Cherished Memories of Zomzomo
As sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves of ancient baobab trees, casting golden patterns on the red earth of Zomzomo, Kebbi State, Nigeria, I was once again transported back to a time of innocence and wonder, to the simple joys of holidays spent in this tranquil village settlement. Zomzomo, nestled graciously after Dabai, carries with it a rich history that intertwines with the very essence of its people, their traditions, and the land they till with reverence.
My heart jumps in excitement, as my mother’s giggle still sings with the evening wind, Grandpa’s firm grips to guide my young feel as I jump from one farmland to the other loudly asking questions. The rice threshers humming heart-felt songs along the happy birds in the sky. I recall picking beans with my mother and fertilizer applying as we composed songs of bravery. As I watched Baba work along these paths with Risa and Joshsigmund, I thought to myself “This is what dreams are made of, I am so grateful God for such a privilege”.
In the olden days, Zomzomo was known as the heart of agricultural prosperity in the region. The fertile soil yielded abundant crops of maize, millet, and rice, sustaining the villagers and fostering a bond between the land and its stewards that transcended generations. The village was a symphony of labor and laughter, as families toiled side by side in lush fields, their songs harmonizing with the gentle rustle of wind through fields of maize, a melody of sustenance and unity.
During the holidays, my sister and I would eagerly anticipate our journey to Zomzomo, where we were greeted with open arms by relatives and friends who welcomed us with a warmth that radiated from their hearts. The days were a canvas painted with rustic simplicity and boundless joy. Each morning, I would wake to the distant calls of birds heralding the dawn, a chorus that beckoned us to embrace the day’s offerings.
One of the most cherished memories was the communal farming activities that brought the villagers together in a harmonious dance with nature. As the sun rose high in the sky, we would join hands with our newfound friends, tilling the earth, planting seeds of hope, and reaping the rewards of our collective efforts. The earthy scent of wet soil mingled with the sweet fragrance of ripening crops, creating a sensory tapestry that wove itself into the fabric of our memories.
The art of hunting was not just a means of sustenance but a tradition passed down through generations, a sacred communion between man and the wild. Guided by experienced elders, we would embark on thrilling expeditions into the lush forests that surrounded Zomzomo, our hearts pounding in rhythm with the ancient pulse of the land. The crackling of dry leaves beneath our feet, the whispers of wind through dense foliage, and the thrill of spotting elusive game all culminated in a primal connection to our primal selves.
Evenings in Zomzomo were a time of storytelling and laughter, as the village came alive with the flickering glow of bonfires and the sounds of drums echoing in the night. We would gather under a canopy of stars, our faces illuminated by the dancing flames, as elders regaled us with tales of heroes and legends long past. The crackle of the fire served as a backdrop to our laughter, a symphony of joy that transcended language and bound us in a shared moment of bliss.
Amidst the simplicity of village life, I discovered the true meaning of joy – not in material possessions or fleeting pleasures, but in the bonds forged through shared experiences and the beauty of everyday moments. Zomzomo taught me that happiness can be found in the smallest of things – a shared meal with loved ones, a playful chase through fields of gold, a quiet moment of reflection under the shade of a baobab tree.
As I stand here, years removed from those halcyon days in Zomzomo, I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude for having been a part of something so pure and unspoiled. The memories of that village settlement, with its farming, hunting, laughter, and the joy of simple things, are etched into my soul like the patterns on a calabash gourd, a reminder of the essence of life itself.
Zomzomo, with its rich history and gentle spirit, will forever hold a special place in my heart, a beacon of light that illuminates the path back to a time of innocence and wonder. And as I close my eyes, I can almost hear the rustle of wind through fields of maize, feel the warmth of the bonfire on my skin, and taste the sweetness of memories that linger like the aftertaste of fura on a summer evening. “Hmmmm what a glorious feeling.”
