"Of course it's easy, There is only Allah and you want to help a little ", The Lamido smiles for a moment before turning and scratching shoulder. Congested effort is dropped again and the hinges of the hammock threaten to break into disfavor. El Lamido learned long ago that governing is a job that can be done lying down. Issue orders at the blink of an eye like some strange morse code; tab up, point, tab down, raya, it seems to work because a whirlwind of activity rages around his pachyderm forms. The women bring him solicitous bowls of banana and cassava, and a swarm of engulfed children crawl up his belly and scratch behind his ears.. He rolls up the sleeves of his boubou, slaps them away and huffs exhausted at the unbearable heat that inflames the afternoon of Oudjilah.
It seems to work because a whirlwind of activity rages around his pachyderm forms.
Oudjilah, found in northern Cameroon, stuck to the Nigerian border, an unreal territory, a kind of Camelot where time seems to have been trapped in a medieval ticking that beats to the rhythm of its lord's wishes. In many parts of Africa, modernity and tradition coexist in a syncretism that borders on the miracle, no-man's-zones where the force of habit predominates in the exercise of power. In still young democracies where the population is accustomed to the rapacity of their rulers, these situations are experienced naturally, without strangeness. Sultanatos, headquarters, archaic kings ... They all dispute their bite to Leviathan. Cameroon and its lamidates are one more example. Spread across the country, they function as feudal islands escaping the control of the central government
Oudjilah is accessed by a narrow and winding road strewn with boulders that defeat any tire. As you climb the clouds between millet fields and conical huts, one has the feeling of going to ask King Arthur himself for an audience.. The peasants interrupt their tasks to ask if we are going to see the Lamido, with reverence they convey their respects and best wishes to him before resuming life with the hoe. When we arrive at the town we are not greeted by a drawbridge or the singing of trumpets, on the contrary, the path leads to a thatched roof where a mammoth old man rests in front of the television surrounded by children. A guy who proclaims himself as the official guide of the town introduces him to us as Ayoko, the current and illustrious Lamido de Oudjillah, with an approximate age of one hundred and twenty years. I study her highness that despite her boring placidity she does not look more than eighty.
Nos lo presenta como Ayoko, the current and illustrious Lamido de Oudjillah, with an approximate age of one hundred and twenty years
It's funny, But in many parts of Africa the ages of the elderly seem to double abruptly past seventy, as if it were no longer worthwhile to get there in these hostile environments and demand a double ration of veneration and respect. You are amazed at the seemingly ancient centenary old men who energetically cultivate their millet fields or with old women who, if we trust the testimony of their neighbors to their one hundred and thirty, should be exhaling their last breath and yet they snatch their grandchildren with youthful vigor. Old age, unlike in Europe, is trading higher. While our sixties squawk in outrage when you address them from you and sigh for taking years, trying to treat some African "Mamam" with the carefree ways of a young girl can be a risky experience. The old man here retains his preeminent role and satisfactions are expected at the end of the party. It is a compensatory vital order and not devoid of logic.
I am scrutinizing the old man looking like a paleontologist for traces of wrinkles that reveal his biblical age, when the guide offers me even more extraordinary insights. The lick has fifty wives and has fathered over a total of one hundred and sixty-two children throughout his life. At that moment I notice the dozens of old women that swarm among the huts, all dressed in the same red and green boubou. Some much younger women with young children behind them share a uniform ... I look at the old man in disbelief, gives me a satisfied smile back.
El Lamido has fifty wives and has fathered over a total of one hundred and sixty-two children throughout his life
I hallucinate at this force of nature obsessed with spawning left and right, I imagine him as a gigantic satyr with a thousand tentacles spreading spores and exercising uncontrollably the right of pernada for the entire term of Oudjilah . And for a moment I doubt between giving myself to skepticism or asking for a Predictor in case the venerable Lamido between smile and smile has lost his hand. My amazement increases when I pass through the doors of a humble hut and enter the underground palace of the Lamidato. The walls are divided into mud cubicles, each with a kitchen and individual barn where each wife resides that makes up his vast harem. Children scamper in this maze waving pots and chickens. An authentic city under the caverns, with own codes and rules. I accompany the guide to an opening where a balcony offers us a privileged view of the Mora valley. Everything we see belongs to the Lamido, the hillside huts where her older children reside, the fields cultivated by peasants who must pay him a monthly tribute, the herds for which you receive your contribution in kind… For a moment it seems that its centuries-old turtle shadow is about to unfold over the valley, claiming ownership of every last blade of grass, while lovingly shepherding his people.
And how is this huge inheritance shared? The title of lick always passes to the fourth child of the third wife, unfailingly. The idea is to avoid conflicts and unexpected accidents to the firstborn. Not even his own brothers can say for sure who the chosen one is.. My guide, who is also the son of the Lamido, tells me that his mother was one of the first wives, I perceive that he has the secret hope that he may be the chosen one.
The title of lick always passes to the fourth child of the third wife, unfailingly
Evening falls when I leave the palace, many women return from the fields, loaded with bundles of firewood and tools, some are simple rickety old women who contemplate me between curiosity fear, serial slaves, beasts of burden yoked to the yoke of polygamy. We return to the central courtyard where the satrap has come out of his lethargy and handles a remote control with ease. Manchester United play against Chelsea, the crowd of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren screams euphoric in front of the TV, Drogba has scored a goal. He licked barely allowed a smile and a dismissive greeting when he saw me
I stop to take a picture with him and ask him one last question. What do you ask of the years you have left of life?
-Continue to have more women and children with whom to water the earth.
-But at your age it shouldn't be easy right?
– Well of course it's easy, you just have to want, and ... may Allah help you a little.
