They Call the Fulani Terrorists
They call the Fulani terrorists—
but don’t know their bloodlines.
Don’t know their mothers’ songs,
their nomadic prayers,
their high cheekbones shaped
by desert wind and empire dust.
They call them invaders—
on their own ancestral paths.
Call them ghosts—
because they ride without asking permission
from borders that never existed before.
They say “Sub-Saharan,”
but the Fulani are something older—
a line that reaches into North Africa,
into Berber fire and Saharan stars,
into Moroccan synagogues
and Al-Andalus sighs.
A Moroccan Jew
shares more with the Fulani
than any Bantu
or Yoruba
or Kikuyu
ever will.
But still—
they label them foreign.
They fear their horses,
their memory,
their refusal to belong to anyone.
Terrorist, they say.
Because the Fulani
will not kneel.
Because they do not fit the tribal checklist,
do not serve the nation-state lie,
do not fade.
We must free them—
not with charity,
but with truth.
The Fulani are not lost.
They are silenced.
By those who do not know them
and never will.