Harmattan (10 page)

‘Let’s see what’s going on,’ Abdelkrim said, opening his door and stepping out into the baking heat.

We sat on the ground in the shade with the Touaregs for what might have been several hours, but to me it seemed like minutes. I did not want my brother to leave.

Abdelkrim told us stories about his army comrades – about getting drunk with Sergeant Bouleb, fights in the barracks, witnessing floggings. He told us of his hopes to become a member of the elite Presidential Guard, about his dream to travel to Europe and America and about meeting girls at the dances in Niamey’s Rivoli Hotel.

Sushie shook her head after my brother had recounted his tale about an encounter with two French female backpackers. ‘You mark what I said earlier!’

Abdelkrim grinned. ‘Oh, Mademoiselle,’ he said, flirtatiously, ‘I take great care. When it rains I always wear a raincoat!’

‘I am so glad to hear that, Monsieur,’ Sushie replied, also smiling.

I was a little irritated that they considered themselves to be talking in code, and even sometimes as if I was not there, but I said nothing. Had they forgotten that I too was almost a woman?

‘Perhaps one day I will find a wealthy European lady,’ Abdelkrim continued. ‘Or, indeed, a beautiful American!’ he added, with a wink in my direction.

Sushie nodded. ‘Uhuh.
Wealthy
European,
beautiful
American, you say?’

‘Did I say that?’ said my brother. ‘Beautiful, ugly, fat, thin – whatever. But she must be wealthy!’

They laughed together. It was a togetherness which both pleased and annoyed me.

Perhaps it was jealousy. I don’t know.

‘And what about you, Mademoiselle?’ my brother asked, following a lull in the conversation.

‘Me?’

‘Your life. Your story. How you came to be here – far away from home. Far away from America, the great
Land of the Free
.’

‘There’s not much to tell, really.’

Abdelkrim raised his eyebrows and enticed her with his open palms.

‘Well, let’s see,’ Sushie said. ‘Grew up outside Boston. Father a medic.

Mother in real estate. No brothers, no sisters. Finished High School. Trained to become a nurse. Met guy. Fell in love. Got engaged, got dumped. Thought “fuck it”, joined VCI and here I am…’

‘You were running away, eh?’

She did not reply.

‘Thought you’d help the poor Africans?’ Abdelkrim said.

‘Whatever.’

Abdelkrim lit a cigarette and then offered one to Sushie.

She shook her head.

‘I’m playing with you, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘I can see that your organisation has helped my people – truly. And I know that you have a good heart.’

Sushie sighed. ‘I think there are a lot of my people who would like to help more. To be able to force countries like the US to waive debt, increase trade with countries like Niger – that sort of thing. We can stand up and shout for what we believe in, sure, but it’s not always enough for some people. Major changes like that occur over a long period of time, I guess. Some of us just want to do something
now – 
anything.’ She spoke wearily, as if she’d had to justify her presence in our country often before. She shrugged and looked at my brother. ‘That’s why I’m in your country, Abdel. It may seem naïve, but that’s why I’m here.’

There was a long silence. I felt too tired to even try to join in with their conversation. Instead, I leaned my head on Sushie’s shoulder and watched the Touaregs opposite. There were five of them in all. Males. Their ages unclear due to the dusty blue
cheches
which covered all but their bloodshot eyes and the bridges of their noses. They looked like they had been travelling forever.
The Free People. The
People of the Veil.
Mysterious, proud, strong. I thought of Miriam’s uncle and the stories that he told about his great journeys. They kept themselves to themselves, speaking to us only occasionally in Djerma between excited exchanges in Tamasheq. They drank mint tea and
eghale
and played
Tiddas
with small stones and twigs which they had laid out with care on a reed mat.

I had just begun to doze off again when Abdelkrim broke the silence.

‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about this man who broke your heart – if you’d like to, that is…’

I looked up at Sushie and rubbed my eyes.

She smiled at me. ‘He was just a guy,’ she said. ‘He was an artist. An asshole, really. Nothing else to tell.’ She drew her knees up close to her chest and hugged her legs. ‘I think this man wasa fool!’ Abdelkrim said.

One of the Touaregs stood up and walked a few metres across the sand. He squatted down and pulled his
jellaba
taut across his knees and, using only his thighs to afford himself some privacy, began to urinate.

Sushie gave a little laugh. ‘They can even make that look elegant!’ she said.

