Harmattan (13 page)

I did as she instructed, somehow already aware that my life was never going to be the same again.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Haoua,’ Sushie said. ‘Your mother is very sick indeed. She has been for some time now.’ She paused, perhaps for me to say something in response.

Instead, my fingers continued to work the tassels on the Chief of Tahoua’s wallet, all the while my eyes remaining firmly fixed on the dust floor.

‘Haoua?’

Our eyes met for just a moment.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

I nodded. ‘Mademoiselle.’

Sushie sighed. ‘The thing is, I want her to have some more tests carried out…’

‘Tests?’ I said, my voice shaky.

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of tests?’

‘We need to see what’s going on with her blood, her immune system. Find out why she’s losing weight. Why she’s coughing, fainting, vomiting sometimes.’

‘Mother works too hard. Fatima and I can help her. We can work harder. She will be all right,’ I said. I could almost taste the panic, steadily rising within me.

‘No. It’s not just that. She needs special treatment.’

‘Medicine?’ I said, looking at her directly now.

‘Yes. Probably. Medicine that I don’t have here.’ She seemed to read the question on my face correctly. ‘I have to take your mother away, Haoua.’

‘Where will you take her?’

‘To the hospital in Niamey. She’ll get proper attention there.’

I nodded.

Sushie crossed the room and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’ she asked.

Again I nodded. My head was reeling. ‘Mother will be all right,’ I whispered.

‘God is good. God is great. We will look after our father until Mother is well again.

Adamou and Fatima and…’

Sushie gave me a little shake to interrupt me. ‘Haoua,’ she said. ‘I need to take your sister to Niamey too.’

I looked up at her, through brimming tears which now began to cascade down my cheeks. I thought of my school and of visits from other health workers and serious talks from Monsieur Boubabcar about Health Education. My lip trembled and I shook my head from side to side. For what seemed like an eternity, I could not bring myself to utter the word. Then, ‘AIDS?’ I said.

Sushie squeezed my shoulder. ‘Hopefully not. But it could be. We have to be sure.’ She took a roll of tissue paper from the shelf and tore some off, handing it to me. ‘You must be strong for your mother, Little One,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see her.’

I stood up. Sushie took my hand and made to lead me out of the room.

‘Wait,’ I said.

She turned to face me, still holding my hand. ‘Is it Fatima?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why do you need to take her too? She isn’t sick, is she?’

Sushie shook her head. ‘No. She seems very well, Haoua. But remember what you learned about HIV/AIDS in school: the virus can only be transmitted sexually, or through blood, but a pregnant mother can pass it to an unborn child.’

‘But Fatima is five,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Yes. But your mother may have been HIV positive for some time before Fatima was born.’ She gave my hand a little squeeze. ‘We just have to check.’

‘And me… and Adamou?’

‘No. Neither of you are in danger – because of your age. I have asked your father to have the tests carried out, though, but he seems unwilling to do so.’

‘AIDS is a very bad thing,’ I said, daubing my eyes. ‘It brings great shame on a family.’

There had been many other villagers who had been taken to Niamey for tests and never again set foot in Wadata, but no-one ever admitted that they had died from AIDS.

We all knew about this cursed disease. We had all watched members of our families grow thin and weak and sickly.

But Bunchie used to say that our people had lived and died in this way since the dawn of time. ‘Always working towards the next meal,’ she would tut. ‘Working ourselves to death.’ AIDS, she believed, was nothing but a label that the
anasaras
had given to illnesses that they themselves could neither understand nor cure. She said that they could do nothing about visitations from evil spirits from
the Thin Places
, whereas, with the old ways, one could seek the help of a witch doctor and know that he would try to chase them away.

‘Look,’ Sushie said, ‘we don’t know yet. We just have to wait and see. It may be something else.’ She took my face in her hands and smiled at me kindly. ‘Don’t let your mother see that you have been crying.’

But Sushie was a nurse who had seen many such cases before. Of course she knew.

