It was a vast and expansive forest stretching as far as the eye could see, full of lush green plants and all kinds of vegetation — tall and short, thick grasses and various other plants that God had caused to flourish there. Some of them were unknown to humankind; others were medicinal, serving as remedies and protection for the human body.

The greenness of the atmosphere, the abundance of plants, and their freshness were enough to show that this was the rainy season — the season of abundance and blessing. The land was so fertile that it was rare to find a dry or barren patch anywhere. For this reason, Fulani herders had settled there — they built their huts and established a large ruga (settlement), for the place perfectly suited their needs and those of their cattle, whose well-being mattered even more than their own.

It was late afternoon, only a few minutes before sunset — that time when every herdsman hurries to drive his cattle home before nightfall. From deep within the forest, different herds of cows, sheep, and goats were slowly returning toward what the Fulani called their “town.” Each herd was led by its keepers — usually two, three, or four men, sometimes five if they were many. Most of them were men; the women among them were very few.

Gradually, the animals passed by on their way home — and when it seemed they had all gone, another herd appeared in the distance.

These were beautiful cattle — cows, rams, and goats — so striking in their cleanliness and healthy condition that one could not help but notice. Almost all of them were white, with only a few showing patches of brown. But the most captivating sight of all was the beautiful young woman walking behind them, guiding the herd with a single staff in her hand. At first glance, one might think she was not alone, but a closer look revealed she was managing all of them by herself.

She possessed a rare kind of beauty — natural, radiant, and distinct even among the Fulani. It was the kind of beauty that made strangers stop to stare. Her name was Maimunatu, and anyone who saw her for the first time could not easily take their eyes off her. Yet, despite her beauty, not a single person among the herders walking ahead looked back at her, let alone offered to help her drive the animals home before dark. Everyone simply went on with their own herd, leaving her behind as if she didn’t exist.

But she didn’t seem bothered. Though the task was hard and exhausting, she had grown used to it. She wore a black saqi (wrapper), unlike most Fulani women who preferred white. The fabric clung tightly to her body — tighter than usual — so that if not for the inner cloth she wore, one could have glimpsed the gentle rise of her young breasts. A thin black shawl loosely covered her chest — not thick or long enough, but she wore it out of deep attachment, for it held memories and meaning from her past.

Her wrapper too was tied tightly, and on her head she wore a “malafare” — the traditional Fulani hat — both to shield herself from the sun and from the expected rain. The hat allowed the long, braided tail of her doka hairstyle — what the Fulani called biɗeji — to fall gracefully on both sides of her face and down her back, adding to her natural beauty and giving her a distinctly Fulani look.

Her ears were bare; she wore no earrings — she didn’t even own any. But her arms were covered with numerous colorful beads — green and red stones typical of the Fulani. They adorned both wrists, some large, some small, but she wore them like a part of herself — as essential as breathing.

Tied to her waist was a small calabash used for water, fastened firmly — the only personal item she took with her to the grazing fields. On her feet were old but clean rubber sandals, common among herders for walking through bushes and thorny terrain. Though worn, they were well-kept.

With great endurance and determination, she swung her staff, steering the animals with care — though hunger gnawed at her stomach, making her breath shallow. She never struck them; they obeyed her gentle commands. Over time, they had developed an extraordinary bond — she talked to them as though they were humans, and sometimes they seemed to understand her. In truth, she often felt closer to them than to the people she lived among. When she was with them, her worries faded; they were her family.

Slowly, patiently, she guided them toward home.

After a moderately long walk, they reached Rugar Ummaru — a wide settlement dotted with many huts. Some families had even begun building red mud walls to mark their compounds. Behind one of the huts, Maimunatu led her herd toward the enclosure where the animals were tied at night.