producers who leave control over resources in the hands of the elder generation. Redfield, Wolf and Meillassoux thus provide socio-structural arguments for the prevalence of “peacefulness”, “patience”, “self-control” and “obedience” among the values Musa held. However, we do not know if shame-sensitivity, ‘love’ of people, equanimity, accepting reality, courage or work are among those values that would be characteristic of many other peasants as well. At the same time, we have seen that the Islamic scholars also preached peacefulness, patience, self-control and obedience. The religious messages thus seem to reinforce a value orientation that coincides with a specific social structure. However, this analysis leaves us with some values uniquely explained by religious arguments, namely those of reason, shame-sensitivity, ‘love’ of people, equanimity, accepting reality, gratitude, compassion, endurance, courage and work. However, if one takes a closer look at these values, the picture resembles that for the values of peacefulness, patience, self-control and obedience. The values of shame-sensitivity, ‘love’ of people, generosity and gratitude seem to coincide with a social system that relies on reciprocity and mutual help as principles of its social organisation (see Elwert 1980). We can thus conclude that these values, too, do not necessarily have a religious origin, but that the Islamic

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doctrines reinforce them. Similarly, endurance and work rather seem to be paradigmatic values for a society that depends on physical work and regularly is subject to hardship. The values of equanimity and accepting reality equally seem to relate to the living circumstances in Kimoram, which are characterised by the prevalence of hardship. A similar point can be made with respect to Musa’s confidence that his projects will work out well. On the one side, Islamic preaching, as we have seen, demands that believers trust in God and are confident. On the other side, however, confidence can be understood as the antidote which people develop when their projects often fail. It keeps people’s motivation high. Religion can again be understood as a medium to reinforce this attitude and give it a specific colouring. I am thus left with a picture in which Musa’s value orientations can largely be understood without reference to religion. Instead, Islamic teachings seem rather to have the function of objectifying Musa’s values, of imbuing them with legitimacy and objectivity and of strengthening the value of values in Musa’s mind. Religious preaching does not seem to have a strong formative influence on the set of values that Musa holds but rather “colours” them. Going through the literature on peasant societies and through the literature on Islam in the region provided some explanations for Musa’s attitudes and behaviour. With respect to Musa’s value orientation, the explanations overlapped. This overlapping points to a matter of theoretical relevance, namely, what the relationship is between religion and the other social fields, like the economy or the family. In his essay “Magic, science and religion”, Malinowski held the view that magic did not increase or decrease the rationality of action, but provided the actor with confidence, steadfastness and optimism (1973: 73–4), whereas religion induces a reverential attitude towards tradition, a harmonious relationship to the environment, courage and confidence in times of difficulty (1973: 73). In other words, Malinowski saw a loose relationship between religious thought and non-religious action, the main function of magic and religion was, however, to support rational, practical action. Weber (1988) defined an alternative approach. In his “Protestant ethic”, religion and magic are neatly intertwined with everyday life. They provide ethical norms for action, mould the actor’s attitudes and character, suggest irrational actions or demand the actor to be perfect. In Weber’s view, the relationship between religion and the economy is more complex than in Malinowski’s view. For him, religion might serve to underpin or even induce rationality, or counteract it. The discussion about the interrelationship between religion and other spheres of life is of long standing and other authors as well have identified ways in which religion and magic might have or might not have influenced other spheres of social life. Yet, it seems that the question itself has also fallen into oblivion. Anthropologists see themselves rather as economic or religious or political anthropologists and seldom try to systematically understand the interrelations between the different social fields. At the same time, the ques-