The Touareg finished his business and then began walking back across the sand towards us. After a few strides, he stopped and pointed north towards the horizon.Abdelkrim stood up and followed the Touareg’s gaze. ‘Something’s coming,’ he said. ‘Is it the
camion
?’ I asked.

‘I can’t tell yet.’

Sushie and I got to our feet and peered out across the vast expanse of desert towards the erratically zigzagging dust cloud.

‘It’s stopped again,’ Sushie said, after we had watched the incoming vehicle for some time.

‘Probably stuck,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘It’s very hot now. The sand will be very soft. I don’t think it’s the
camion
.’

I went back into the cool shade of the canopy and lay down, resting my head on my brother’s army-issue kitbag.

I awoke to find a small, scruffy boy standing in front of me. At his feet stood a large, metal pail, the top of which had been covered with an off-cut of jute sacking, folded into a thick square to form a makeshift lid.

‘Drink some of this, Haoua,’ my brother said, handing me a tin can half filled with water and shredded stalks of ginger.

I drank the liquid greedily. It was tepid but delicious. ‘Thank you,’ I said, handing the tin back to Abdelkrim.

‘You will have some, Mademoiselle?’ he said, holding the empty container up to Sushie.‘I can’t drink that, I’m afraid,’ she said, patting her flat stomach. ‘Did once. Big mistake. I’ve been here for a while but my guts still aren’t tough enough for that!’

Abdelkrim lobbed first the tin and then a few coins towards the boy. With a grin, the boy deftly caught everything before lifting his pail and approaching the patiently-waiting Touaregs.

‘Where on Earth did he come from?’ Sushie said.

‘Good question,’ my brother replied. ‘The closest village is at least fifteen kilometres from here. Llingaberi, probably.’

Sushie rubbed at her eyes. ‘All I can see is sand – miles and miles of it!’ She lifted her water bottle from the ground, unscrewed the top and took a swig. ‘Yeuch!’ she said,

‘It’s hot enough to bathe in!’

‘I’ll see if Youssef has anything else,’ Abdelkrim said, nodding towards the large shed and standing up. ‘Sometimes he buys in crates of sodas.’

‘Hmm. I noticed the Sprite sign,’ Sushie said, ‘but, really, I’m okay with my nasty water, Abdel.’

‘I need to stretch my legs, anyway,’ he said, heading off in the direction of the shed. ‘Watch out for those jerks!’ Sushie called after him.

I looked at her, questioningly.

‘The owners of that car,’ she said, pointing towards a heavily laden Citroen estate that I had not noticed previously. ‘They arrived while you were asleep. French.

Arrogant. Let’s just say I didn’t like their attitude.’

The car seemed to be packed to near bursting, with boxes, holdalls, jerry cans, tools and the like. Strapped to its roof rack were a set of sand tracks, several spare wheels, a large canvas bag and still more tools. Mounted above its windscreen was a great array of lights.

Abdelkrim returned a few minutes later and handed Sushie a
Coka
.

‘Heeey!’ she said, with a grin. ‘It’s cold!’

‘He has a generator in there,’ said Abdelkrim.

‘Wow!’ said Sushie, stuffing a thousand CFA note into my brother’s hand.

‘Thanks.’

‘Mademoiselle Sushie!’ he protested. ‘I have bought this for you.’

‘Take it, please, Abdel,’ she said. ‘You said yourself that you didn’t know when you’d see your next wages.’

He feigned a look of displeasure before folding the note and putting it into his pocket. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Sushie took a gulp from the bottle and then smacked her lips. ‘God bless America!’ she said, cheekily.

Abdelkrim nodded. ‘Your French
friends
are playing cards with Youssef.’

‘Those two look like they’re more used to playing with themselves!’ Sushie snorted.Abdelkrim laughed. ‘They’re probably harmless.’

‘What happened?’ I said.

‘Nothing, Little One,’ my brother said. ‘These boys’ manners are not so good. That’s all.’

Sushie spat, expertly, onto the sand. ‘A couple of smart-ass, colonial-minded pigs, Haoua!’ she said, offering me her soda. ‘I’ve met so many like them. They treat your country like a playground.’

‘Beautiful women should learn how to accept a compliment,’ Abdelkrim said, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Walayi!’
Sushie shook her head, as if despairing of my brother.

