Witness to Munso and Bamuso

The first one was in 1968 when the Sarkin Kabin Jega Alhaji Haruna died. On our way to primary school, we noticed that everyone wore mournful looks. Hours later we saw Sarkin Gwandu Haruna Al-Rasheed’s motorcade driving towards the district head’s palace. Though he reigned for 38 years I did not know Sarkin Kabi Haruna […]

The first one was in 1968 when the Sarkin Kabin Jega Alhaji Haruna died. On our way to primary school, we noticed that everyone wore mournful looks. Hours later we saw Sarkin Gwandu Haruna Al-Rasheed’s motorcade driving towards the district head’s palace. Though he reigned for 38 years I did not know Sarkin Kabi Haruna well, having arrived in Jega only a year earlier to start primary school. He was clearly well regarded by Jega people.
 Some weeks later as we were walking back home from school, we saw a popular local figure called Illo Dan Kuberi racing through the town on a hired bicycle. He was saying, “Karari anka ba! Karari anka ba!”  It means “It has been given to Karari.” I had some idea who Karari was. Some weeks earlier our primary school was to play a football match against Alelu Primary School. I was selected to go with the team as a spectator. We set out on foot early morning, walked through narrow bush paths to Kimba village, crossed what looked like a mighty river and continued on foot to Alelu. The trip took the whole day. We were received at Alelu by Karari, the village head, who kept us in thatch-roofed huts and supplied ample fura and tuwo.
There was no hint of resistance to Karari’s elevation to Sarkin Kabi. On the day that Alhaji Usman Mohamed was being turbaned at the Emir of Gwandu’s palace in Birnin Kebbi, all the people of Jega trooped to the highway to welcome him. Thousands of people lined up the route and waited for many hours. Most of us had no idea what to say when the Sarkin Kabi arrived. Presently, an old palace courtier walked along the lines saying, “When the Sarki arrives, do not say ‘Ranka ya dade!’ Do not say ‘Welcome Baba.’ You should say munso.” That is, we like [the choice].
The old man’s message sank in very well for when the new Sarkin Kabi arrived in a motorcade, the crowd exploded with shouts of “Munso! Munso!” Sarkin Kabi Usman was a very jovial man. He once came to our primary school to watch a performance by the Drama Club. The drama was about a royal palace and one boy from the Sarkin Kabi’s household, Na’Allah, played the role of Sarki. He did it so well that Alhaji Usman laughed heartily during the play. His tenure did not end well; both Sarkin Kabi Usman and Sarkin Koko Salihu were removed by the North Western State Government during the mass purges of the Murtala era. I do not know what the Sarkin Kabi’s offence was but I heard that Sarkin Koko’s offence was that he allowed local hunters to hunt down a runway giraffe from a game reserve in Niger Republic. The meat from the slain giraffe was brought to his palace and shared by all the town’s residents. Four years after his removal, Sarkin Kabi Usman entered politics and was elected a member of the old Sokoto State House of Assembly in 1979.
That was a case of munso. On the other hand, I was in Sokoto in 1988 during the Bamuso uprising. The drama began in 1985 when Sarkin Sudan of Wurno Alhaji Shehu Malami delivered a lecture at the NYSC orientation camp at Bodinga. He was reported to have said that only two branches of the Danfodio family, the Muhammadu Bello and Atiku branches ever get to become Sultans. The lecture infuriated Alhaji Ibrahim Dasuki, whose Buhari branch of the Danfodio family had not yet produced a Sultan. Dasuki asked the Sokoto kingmakers to make a clarification. Magajin Garin Sokoto Aliyu Dan Shehu had to announce that any descendant of Danfodio could inherit the Sultan’s throne.
Sultan Abubakar III eventually died on November 1, 1988 and five days later, Sokoto suddenly erupted in wild jubilation that his son Muhammadu Maccido had been appointed the new Sultan. The state-owned Rima Radio also announced it. Hours later the state government disowned the appointment and two days afterwards, it announced Dasuki’s appointment as the new Sultan. A riot then erupted; youths took over all the city’s streets, burning tyres and chanting Bamuso! [We don’t want].
Now, two days after the death of Emir Ado Bayero, one young man sent me a Blackberry chat at 11pm hailing “the new Emir of Kano, Sanusi Ado Bayero.” I was surprised that an emir was appointed at night. I quickly asked, “Has it been announced?” He replied saying “It has not been announced but it has been decided.” That immediately reminded me of what happened in Sokoto so I said, “This is dangerous. Please wait for the official announcement.”
I was therefore not surprised by the turn of events in Kano when some youths took to the streets in protest that a different person was appointed the emir. In Sokoto in 1988, the state government alleged that the earlier announcement of Maccido was a plot by some people to pre-empt its choice. It probably had a point. As I wrote in a newspaper article at the time, “The government is probably right that the illegal declaration [of Maccido] itself was a conspiracy but the spontaneous public celebration of it was not.” I see a certain parallel between Sokoto and Kano in that a highly respected royal father died after five decades on the throne. Sir Abubakar was the Sultan for 50 years while Alhaji Ado Bayero was Emir of Kano for 51 years. In that kind of situation, there will be a strong constituency yearning for continuity through the appointment of the departed man’s son.
For the men who lose out in a royal succession race, it is a very painful experience because no one knows when the throne will become vacant again, unlike a governor or a president’s chair that will be vacant again after four years. In the olden days, a prince who lost a closely fought succession race often had to leave the town with his supporters. Many new towns were founded that way. In today’s world, dissenters do not have to go into exile but they must pay homage to the new chief, as Ado Bayero’s sons reluctantly did last week.
The recent episode in Kano has provoked some questions about certain issues to do with royal succession in the modern day. For example, what should be the role of popularity in the choice? Today’s youths apparently think that their views should count in choosing an emir since they even participate in choosing the governor who appoints the emir. Yet there is an old Hausa saying, “Karambani talakka zaben Sarki,” which means a subject has no business in the selection of a king. The problem with this old saying is that more than ever before, today’s royal fathers need spontaneous love and acceptance from their people. With no role enshrined for them in the 1999 Constitution, the greatest strength the royal fathers have is that the people love them and listen to them. They therefore need to sustain the popularity of the institution.
Yet another area of the selection process that is begging for clarification is, when traditional kingmakers make a selection subject to confirmation by a governor, how much leeway should the latter have in changing the selection? Perhaps one day the government may decide to adopt the model it adopted in the appointment of university vice chancellors. University councils are now free to appoint VCs, rather than recommend three names to the Visitor. State law could be amended to allow kingmakers to appoint an emir rather than recommend three names.
Twenty years ago, I overheard two elderly men mourning the deterioration of traditional rulers’ power in the modern day. Their ideal king was Sarkin Kano Muhammadu Sanusi. Yet, the anecdotal stories that they told to support their assertion sounded to me to be a bit authoritarian. I do not expect Emir Muhammad Sanusi II to emulate all of them.