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tion is tricky. As Malinowski’s and Weber’s essays show, whoever wants to find out about the ways in which religion influences peoples’ behaviour has to search for its influences in every aspect of what makes up a people’s life: their aims, duties, beliefs, emotions or possessions. Having said this, it seems to be possible to make a point for the study of individuals. Given the many components of religion and the many ways in which it might feed into action, an approach is needed that closely looks at the nodal points in which different spheres of societal life come together and exert their influence on each other, and this, it seems to me, can only be done if one pays special attention to the individual. A detailed description of Musa’s life made it possible to unravel the many “components” of his life. From this detailed description “emerged” a description of Musa’s value orientation. His value orientation was a possible gateway for the influence of religion on his life practices. If I had related Musa’s value orientation to religious explanations only, however, I would have possibly found a onesided explanation of his value orientation that would have favoured the religious sphere as an explaining factor for his value orientation. Taking into account other explanations as well has counteracted the one-sidedness of this approach. Musa, however, is the central point in which the diverse factors meet and their consequences unfold. A focus on Musa, an individual, thus enabled me to follow up the diverse links which exist between different social fields and conveniently supplements other approaches of investigation into this subject.

H. Summary The study of individuals is a theme anthropology seems to have – so far at least – been largely oblivious of. I therefore considered it worthwhile to inquire further into this field. In doing so, my aim was threefold. *** First, I wanted to provide an empirical example for the study of individuals and their lives. Thus, I empirically researched the life of Musa, a Hausa peasant from Niger. Chapters C. and D. comprise the description of Musa’s everyday activities, his work, labour migration, his relations to family members, kinsmen, neighbours and to God. Chapter C. and D. thus also provide the background for my attempt to summarise the main features of Musa’s life in chapter E. Chapter C., D. and E. thus give an account of Musa’s “real life”. *** Secondly, writing about an individual presupposes a certain idea of what an individual is. Science requires us, however, to reflect on its underlying assumptions. In chapter F., I thus discussed the notion of the individual in view of some day developing an appropriate notion of the individual for anthropological purposes. This discussion comprised two steps. It was my first objective to convince the anthropological reader that such an approach is necessary. I thus showed that anthropological research, although it does normally not turn individuals into subjects of empirical research, nevertheless works with implicit notions of the individual. I also demonstrated that its lack of explicit reflection on the notion of the individual sometimes gives a bias to its ethnographies. I took Tugendhat’s theory of the individual as a point of departure to make these points, as it is encompassing enough to render the diverse implicit notions of various anthropological authors explicit and to compare them. It was my second objective in chapter F to bring other authors who have theorized about individuals into this discussion. I thus compared Tugendhat’s theory with contributions by Becker, Giddens, Piette and Jackson in order to find out how they would modify Tugendhat’s position to make it even better equipped to serve as a theoretical template for empirical research. I also tried to show where this book could contribute to this purpose. The benefit of this book – with re-

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spect to the theory of the individual – seemed to be twofold. Firstly, the individual is to be regarded as fluid. Becker, Giddens, Tugendhat conceived the person as a rather stable entity to whom we can ascribe a certain stock of knowledge, the command of a certain set of competencies, and certain traits of character. However, this seemed to be an abstraction from reality that does not entirely correspond to empirical observations. Neither does it take into account the processes which take place when a person enters and exits from a situation, nor the long-lasting processes which take place when a person enters a new social setting for a longer time, stays therein and slowly changes. The individual has, so it seems, to be thought of as more malleable. Secondly, Tugendhat, as well as Becker or Giddens or Piette think of individuals in a specific situation or series of situations. Correspondingly, the actor seems to be occupied only with the questions which relate to the situation at hand. However, an actor also has longterm desires and long-term questions which are relevant to him beyond the situation he is engaged in at a certain point in time and he remains occupied with these desires and questions over a long period of time and over a long series of situations, and he contemplates various experiences until he comes up with a new decision. We have seen this process occurring in Musa’s life when he took the decision not to migrate to Nigeria and when he increased the rationality of his life-practices. This process of decision-making is well known to everyday actors, yet, the theoretical authors do not seem to have taken notice of this to the degree this phenomenon would merit. *** Thirdly, anthropology often focuses on description. This is warranted because anthropologists and their readers are often not familiar with the persons, actions, objects and social structures anthropology deals with and a detailed description of an unknown object usually consumes a lot of time and effort. Hence, this book also has a strong emphasis on description. Yet, anthropology also has to explain what it describes or at least strive for it. I try to meet this requirement in chapter G. However, the explanation of an individual is different from the explanation of a single social fact like, for instance, the unemployment rate in society A or xenophobia in society B. To explain an individual means to explain a complicated structure of facts – knowledge items, body posture, norms, thoughts, relations, etc. An individual’s unemployment or his xenophobia would just be one of the things to be explained. In other words, an individual partakes in all social fields and thus also is the nodal point of a great variety of economic, social and historical forces. Explaining an individual would thus require a holistic theory of the society he is a part of. We do not have such a holistic theory for Central Niger. I thus chose two strands of literature and sources that seemed to me to be most promising for the task of explaining the main features of Musa’s life, the literature on peasant societies and the literature on Islam in the region. Both strands of

