By Muhammad Sabiu Danmaliki
Today, I want to pay respect to Buba Jangebe, ‘KARE GARKE’. He carved a niche for himself by allowing his wrist to be amputated in accordance with Sharia law, which was being enforced in Zamfara State.
When he was found guilty, he told me the authorities asked whether he wanted the punishment waived. He looked them in the eye and said he was a Muslim and gladly welcomed the judgment for Allah’s sake. That conviction stayed with me.
Our chance meeting happened at my residence sometime around 2005. It was harmattan — the dry wind carried dust into my living room in Gusau, and the scent of suya from the roadside mixed with the faint smell of Izal on my tiled floor. I welcomed him in, offered him a chair, and we sat down to reminisce about his ordeal.
It was a very frank talk. The stump where his right hand used to be rested on his lap, calm and unashamed. There, I met a repentant ‘thief’ who had put the past behind him and wanted to move on with his life. He didn’t ask for pity. He asked for dignity.
I vividly recall how a nurse at Government House, Gusau, first broke the news to me. Leaning close in the corridor, he said there was big news but added a caveat: “You have to pay if you want to hear the big news.” I laughed and told my nurse friend I had no money at the time, but I promised that once I did, I would redeem my promise.
Finally, we struck a deal. He told me the story of Jangebe — how a competent Sharia court found him guilty of cow theft, and his wrist was later amputated at Talatan Mafara General Hospital, Gusau, by an experienced medical doctor who was also the personal physician to the then governor of the state.
I met the doctor, now late, during the saga. In his quiet office, he told me he had informed the Medical Council, which gave him the nod to carry out the amputation. Even though he was later penalized and had his licence revoked, the doctor insisted he had not violated any law governing his practice. His voice didn’t shake.
The amputation dominated the news both locally and internationally. For me, it brought out the best in me as a journalist. When I interviewed Jangebe with the assistance of my nurse friend, it was a scoop — and one of my finest reports. My then MD, when he came to Zamfara on an official trip, said that story sold like hot cakes. According to him, that day there wasn’t a single unsold copy of Tribune on the streets in the whole of the South-Western region. Even after publication, he said vendors and readers were still trooping to the headquarters of Tribune at Oke Ado in Ibadan, Oyo State, asking for “that Jangebe paper.”
It was during that period I met quite a number of foreign journalists who came to Zamfara to cover the implementation of Sharia. I remember some names like John Pitman of VOA, Emily Buchanan of BBC, Juda Ngwenya of Reuters, and William Wallis of the Financial Times among others. Maybe one day, I will write about these fantastic journalists. Their recorders, their notebooks, their disbelief — it was all new to them. Faced with these realities, I ran into Jangebe again one day at Government House sometime around 2005. A certain amount of money had been approved for him, but unfortunately, a top government official wanted to sit on it. I saw the frustration in Jangebe’s eyes. That was how destiny brought us together.
I assured him I would collect the money. I met the government official on his behalf and collected what was approved for him. I took Jangebe to my house. The aroma of tuwo shinkafa and miyan tauche from my kitchen filled the air. I offered him food, we ate, and later I took him to the motor park. That simple act was the beginning of my robust relationship with him. Gradually, I became his unofficial media aide.
When journalists came to interview him, he would call and say, “Oga Sabiu, I have guests.” Sometimes, after interrogating the journalists and I wasn’t satisfied with their intent, I would ask him not to grant the interview. As a result, dozens of foreign and home-based journalists who came to interview him left empty-handed.
One day, his voice on the phone was different. Tense. He wasn’t comfortable. I could tell he was under immense pressure. He said he had visitors who were pleading with him to enter a black vehicle so they could take him to Italy. Typical of him, he told them he must come to Gusau first to confide in his boss — and that was the crux of the issue. They refused.
He tricked them, saying if they allowed him to see me, he promised he would follow them to Italy. I came face to face with his guests that afternoon. The sun was harsh, and their car idled with the AC on. After interrogating them, they laid out a mouthwatering and almost irresistible deal. I excused Jangebe and we stepped aside. Man to man, we agreed: staying in Nigeria was the best. We went back, I looked them in the eye, and told them he wasn’t going anywhere. I also declined their offer. We would remain in the country, I told them. Instantly, I noticed their smiles faded.
After they left, we sat on the bench in front of my house, the evening call to prayer echoing from the mosque nearby. We reviewed all the offers he had received. Then I asked whether he had seen the governor. He said no.
I took him to Government House that evening. On reaching the governor’s office, I asked him to wait for me in the waiting room while I was ushered in to see the governor. I told the governor I had come with Jangebe, and his face lit up. He was happy to reconnect with him. Later, he was invited inside the spacious office.
I was looking at them as they exchanged pleasantries — two men bound by one of the most ‘controversial’ moments in Zamfara’s history. When we were leaving, the governor handed him an envelope containing half a million naira.
On our way to the motor park, Jangebe tried to press some notes into my palm. I closed his fingers over the money and declined. “Use it judiciously,” I told him. “Uplift yourself.” I wanted him to sleep in my house, but he refused. At that time, insecurity in the state had not yet reared its ugly face. One could travel to any part of the state at any time without fear of being attacked by bandits.
Twenty years later, I still think about that day. In a season when convictions are traded cheaply, Jangebe’s was not for sale — not to Europe, not to the press, not even to sympathy. He taught me that dignity, once you choose it, has to be defended daily. And sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is open your door, offer a plate of food, and listen.
SABIU is a journalist,historian, and trained mediator.