A Battle for Sweetness: My Nightmarish Honey Harvest with 'Abunazuwa'

 

​By A A Mammara Onyapa

​"Abunazuwa"—a Hausa word meaning "the future promises a lot of good for the living"—is a fitting, hopeful name for a traditional title holder in Obi, Nasarawa State, North Central Nigeria. His given name is Agbo Osapa, but courtesy of his only sister, Hajiya Hannatu Osapa, he earned this grand title. When asked for the title’s greeting, she offered: "Nasara, sai mai yawan Rai zaigani," a profound phrase meaning: "Unless death spares one, he would not be able to witness the future."

​Little did I know, as I set out with him one evening, that this hopeful name and philosophical greeting would soon be tested by a swarm of angry, determined bees.

​Twilight on the Locust Bean Tree

​The adventure began as twilight was already gathering. We were at Okpobi, Abunazuwa’s popular farm, on a mission to harvest honey. A massive locust bean tree stood sentinel, and tucked into a hole on one of its high branches was the treasure: a thriving hive hosting tens of thousands of bees.

​The hour was late, but Abunazuwa was resolute. He insisted on climbing. I stationed myself anxiously at the foot of the tree, looking up at the silhouette of my elder and namesake-grandfather.

​What I didn't know was that he had climbed top of that tree, not with a proper smoker, but with a small box of matches crudely hidden in the inner pocket of his Dan chiki (underwear shirt), underneath layers of heavy robes better known as an Agwada.

​The scene that followed was pure, escalating drama.

​Abunazuwa, high above, began a desperate, silent struggle. He groped repeatedly for the matches, his hand frustrated by the multiple, thick layers of his traditional attire. The matches wouldn't come out. Meanwhile, sensing the invasion, the bees began to swarm his face.

​The Matchbox Fiasco

​I watched in mounting horror as he slapped his face again and again, trying to fend off the initial scout attacks while simultaneously wrestling with his pocket. I felt a growing urge to intervene, but I was powerless; I could only wait and watch.

​He refused to give up. He waited until the last sliver of twilight was fading before his hand finally, triumphantly, pulled out the box. The drama, however, was far from over.

​In the near-darkness, he struck a stick against the box, once, twice, expecting a flame. Instead, the matchstick only vomited acrid, stinking smoke. A bee’s one true enemy is fire. The smell of this failing ignition was all the declaration of war they needed.

​The attack was instantaneous and overwhelming.

​As the bees launched their main offensive, Abunazuwa, in a panic, slipped halfway down the trunk. He scrabbled, shifting back up again, one hand desperately fanning his face while the other clung to the rough bark of the locust bean tree. The sight was so absurd—a powerful title-holder reduced to a flustered child by nature’s tiny soldiers—that a wild, nervous laugh escaped me. (Had he been my junior, I confess, a sound whipping would have been in order!)

​The Sting-Spree

​Then came his final, frantic instruction: "Give me 'Emu'!

​I was baffled. Emu? He tried to describe it, his adjectives tumbling out in a rush of panic until he pointed. The Emu was the long stick he had capped with grasses and left ready to light, the intended torch and smoker.

​He took the stick and managed to light it, firing back at the bees with his improvised defense. But it was too late. The entire hive had been invited to the "stinging spree."

​The legendary Abunazuwa, the man whose name promised a good future, was finally overwhelmed. He got to know his father's name—a local expression for screaming in utter surrender—without any readiness.

​I couldn't help myself. I laughed—standing, bending, squatting, and then standing again to roar with laughter. Abunazuwa yelped, he screamed, he barked at the relentless insects. They stung him without mercy and celebrated their victory with a renewed, buzzing ferocity. He fired back with his last reserves of quickness, smartness, and creative defense, but it was a losing battle.

​That night, Abunazuwa was a JJC (Johnny Just Come) in the hands of the bees. It was a man's unforgettable struggle with nature for supremacy, a fierce battle for a taste of sweetness, all in the twilight, and all without breaking the hive. The honey was eventually recovered, but the price in dignity and sting-count was immeasurable.

​A A Mammara Onyapa is a writer and one of the many grand sons of Abunazuwa.