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literature allowed me to unravel at least some of the factors that have or might have shaped Musa’s life. This was my main objective in chapter G. *** My attempt to explain some of the features of Musa’s life also led to arguments which further corroborated the contention that anthropological studies of single individuals are useful. Thus, I could show in chapter G. II. that, in writings on peasant societies, an anthropological approach which strives for generalised knowledge about peasants, provides an oversimplified view of them. Peasants do not appear as mature and autonomous agents who pursue their individual projects in life. Furthermore, I made the point that the study of individuals also contributes to a better understanding of the interrelationship between different social fields, e. g. religion and economy. Both strands of literature, on peasant societies and on Islam in the region, propose different answers to the question of how to explain Musa’s value orientation. This gave a certain twist to chapter G. as it made me take a stance towards the question of to what extent religion influenced Musa’s value orientation. Chapter G. thus might also be read as a contribution to the question of the influence of Islam on everyday behaviour in rural Niger. But a theoretical point might also be made here. It seems as if the study of individuals is also the study of the loci in which different social fields interact. It is individuals who integrate, for instance, religious ideas into their social relations. It seems as if in-depth studies of individuals might further our aim to understand how and when events in one social field trigger consequences in other social fields, or – if I might come back to Central Niger – how and when religion shapes everyday behaviour.

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Films Sa’ad, Abullahi Issubu (Director), & Hoechner, Hannah (producer) (2011). Duniya Juyi Juyi/How Life Goes [Docu-drama]. Kano, Nigeria: Goethe Institute. http://www. qeh.ox.ac.uk/research/video/video-hlg.

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Casettes Malam Yakuba. Sermon on cassette. Purchased on Sabon Gari market in Kano in 2005. Malam Numari (pseudonym, chosen by myself). Sermon on cassette. Purchased at Munari market in 2011.

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Index Achebe, Chinua 286 actor, defined 18–20 Adeleye, Rowland Adevemi 295 Alves, João Pedro Galhano 22 anger 53, 222 – and Islamic teaching 187, 297 – and marriage 87 – and patience 164–5 – and self-control 226, 298 Atran, Scott 285 Baier, Stephen 22, 145, 295 Balandier, Georges 277 Baroin, Catherine 22 Beck, Lois 238, 241–51, 258 Becker, Gary Stanley 20, 230, 239, 251– 62, 313–4 Bernus, Edmond 22, 226 Biehl, João 13, 238, 241, 245–50 Böhler, Dietrich 261 Bourdieu, Pierre 20 Brenner, Louis 293–5 Brigaglia, Andrea 127, 287–92, 295 chef de canton, see sarki Cohen, Abner 145 Cohen, Ronald 17 conflict – and children 213 – and father 109–15, 214 – and field-research 49, 53, 56, 108 – and kinship group 121, 123 – and marriage 85, 213 – and social relations 243, 269, 273, 286 – and the village 26, 52, 134, 138, 273 – between desires 78, 206, 211

