海角大神

In Boko Haram鈥檚 shadow, a Nigerian perfume-making tradition lives on

Inside Ramatu Zanna Mustapha鈥檚 house, the air is cloudy with burning incense. The earthy, smoky scent of gabgab floats through the rooms, settling on the walls and furniture.

Ms. Mustapha also dabs gabgab, a fragrance made from aromatic woods and burned sugar, directly on her skin several times a day. 鈥淢y husband loves it, and it makes him want to live the rest of his life with me,鈥� explains the 40-something mother of eight. But for Ms. Mustapha, the scent鈥檚 significance runs even deeper than romance.

A centuries-old tradition, gabgab is something she and many other women here consider an integral part of who they are 鈥� 鈥渨hat identifies us as Borno women everywhere we go,鈥� she says.

But recently, this aspect of their identity has come under threat. The Islamist insurgent group Boko Haram roams the northeastern Nigerian forests where gabgab trees grow, making the wood鈥檚 collection extremely dangerous.

Only a few brave perfume-makers dare to continue.

鈥淚f we don鈥檛 go, we risk losing the tradition entirely,鈥� says Muktar Alhaji Bukar. 鈥淲e want to ensure that these scents that keep families together aren鈥檛 erased.鈥�

A sweet history

Mr. Bukar comes from a long lineage of gabgab-makers, a profession whose history stretches back centuries, to when northeastern Nigeria was part of Kanem-Bornu, a vast empire stretching across north and central Africa. Camel caravans passing through the trade city of Maiduguri brought aromatic resins and the knowledge of how to turn them into perfume. Locals soon began making their own version with gabgab, or coral trees.

Over time, the perfume became inextricably linked to Borno culture, a scent that carried women here into their adult lives, and sent the region鈥檚 men hurrying after them.

When he was a child, the perfume-making process felt to Mr. Bukar magical. The pieces of gabgab his father and elder brother hauled into the house looked unremarkable. But soaked in sugar and perfume oils and burned golden brown over a fire, the wood revealed itself as something extraordinary.

At 11, he became his father鈥檚 apprentice, and at 17, he began joining his elder brother on trips to the Sambisa Forest, where sprawling savannah backs up into dense groves of low trees scattered with thornbushes. There, the brothers found and felled gabgab, a short tree with rough bark and branches that twist toward the ground.

But about 15 years ago, when Mr. Bukar was 20, a radical religious movement called Boko Haram began a violent campaign for control of the region. As Boko Haram fighters were driven out of cities like Maiduguri, they sought refuge in Sambisa, which became the group鈥檚 hideout. Militants used their knowledge of the forest鈥檚 dense, unfriendly vegetation to their advantage, planting explosive devices and hiding hostages such as the 276 schoolgirls they kidnapped from the nearby town of Chibok in 2014.

A dangerous journey

As a result, trips to Sambisa are no longer the carefree journeys of Mr. Bukar鈥檚 adolescence.

Now, they begin with a call to local vigilantes. If they tell him the area is safe, he stuffs his chain saw into a sack and drives three hours to the forest.

Once there, he drags his chain saw through the trunks of gabgab trees, heart pounding. A group of four or five vigilantes carrying long muskets scans the forest around him, looking for insurgents hiding in the rocky hills nearby.

Mr. Bukar tries to push the 鈥渨hat-ifs鈥� out of his head and focus on the work, but sometimes that is impossible. This year, several local hunters and farmers have been captured and killed near here, part of a wider resurgence by Boko Haram. In April, Borno state governor Babagana Umara Zulum said that Nigerian forces were 鈥渓osing ground鈥� to the insurgents.

鈥淚 go to bed praying never to come face-to-face with Boko Haram,鈥� Mr. Bukar says.

The 鈥榟ome of the scents鈥�

The conflict also means he collects far less gabgab wood on each trip than he once did. Many other perfume-makers have quit altogether. But Mr. Bukar says his identity 鈥� and his income 鈥� is too tied up in gabgab to leave it behind.

鈥淓veryone identifies me as gidan kamshi,鈥� he says 鈥� literally 鈥渢he home of the scents鈥� in the Hausa language.

Meanwhile, the demand for his perfumes remains strong; he now employs 30 young people to help make and sell the perfumes.

Among them is Umar Abatcha, who before the Boko Haram insurgency lived with his family on a farm in Kumshe, a village outside Maiduguri. One night in 2014, insurgents stormed his village on motorcycles. Waking to the sound of gunfire, Mr. Abatcha and his family ran for their lives. One of his brothers and two uncles died in the attack.

鈥淲e lost everything overnight,鈥� he recalls. Today, Mr. Abatcha sells Mr. Bukar鈥檚 scents at Maiduguri鈥檚 Monday market, a crowded maze of shops, stalls, and tents where traders hawk everything from spices to textiles. He says the work has enabled him to buy a new house for his family on the edge of the city, and to send his younger siblings to school.

Mr. Bukar takes pride in stories like that. Mr. Abatcha might have fallen into the hands of Boko Haram recruiters, who prey on Maiduguri鈥檚 unemployed and disillusioned young men.

Still, each time he goes into the forest, he knows what a risk he is taking.