The Laughter That United the North — And how we lost it, by Engr. Bello Gwarzo Abdullahi, FNSE
Before politics hardened hearts and suspicion drew borders in our minds, laughter once united Northern Nigeria. Across its vast plains and bustling markets, people from different tribes could meet, mock, and laugh together without offence. The Hausa call the participants in such playful exchange “abokan wasa” — literally “playmates” — where teasing was not insult but affection, and laughter served as an invisible peace treaty. It was one of the North’s most beautiful customs — a heritage of humour that kept its people human, humble, and whole.
Long before colonial boundaries or modern politics, the peoples of the North had perfected this quiet art of peace. From the kingdoms of Kano and Katsina to the Sokoto Caliphate, Borno, and Kwararrafa, communities forged friendships through playful mockery. A Fulani herder might call a Hausa farmer, “You greedy farmer!” and the farmer would reply, “You useless cow keeper!” A Tiv man might jokingly call his Fulani friend “my slave,” and both would laugh, shake hands, and move on — tension dissolved in humour.
These alliances were ancient, often born from wars that ended in reconciliation. Former rivals pledged never again to fight, but to tease instead. Joking relationships became social contracts — binding communities that traded, intermarried, and occasionally quarrelled. They transformed rivalry into familiarity, and difference into dialogue.
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Across the North, the web of laughter stretched far and wide. The Hausa and Fulani relationship remains the best known — neighbours, partners, and perpetual jesters. The Hausa and Kanuri have traded playful insults about accents and scholarship for centuries, while the Gwari joke that the Hausa survive only by farming Gwari land. Between Zazzagawa and Katsinawa, rivalry over beauty, courage, and piety still sparks laughter at weddings and markets. Even among the Fulani and Kanuri, Tera and Jukun, Kanuri and Babur-Bura, and many others, friendly banter continues over cattle, ancestry, and pride.
Within ethnic groups, the tradition thrives as well. Among the Hausa, certain clans and occupations have long-standing joking partners — butchers with farmers, blacksmiths with leatherworkers, palace guards with clerks. Among the Fulani, particular clans engage in ritual teasing during naming ceremonies and festivals. Among the Tiv, Berom, and Nupe, humour between clans or age grades keeps community life lively and free of tension.
Beyond entertainment, this culture carried deep moral weight. It prevented conflict by turning anger into laughter. It allowed the poor to mock the powerful without fear. It acted as a cultural court of appeal — where wit could say what politics could not. In a sense, it was social justice in its purest form: laughter as law, humour as harmony.
But today, that laughter grows faint. Urban life and modern politics have dulled its sound. Identity has hardened; humour has thinned. Many young people no longer understand the difference between mockery and malice. Social media outrage has replaced the old village banter. Where once a joke bridged difference, now a word can ignite division.
Yet traces remain. In Kano, Sokoto, and Bida, echoes of that old laughter still ring through markets and motor parks. On Hausa radio and in Kannywood comedies, some artists strive to revive it — using humour to remind us of who we once were: a people who could disagree and still laugh together.
Northern Nigeria needs that laughter again. In these tense times of farmer–herder conflict, religious friction, and political polarization, the wisdom of joking relationships could once more help us heal. Communities can rebuild trust through shared humour; traditional rulers can host cultural festivals that rekindle old alliances. We can teach our children that laughter, not hatred, is the true heritage of the North.
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Because the ancestors were right: dariya — laughter — is indeed the cure for anger.
Our greatest inheritance is not the splendour of our empires but the humanity of our hearts — the power to turn rivalry into relationship. When the Hausa mocked the Fulani, and the Fulani mocked the Kanuri, they were not enemies; they were family bound by humour. Perhaps it is time we remembered that laughter once did what politics now fails to do: it united the North.
bgabdullahi@gmail.com
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