– in Plateau State 147–9 – proliferation of 122 conflict-avoidance 122, 222, 224 Clough, Paul 53, 79n., 88n., 103, 105n., 181, 207n., 209n., 223, 269n. Cole, Jennifer 79n. confidence 200–5, 235, 297, 298, 311 Cooper, Barbara M. 34, 52, 79n., 88n., 269n. Crapanzano, Vincent 13, 238, 241, 247– 51, 258 credit 38, 53–4, 81, 90, 129, 167, 175–6, 178, 181, 193, 215, 221 Czarniawska, Barbara 48, 56 Dan Fodio, Usman 296 Danfulani, Umar Habila Dadem 147 Dunbar, Roberta Ann 26n., 29n., 284, 296, 308n. Dupire, Marguerite 22, 93n., 112, 220n. Elwert, Georg 310 equinamity 62, 165, 228, 310–1 Eyoh, Dickson 149 Finke, Peter 20 Fitzpatrick, Joseph Frederick John 147 Fortes, Meyer 14, 77n., 112 Fortier, Corinne 187n., 287–8, 295 Fuglestad, Finn 25n., 284, 296, 308n. Giddens, Anthony 16, 231, 239, 251, 253–8, 260–2, 313–4 Girtler, Roland 56 God – accepting God’s will 228, 297, 303 – and Fayda Tijaniyya 289–90

326

Index

– and gratefulness 194, 223, 228, 297, 300, 305, 309 – and Islamic teaching 296–309 – and self-control 307–8 – belief in 181 – forgiving 62, 186 – granting gifts 97, 202, 298 – God’s expectations 62, 83, 181–4, 193, 201, 203, 225, 297, 298, 302–7, 309 – God’s word 189 – protection by 140, 191 – reward and punishment by 108, 181, 184–6, 203, 297, 300 – soliciting God 62, 131–2, 141, 191, 199 – trust in 203, 205, 280, 297, 298, 300, 304–5, 309, 311 – veneration of and interacting with 62, 74, 75, 159, 181–3, 182n., 193, 203, 208 Goffman, Erving 222 Grégoire, Emmanuel 22, 145, 178, 193 Gudeman, Stephen 264, 278–81, 285–6, 309 Haour, Anne 16, 161n. Hausa – dangi 118 – divorce among 207n., 272 – ethnic group 16–7, 22, 161n. – ethnography 79, 106n. – gandu/gayauna 80n., 103 – goals and values 207n., 209, 209n., 223 – history 266n., 268n., 295, 309n. – in and around Kimoram 24, 25, 29–30, 43, 51, 125, 296 – in Nimari 146–7, 160 – language and literature 107n., 188, 297 – male companionship and friendship 49, 55, 57, 142 – marriage, marital relation 79, 86n. – migration 145–6 – Musa as a Hausa 13, 16, 237 – religion 180n., 290–2, 295, 299

– urban Hausa culture 170 – women 84 Heiss, Jan Patrick 22, 44, 218, 228, 283, 295 Higazi, Adam 147 Hill, Polly 36, 38n., 41n., 79, 80n., 86n., 103, 104, 104n., 105, 105n., 207, 272n. Hirshman, Albert O. 20 Hiskett, Mervyn 289n., 290–3 Hoechner, Hannah 187n. Hollan, Douglas 14, 237 hope – and Islamic teaching 297, 304–5, 309 – and Musa 55, 176, 182, 198, 209, 234, 298, 304–5, 309 Horton, Robin 201 Imam, Alhaji Abubakar 108 individual, defined 18–20 Islam – and education 43, 109, 113 – and gender relations 269 – and Musa 60–2, 140–1, 181–94, 201–5, 208–12, 218, 223, 231, 234, 236, 270 – as explaining features of society 281, 285 – influence of Islam onto Musa 295– 309, 310–1 – in the region 264, 286–95 Jackson, Michael 239, 259–60, 313 Joas, Hans 261 Johnson-Hanks, Jennifer 231 Kastner, Kristin 56 Kearney, Michael 261, 264, 281–4, 286 Kilani, Mondher 35, 133n., 134n., 135n., 138n. kinship 117–127 – and childrens’ education 96 – and clusters of kinsmen 41, 42, 129, 273 – and commensality 72, 274

