ISKOKI

A novel, serialised. PART ONE

I must first offer my apologies for my prolonged absence from this space. In the time away, I have been deeply engaged in a project that has held my attention for several years. Today, I am excited to share with you the serialized unfolding of a book I have been laboring over—a work born out of extensive research into the history of a town located in what is now north-eastern Nigeria, known as Ningi in Bauchi State. This work also delves into the rich cosmology of Bori, a Hausa religion centered around spirit possession.

The novel weaves together the lives of six characters, all inhabitants of a mountainous town in this historically significant region. The area, infamous in the 19th century for its deep involvement in slave raiding and its bold rebellion against the Sokoto Caliphate—an Islamic empire established in 1804—serves as the backdrop to my exploration of complex themes. Through the lenses of justice, power, slavery, and love, the novel delves into the turbulence that characterized this era, foregrounding voices long silenced by the dominant historical narratives. At its heart, it seeks to give prominence to those typically relegated to history’s margins: women, slaves, concubines, and sex workers. Furthermore, the novel ventures into the intricate intersections of mental health and spirituality, where Islamic cosmology meets the ancient Hausa religious framework.

In the course of my research into Bori, I encountered remarkable yet lesser-known figures who have been largely overlooked in the chronicles of the Sokoto Caliphate. In Nigeria, the Caliphate and the jihad of 1804 that gave rise to it are predominantly cast in a positive light, with towering figures like Uthman dan Fodio and his family celebrated and immortalized. But my focus has been on uncovering the hidden histories—the stories of those who suffered under the Caliphate’s rule, those whose names have been erased from the official record, and those who resisted its authority, either in silence or in open defiance. One of the most startling revelations driving this exploration is that, at its peak, between 25% and 30% of the population of the Sokoto Caliphate were enslaved. Some scholars argue that this figure may have been as high as half of the total population.

Among the most pivotal historical figures I have come across is Hamza, a rebel who led an uprising between 1846 and 1849. Hamza was eventually slain in battle against Bauchi, a state that formed part of the Caliphate. Despite his death, Hamza's rebellion lingered, as his confederation persisted for nearly five decades (1850-1902), waging war from their mountain stronghold in Ningi before finally succumbing to British forces. A figure of great interest in my research is Hamza’s wife, Atta, who, though only briefly mentioned in historical records, is noted to have played a vital role in selecting the leaders of the confederation in the years following Hamza’s death. The scant details about Atta kindled my imagination, leading me to craft a narrative in which she, alongside other women—enslaved and free—who likely influenced men such as Hamza, step out of the shadows and into the spotlight. My novel is an attempt to restore their stories, while also addressing the long-lasting legacies of slavery from that time.

As I reflected on the broader themes of this work, one question repeatedly emerged: what are the stories that lie beyond the grand and often seductive narratives of history? Where are the "small" stories, the "minor" histories that rarely find their way into the mainstream record?

A second line of inquiry was inspired by the paradox of individuals becoming what they once opposed. Hamza, the rebel who fought against the tyranny of the Caliphate, eventually succumbed to the same vices he had once sought to eradicate. He became a terror to neighboring states and, ironically, a slave raider, much like the regime he had rebelled against. This mirrors the Caliphate's own origin story: the jihad that brought it into being was driven by Fulani leaders who condemned the unjust taxation imposed by Hausa rulers. Yet, just a few decades later, Hamza found himself railing against the same injustices while inflicting his own brand of cruelty. This raises a profound question: how do we become the very things we once stood against?

Intimacy, in its many forms, is another theme I explore in this novel. Nigerian historical accounts often overlook relationships that transcend the boundaries of gender, class, and status. My novel brings to light connections between enslaved and free individuals, same-gender relationships, and the bonds between people of different generations.

Cosmology serves as a crucial pillar in this narrative as well. Bori holds personal significance for me, offering a counter-narrative to the prevailing story of puritanical Islamic dominance in northern Nigeria. Not too long ago, Bori was openly practiced alongside Islam in towns and cities throughout the north. However, the rise of conservatism has pushed Bori into the shadows, making little room for alternative expressions of faith. What fascinates me is that Bori and Islam have historically coexisted, and even now, many Bori practitioners are also observant Muslims. Yet, in cities like Kano, followers of Bori face the risk of arrest by the Hisbah (religious police) if they publicly perform their rituals or celebrate their beliefs. Bori has also absorbed elements of Islamic cosmology; within the Bori pantheon of spirits (Iskoki), both Muslim and non-Muslim spirits coexist, blending Islamic and pre-Islamic traditions. This fusion challenges the supremacy of so-called "major" religions, which tend to dismiss belief systems like Bori as heretical or pagan.

In my novel, these spirits serve as narrators, offering them the opportunity to critique human hierarchies—the hierarchies of belief, of justice, and of rights.

This is the first of several instalments that I hope to post monthly. I look forward to your comments.