Abdelkrim winked at me and then took a few strides towards the other end of the canopy. ‘By the way,’ he said, turning again to address Sushie, ‘if you’re at all hungry, Youssef also has a big pot of goat stew on his stove.’

‘Good idea,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go.’

I had not realised how hungry I had begun to feel until there had been mention of food. I stood up, eagerly.

‘Attends!’ Abdelkrim said, waggling a finger at me.

‘What’s the problem?’ Sushie asked.

Abdelkrim held his open palms out towards her. Then, with a little shrug, he patted his pockets.

‘Come on,’ Sushie said. ‘I’m paying.’

Inside the large building, another radio speaker spewed out a constant, tinny barrage of news and traditional music from
La Voix du Sahel
. Two long, wooden tables – scrubbed grey – were set end to end so that they ran the length of the interior. On either side, a number of benches provided seating for perhaps up to thirty people. I could smell the aroma of bubbling meat as soon as we entered the building. At the far end of the room the two French men and the owner, Monsieur Youssef, were indeed playing cards. A fog of cigarette smoke hung over them.

Youssef excused himself from the company and approached us. ‘Young Monsieur?’ he said, addressing Abdelkrim politely. ‘I welcome your friends.’ He was a burly man with white hair and watery eyes that were somehow at odds with the rest of his kindly face.

‘We’d like some of your stew, please, Youssef,’ said my brother.

‘D’accord.’

One of the French men gave a shrill whistle as Sushie untied her hair and began to fix it.

Sushie sucked her teeth at them, before sitting down beside me at the table, her face like a broody camel.

‘Mademoiselle,’ one of the men called, leerily. ‘Why don’t you join us here?’ His fine-boned face looked dirty and unshaven. He wore heavy spectacles and a tatty red tee shirt with the word
Ferrari
printed on the front.

His friend was sitting on the same side of the table as us, so at first I could see only one side of his pale face. Strands of lank, wispy hair jutted out from beneath a green baseball cap, while his shirt was a riot of flowers – prettier than any
pagne
I had ever seen.

I suppose I must have stared for too long. The man with the glasses mumbled something to his partner. He looked up from his cards, turned his head towards me and stuck out his tongue.

‘Don’t pay them any heed, Mademoiselles,’ Monsieur Youssef called from behind his stove.

Abdelkrim had been waiting by the stove to carry our food to the table. He walked towards us, fiddling in his breast pocket as he crossed the room. ‘Let me take care of this,’ he whispered. He walked to the far end of the long room and, standing with his back to us, spoke quietly to the French men.

Sushie looked down at me, pulled a funny face and shrugged. I smiled, and then strained to catch the conversation. We were not close enough to hear easily and the radio continued to blare, but it soon became obvious that Abdelkrim had said something to displease them.

‘Merde!’
exclaimed the one with the spectacles, putting out his cigarette.

The man with the patterned shirt mumbled something across the table and then, standing up, handed a piece of paper to my brother. Clearly, he too was agitated.

I was beginning to feel a little apprehensive, until Abdelkrim saluted the two men in a theatrical way and I heard him say, ‘Monsieur Franck, Monsieur Michel.’

Then he turned, smartly, and returned to our end of the table, taking a seat opposite myself and Sushie.

‘What was that all about?’ Sushie said.

‘Oh, nothing. It’s dealt with.’

Sushie coughed and began drumming her fingers on the table.

‘What did you say, Abdel?’ I demanded.

He shot a glance at the two
anasaras
and gave a little smile. ‘Let’s just say that they won’t be bothering you again.’

‘Uhuh?’ Sushie stopped drumming and held out her open palm, to indicate that she expected more information.

‘I showed them my military ID and then made sure that their documentation was in order – you know,
carte de passage
, passports, visas, that sort of thing.’

‘Can you do that?’ Sushie asked.

‘I just did.’

‘They didn’t sound happy about it.’

‘No. They weren’t. But when they challenged my authority, I told them that we might meet again. And that next time it might be when I really
was
on duty…’

‘Ah,’ Sushie said. ‘You mean to tell me that you’re just another corrupt official, Abdel? – always on the lookout for a little bribe here, a little deal there?’

‘Not at all,’ my brother said. ‘In fact, Mademoiselle, I despise any countryman of mine who behaves in such a manner!’ He rolled his eyes towards the French men and gave a little sideways nod. ‘But they don’t know that.’ He looked very pleased with himself.