Index – – – – – – – – – – – – –

and daily interaction 74–5 and exploiting kinship relations 29, 219 and fosterage 34, 92 and help 38, 95, 106, 166, 219, 268–9 and labour migration 145, 162–3 and land ownership/use of land 26, 35 and rituals 132–3 and zumunci 306 kinship group, recognition by 209–11 outside the village 43 relations 210, 214–7, 269 relations to the animal world 197 system and terminology 39–40, 273, 274, 277 Konrad, Walter 22 Krämer, Mario 25 Krause, Jana 147 Krings, Matthias 195, 196 Kühme, Walter 180n., 308n. Lange, Dierck 308n. Last, Murray 293–5 Launay, Robert 127n., 189, 286, 292, 295 LiPuma, Edward 14 love – and family 117, 261 – and marriage 79, 97, 207n., 227 – and Musa 85–91, 162, 173, 207–8, 210 – and women 162 – Musa mediating in 158 ‘love’ of others 227, 310 Luhmann, Niklas 253 Lund, Christian 21, 22, 25n., 26n., 27n., 30n., 44, 126n. Mackie, John L. 223 maigari (village headman) 30, 98, 123, 200, 204, 234, 261 Malinowski, Bronisław 201, 311–2 Marie, Alain 108 marriage – and affines 128–9 – and bridewealth 41

327

– and choice of marriage partners 86, 273–4, 277 – and invocation 187 – and loneliness 78 – and medicine 198 – and Musa 38, 60–1, 77–91, 110, 111, 188, 207–8, 210–1, 225, 227 – and protection of the wife’s rights 85, 224 – and respect 208, 210 – and rights and duties of marriage-partners 79–82 – and status 77–9 – and the sarki 27 – expenses 34, 85–6, 95, 96, 106, 266 – expenses and fosterage 92–3 – forced (auren dole) 86–8, 97, 225, 227 – in Nimari 180 – of cousins 41, 41n. – responsibility of financing 111, 274 – stability of 272, 277 – virilocality of 41 Masquelier, Adeline 190n., 289n. Mato, Maman Waziri 35, 133n., 134n., 135n., 138n. Meillassoux, Claude 264, 271–9, 283–6, 309–10 Meunier, Olivier 127n., 190n Mijinguini, Abdou 108n. Mortimore, Michael J. 38n. Nadel, Siegfried Ferdinand 19n. Nagel, Thomas 56 Netting, Robert McCorkie 147 Nicolas, Guy 65, 118n., 119n., 127n., 131n., 142n. ,180n., 196, 268n. Niger 21–2, 43–4 – as a theme in labour migrants’ conversations 169, 179, 229 – history of 25n., 26n., 34, 308n. – migration from 145–6, 150, 283 – religion in 296 – state of 283

328

Index

Nigeria – compared to Niger from Musa’s perspective 91, 108, 207 – in Musa’s life history 60–1, 110, 195 – labour migration to 37–8, 43, 58, 87, 94, 95, 104, 144–80, 228 – permanent migration to Nigeria as Musa’s project 90, 98, 112–4, 262 Nigerien identity, and Musa 237 obedience – and children’s education 97 – and marriage 87, 97 – and Musa 213–4, 227, 303, 310 – and Musa’s wife 82–3, 184 – and one’s father 107, 184, 213–4, 227 – and religion 108, 183–4, 298, 300, 302–3, 304, 305, 310 – in social relations 274, 276, 310 – in the village 274 Okely, Judith 47 Olivier de Sardan, Jean-Pierre 22, 26n., 34 Onselen, Charles van 13 Parkin, Robert 39 patience – among villagers 164–5, 166, 219, 139 – and childrens’ education 97 – and Islamic teaching 182, 184, 194, 201, 223, 225, 300, 306, 309 – and modes of deliberation 233–4 – and Musa 164–5, 184, 193, 223, 224–5, 230, 307, 310 – and self-control 226 – exemplifying reason 226 peasant – death of peasantry 281–4 – Musa’s self-perception as a 236–7 – peasant society and Kimoram 284 – peasant studies 263–4, 285–6, 314–5 – peasant work and capitalism 275–6