With a heavy heart, I trudged behind Sushie to the treatment room. I was familiar with this room too; it was here that my grandmother had died. The combined odours of disinfectant and medicine and a faint waft of vomit hit me immediately. Memories of Bunchie’s last hours rushed at me also, but I fought them back. A metal grille, fitted over a single small window, caused the room to be bathed in a gloomy half-light. Directly beneath the window, a bowl and jug for washing hands had been placed on a small table. Opposite this stood a battered, grey filing cabinet in which drugs, syringes and medical books were kept safely locked away. Dotted about the walls, happy, smiling faces beamed down from Vision Corps International posters: children drawing water from wells, farmers tending crops, fishermen repairing nets, doctors holding babies. To the right of the doorway, a rattan screen had been placed between two single beds and on one of them lay my ailing mother, covered to the neck with a thin white sheet.

‘Hey, Azara,’ Sushie said, cheerily. ‘Look who’s here to see you.’

My mother was awake and looking just a little stronger than when I had last seen her. She smiled and held out a feeble hand to take mine.

‘How do you feel, Mother?’

‘I will be on my feet again in no time, child,’ she said. ‘Are your brother and sister all right? Have you been seeing to my crops? And our animals?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ I said. ‘Your crops are fine. The animals are fine. And we are all fine. Fatima is at Amina’s house and Adamou is working with Father. You must not worry about anything.’

‘That’s right, Azara,’ Sushie said, stooping down to remove a basin at the bedside. ‘You must concentrate on getting strong again.’ She draped a cloth over the basin and stood up.

My mother looked Sushie in the eye. ‘Uhuh, Mademoiselle. That is true. There is a great deal of work to be done. Salim will never cope alone.’

‘Really, Mother,’ I said. ‘Everything is fine at home. We will manage perfectly well until you are well enough to return.’

Sushie moved towards the door, but my mother coughed and gestured for her to remain in the room. The thin, clear tube running from a metal stand to the back of her hand swayed as she covered her mouth.

I held a plastic beaker to her lips, to allow her to sip some water.

‘And when
can
I return to my home, Mademoiselle?’ she said, when she had regained her composure.

Sushie paused by the door, the basin still in her hands.

I caught her eye and realised only then that she had not yet broken the news to my mother.

Setting the basin on top of the filing cabinet, Sushie crossed the room again.

She propped herself against the edge of my mother’s sick-bed and put an arm around me. ‘Azara… I’ve just been telling Haoua that we will need you to go for some tests.’

She paused.

My mother continued to fix her gaze, silently.

‘To see what’s making you so weary, so sick… you understand?’

‘Uhuh.’

Sushie continued. ‘The thing is… I don’t have the facilities here, Azara. Or enough beds. Wadata is full of pregnant women. There are cases of malaria, dysentery and even one of what may turn out to be river blindness. Who knows what this little room will be needed for next. We’ll need to shift you – when you’ve regained your strength a little.’

‘Shift me?’ my mother said, suspicion in her voice.

Sushie nodded.

I stroked my mother’s hand. ‘It will be all right.’

She looked at me, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘You will get proper treatment in Niamey,’ Sushie said, still trying to sound cheery, but failing.

My mother opened her eyes. ‘I always knew this day would come,’ she hissed, her face suddenly veiled in anger. ‘I knew that my husband would bring this shame to our door!’

The thought of being without my mother filled me with dread. I had pleaded with her – and Sushie – to let me accompany them to Niamey but my pleas fell on deaf ears.

‘But I can help to keep Fatima occupied,’ I argued. ‘She will be less frightened if I am with her.’

‘I have other business to attend to,’ Sushie said, as she helped my mother tie some of her belongings into a bundle for the long journey. ‘I don’t even know when I’ll be coming back to Wadata. And your father will need you here, for sure. I’m going to try to find Abdelkrim too. I’m sure he will help if he can.’ She looked towards my mother who was wheezing heavily. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Azara?’

‘That is right. You will be the woman of the house while I am gone, Little One.’

