At the mercy of “Sharks”
When Kande Garba returned to Katsit village in northern Nigeria nine years ago, she expected to earn more growing ginger than her husband brought home as a technician in a textile company in Kaduna city. After all, Katsit was known for ginger and the crop was in demand.
Similarly, John Umaru was not worried when he, too, returned to the village after cutbacks by his employer, the Kaduna state government. He was sure ginger farming would bring in more income than he had received as a primary school teacher.
At first, their projections looked correct. Prices quickly doubled, recalls Garba. Whatever thrill they must have all felt at the trade in the cash crop was soon to turn misery when they plummeted. In 1998, Umaru’s first bag of ginger sold for 4,000 Naira. Now, he says, a bag fetches 1,500 - 1,800 Naira.
They blame the middlemen who buy the crop.
“They say there is no money, so they buy it at their price”, says Garba.
Individual farmers don’t deal directly with the ginger-processing plant that is situated about two hours drive from the village because they don’t produce enough for factory use and they lack information and confidence.
Three years ago, they decided on finding some lasting solution to their misery. A Ginger Farmers Association was formed. The very first attempt by the new organisation to reach both the local government authority and the ginger factory ended in disaster.
“I was one of those who tried to visit the local government and the ginger company in 2004”, recalls the retired teacher. “We had an accident on the way. One of us died. They didn’t even pay us a condolence visit. Since then, nothing has happened.”
He says farmers tried to fix a price themselves, but the attempt collapsed: “People say they have to sell at the price they are offered or they will have nothing to eat.”
Garba agrees: “Only few people here have other means of livelihood. Many of us can’t afford to dry the ginger and hold it until we get a better price. So people give it to the middlemen at a giveaway price.”
They also find it hard to get to the nearest market at Ungwa Rimi, a seven kilometre trek on an unpaved track. If they refuse to sell at the middlemen’s price, they have to walk the same distance back with their heavy load.
According to 39-year-old Joseph Bongo, who has been growing ginger for 17 years, ginger farming is hard labour, without modern tools, for little return.
“I plant five hectares a year”, he says. “In all, I spend about 120,000 Naira on labour and fertiliser. All I make is 70,000 Naira.”
Umaru says he invests between 50,000 and 70,000 Naira a year on his farm and earns 70,000-80,000 Naira. That is without paying labourers: “My children and the people living with us work on the farm with me, so I’m able to reduce losses.”
His hands show the toll taken by the work. The years of cutting and peeling ginger have turned them the colour of chalk.
Most Katsit farmers are struggling: few believe help will come from their elected representatives.
“We have an elected councillor. He has not rendered any assistance since his election. Since he was chosen he has not helped us. In fact, he no longer has any interest in this place,” says Umaru, with a hint of contempt in his voice.
Garba grins ruefully at the idea of approaching their representatives for assistance. She looks around, shrugs and says resignedly, “Well, I don’t know if they can do anything.”
Similarly, John Umaru was not worried when he, too, returned to the village after cutbacks by his employer, the Kaduna state government. He was sure ginger farming would bring in more income than he had received as a primary school teacher.
At first, their projections looked correct. Prices quickly doubled, recalls Garba. Whatever thrill they must have all felt at the trade in the cash crop was soon to turn misery when they plummeted. In 1998, Umaru’s first bag of ginger sold for 4,000 Naira. Now, he says, a bag fetches 1,500 - 1,800 Naira.
They blame the middlemen who buy the crop.
“They say there is no money, so they buy it at their price”, says Garba.
Individual farmers don’t deal directly with the ginger-processing plant that is situated about two hours drive from the village because they don’t produce enough for factory use and they lack information and confidence.
Three years ago, they decided on finding some lasting solution to their misery. A Ginger Farmers Association was formed. The very first attempt by the new organisation to reach both the local government authority and the ginger factory ended in disaster.
“I was one of those who tried to visit the local government and the ginger company in 2004”, recalls the retired teacher. “We had an accident on the way. One of us died. They didn’t even pay us a condolence visit. Since then, nothing has happened.”
He says farmers tried to fix a price themselves, but the attempt collapsed: “People say they have to sell at the price they are offered or they will have nothing to eat.”
Garba agrees: “Only few people here have other means of livelihood. Many of us can’t afford to dry the ginger and hold it until we get a better price. So people give it to the middlemen at a giveaway price.”
They also find it hard to get to the nearest market at Ungwa Rimi, a seven kilometre trek on an unpaved track. If they refuse to sell at the middlemen’s price, they have to walk the same distance back with their heavy load.
According to 39-year-old Joseph Bongo, who has been growing ginger for 17 years, ginger farming is hard labour, without modern tools, for little return.
“I plant five hectares a year”, he says. “In all, I spend about 120,000 Naira on labour and fertiliser. All I make is 70,000 Naira.”
Umaru says he invests between 50,000 and 70,000 Naira a year on his farm and earns 70,000-80,000 Naira. That is without paying labourers: “My children and the people living with us work on the farm with me, so I’m able to reduce losses.”
His hands show the toll taken by the work. The years of cutting and peeling ginger have turned them the colour of chalk.
Most Katsit farmers are struggling: few believe help will come from their elected representatives.
“We have an elected councillor. He has not rendered any assistance since his election. Since he was chosen he has not helped us. In fact, he no longer has any interest in this place,” says Umaru, with a hint of contempt in his voice.
Garba grins ruefully at the idea of approaching their representatives for assistance. She looks around, shrugs and says resignedly, “Well, I don’t know if they can do anything.”
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