– peasants defined 264–6 – peasants in Kimoram and Islamic scholarship 308–9 – social structures of peasant societies 264–85 – values 265–6, 276, 280–1, 310–1 person, defined 18–20 Piette, Albert 18n., 239, 251, 255–8, 262, 313–4 Platte, Editha 80 Popitz, Heinrich 16 power – and chef de canton 27 – and children 94 – and father 107–8, 115 – and Qur’an 137 – in action and interaction 16, 212, 243, 253–5, 258, 273–4, 277, 286 – in family 117 – in marriage 81–5 Raynaut, Claude 34, 79, 79n., 81, 84n., 92n., 93n., 107, 118, 119n., 127n., 134, 134n., 142n., 269n. Redfield, Robert 264–6, 276, 278–83, 285, 308, 310 Riesman, Paul 79n., 88n., 213, 218–9, 221, 226–7 Rivera, Alberto 264, 278–81, 285–6, 309 Rossi, Benedetta 16, 145, 161n., 204n. Sa’ad, Abdullahi Issubu 187n. sarki (chef de canton) 25–30, 44, 80, 125, 147, 196, 265 Schimank, Uwe 20 Scholze, Marko 164n., 178 Scott, James 277 self 14, 19 – anthropology of the self 14 – Musa’s self 193–4, 202–3, 228, 234, 236–7 self-activation 211, 240, 243 self-control – and behaviour 212, 216, 256, 269, 298

Index – and Musa 226, 309–10 – and Ramadan 184 – and religion 203, 300, 307, 309–10 self-esteem 202, 240, 243, 248, 253, 258 self-improvement 203, 208 Shostak, Marjorie 13 Sieder, Reinhard 47 Smith, Mary F. 41, 41n., 77n., 79, 85, 86n., 92, 93n., 133n., 134n. Sounaye, Abdoulaye 296 Spiro, Melford E. 14, 19 Spittler, Gerd 16, 28n., 30n., 44, 46, 86n., 170, 231, 266n., 268, 277, 280n. Tamari, Tal 293–5 tension – and field-research 49, 54, 120–1 – and kinship group 124 – in the village 56, 120–1, 134, 163 – in Plateau State 147–9 – in social relations 269, 271, 274, 277, 285 Tugendhat, Ernst 16, 49–50, 201, 234, 238–46, 248–58, 260–2, 313–4 Verne, Markus 38n., 79, 81, 86n., 119n., 138n., 218n.

329

Vikør, Knut 289 village headman, see maigari Weber, Max 239, 263, 311–2 Wikan, Unni 238, 241, 244–5, 249–50 Wolf, Eric R. 264, 266–72, 270n., 277– 86, 309–19 work – and age 34–5, 37–8, 58–9, 78 – and authority 82, 84, 104, 273–4 – and children 94, 96–7, 101–2, 208, 272 – and motivation 96, 167, 204, 207, 210, 212–3, 221 – and Ramadan 183–4 – as a value 229–30, 310–1 – compared 180 – for the community 140–2 – gender division of 33, 58, 185 – of hawking bread and tea 154–8 – on the field 66–70 – prayer as 182 Works, John Arthur 292 Yahaya, Ibrahim Yaro 296

This study is some kind of experiment. Anthropology does not select a person in the field, try to empirically research their present life, describe it, analyse it in theoretical terms and, as far as possible, explain it. However, this is the main objective pursued in this book. The field subject who becomes a theme in this book is Musa, a Hausa peasant from Niger. On the basis of an account of his present life, this book also tries to show that the study of individuals “as such” is a topic for anthropology which deserves to be investigated further and it tries to fathom what the contribution of a study which focuses on an individual “as such” might be for other fields of interest in anthropology. *** Jan Patrick Heiss is Lecturer at the Department of Social Anthropology and Empirical Cultural Studies (ISEK) at the University of Zurich. He has published on the anthropology of work, methods and peasants. He has done field-research in Niger, Nigeria and Chad.