Mother’s tired face smiled sadly. ‘Adamou is just a boy. And your father…’ Her words trailed off and were replaced by a series of violent coughs.

With both Mother and Fatima gone there was indeed a great deal more work to be shared out at home. I thought of what my grandmother had said about ‘always working towards the next meal’ and never before did her statement seem more true.

For the first few days we seemed, somehow, to manage quite well. I got up earlier, went to bed later, yet still managed to continue with my school work. My mother had been right about Adamou though: he needed to be reminded to carry out his chores constantly. At first my father encouraged and praised my brother.

Occasionally he would even comment on the meal I had prepared. But after a week or so had passed, he appeared to lose interest and spent less and less time in and around our compound.

I had just finished clearing away our utensils one morning and was about to get myself ready for school when I heard a voice at the door.

‘Hey there!’ It was a woman’s voice, shrill and impatient and only vaguely familiar to me.

I went to the door to find Aunt Alassane standing there, dressed in a flamboyant green and yellow
pagne
and blue sunglasses.

‘Listen… girl…’

‘It’s Haoua,’ I said.

‘That’s right. Haoua…’ She nodded vigorously in such a way that I knew my name was of little concern to her at that particular time. ‘Anyway. Your father sent me over to tell you that you must help your brother tend to the livestock and crops today. He’s busy.’

I was a little confused. I had not seen my father that morning but had presumed that he had come in late the previous evening and had left his bed before either Adamou or I had risen. He had been doing this increasingly, even before my mother had been taken to Niamey.

‘I have school,’ I said.

‘You’ll have to miss it,’ Alassane said, turning to spit out some kola nut juice.

‘My roof won’t wait any longer.’ Suddenly her face struck me as hard – unwomanly somehow – and I wondered that I had ever thought of her as pretty.

‘But we’re working on our projects!’ I protested. ‘Father knows that. I will be in big trouble, Mademoiselle! Tomorrow I’m to make a presentation to the whole class. I’ve been writing about my friends in Ireland and studying their country.

Richard has been helping me. He found some beautiful pictures in a magazine. It really is very important!’

She shrugged and looked down at me through her blue lenses. ‘
Walayi!’
she said, curling her lip. ‘Do you think I give a damn about your stupid school, or that oaf Boubacar, or your stupid project? Why don’t you have some respect for your poor father – and for me?’ She was shouting now.

I was determined not to cry.

‘I’ve a good mind to teach you a lesson myself!’ she snapped. For a moment I really thought that she was going to strike me. Her anger had risen quickly and taken me by surprise. ‘Just do what your father has told you to do. Who knows, it may be possible for you to attend your precious school tomorrow.’

I was even more alarmed by this statement. ‘But I
have
to go to school tomorrow! I simply
have
to!’

As I spoke, Alassane looked quickly over her shoulder.

I continued to protest. ‘Please listen, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Boubacar says that…’Before I knew what was happening I had been pushed back into the house and on to the floor. Alassane was straddling me, her broad knees pinning my shoulders to the ground. One hand clenched my jaw while she jabbed me in the ribs with the other.

‘Now
you
listen to
me
, you little bitch.’ Each word accompanied another jab. ‘Don’t answer me back again or you’ll be sorry. Just shut up, do what you’re told and – if you know what’s good for you – don’t mention this little discussion to anyone. Not even that brother of yours. Understand?’

I nodded.

Alassane slapped my face, lightly, as if I was someone about whom she cared.

‘Good girlie,’ she said, a false smile on her face. She stood up and brushed off the dust from the hem of her
pagne
. ‘Look what you’ve done to me,’ she clucked, straightening her sunglasses. She turned then and strutted to the door. ‘I’ll call again soon.’ I had not moved from where I had been pinned down. I was so terrified that I could neither move nor make a sound.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

I sat up and nodded.

She paused by the doorway, just long enough to peer disdainfully around the room. Then she grinned at me. ‘You’ve got a lot to do, girlie,’ she said. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t sit about!’

Then she was gone.