Harmattan (14 page)

4th February, 1999

Haoua Boureima
Child Ref. NER2726651832
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger
West Africa

Dear Haoua,

I’m so sorry to hear that your mother is not feeling very well. Hopefully she will be up and about and back from hospital very soon. I’m sure that you are worried about her, but it’s good that your father is there with you anyway. We are all thinking about you and your family and I say a little prayer for you all every evening before I get into bed. I know that Hope does also.

I was reading the magazine that we get every now and then from VCI, and there was a story about how lots of children in West Africa have to walk miles to school. The story said that many children do not own shoes! I can’t imagine not having shoes. I talked to my dad about it and he said that it would be okay if we sent you some shoes. He said that if you could draw around your foot and send us the paper, we could send you back a nice pair of trainers, if you’d like that?

Hope and I are very excited because we are doing a very important exam at school soon, and Dad says that if we do well we can get a pony! I have always wanted a pony. Do you have many ponies or horses in Niger?

I think it’s great that you are doing a project on our country in school. I hope your teacher likes it. Perhaps your father will treat you if you do well. My friend Lucy says that she wants her parents to sponsor a child too.

Wel , I must go now, because I have lots of homework to do and I have to help Hope to set the table. Don’t forget about the foot drawing.

Your friend,

Katie. XXX

***

I never did get to make my presentation. My father did not appear at home again for several days, so Adamou and I had no choice but to carry out all of his chores as well as our own, Fatima’s and Mother’s. We were exhausted.

Richard called to see why I had not been attending school, but had no news about Fatima’s tests.

Aunt Alassane would call at the compound too from time to time; not from any concern but simply to check that we were doing everything that my father expected us to do. Once or twice she brought us a little
boule
. And always she made a point of tweaking at Adamou’s hair and saying, ‘Such a handsome boy. Just like his father,’ or some such.

My brother did not say much about Alassane, but I could tell that he did not like her either and that he was frightened of her too. One evening when we were sitting drinking tea, he looked me in the eye and said wearily, ‘Everything is going to be all right, isn’t it, Haoua?’ My
big
brother looking to me for reassurance!

‘We’ll be all right,’ I said, yawning.

‘It’s just that… you know… Mother is sick. Really sick, isn’t she?’

‘She’s going to be fine. Father said so.’

‘But what if she isn’t?’

I didn’t answer.

Adamou continued. ‘I mean, what if this is the way it’s going to be?’

‘What do you mean?’ I said, crossly. I knew what he meant. I had been worrying about the same thing myself.

‘If she doesn’t come back…’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not going to happen to us. We have to be strong. We have to ask God to help us. God is good. God is great. We must ask for his help.’

‘…and if Father stays away… or gets sick too?’

I was really angry now. ‘Be quiet, Adamou!’ I yelled. ‘Just shut up! Sushie will be back with Fatima any day now. Mother will be back soon too. Everything will be as it was before.’

Adamou stood up. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said. It was dark, but along with the firelight reflected in his eyes I was sure that I caught a glimpse of tears too. ‘Maybe tomorrow I’ll just go up to the Big House and tell Father to come home.’

But we both knew that to do so would only bring us more trouble.

I sat for a long while after he had gone, poking at the embers while the mosquitoes nipped at my ears and the cicadas sang their never-ending song. Sparks flitted into the night sky and mingled with the stars overhead, and I thought of my mother’s poor, gaunt face.

Adamou was right, of course. I had been thinking the same thing for days. We had seen it happen to other families who had lost parents, or been abandoned by a surviving parent after the death of the other. We had watched children struggle to survive; come to rely on pickings, scraps, handouts from their already poor neighbours, while kindly officials like Richard and Sushie did what they could to help. It happened less frequently now in Wadata, but it happened. I knew that Adamou’s fear was identical to mine: it was the fear of the unknown, of vulnerability, of abandonment.

Yet suddenly it seemed ridiculous. A ludicrous thought. I knew my father. He was not ill. Nor would he abandon us. He would not do such a thing. And so what if he married again? Lots of men had more than one wife. He would still care for us – and for Mother. I
knew
my father.

And sure enough, the very next morning, I awoke to hear the sound of firewood being chopped outside and the clattering of our old, black kettle against the flat stones. I kicked my bedding away and leaned across to give Adamou a shake.

‘Adamou,’ I said. ‘He’s back!’

There was a grunt from beneath his blanket.

‘It’s Father!’ I said.

We went outside together and found Father – and Aunt Alassane – sitting on mats in front of our house. Flames were just beginning to lick around the base of the kettle. My father was cleaning his teeth with a stick. ‘I was just about to waken you,’ he said when he noticed us. ‘Let the animals out, Adamou.’

Adamou stretched, then turned without uttering a word.

Alassane looked at me and winked. ‘Hey, girlie,’ she said. ‘You want some tea?’ I shook my head.

‘Where are your manners, Haoua?’ my father said. ‘Aunt Alassane is talking to you.’ ‘No. Thank you,’ I said. I did not like this woman being here like this. I turned to go back inside to dress, then hesitated, realising that there might never be a better moment to discuss my floundering school work. ‘Father,’ I said. ‘I need to go back to school.’

‘I know, Little One,’ he answered. ‘But there is so much to do here. When your sister and mother return, we will manage much better.’

I considered protesting but he had turned away from me and I was aware that Aunt Alassane was glaring at me meaningfully.

Despite my father’s apparent disinterest in my schooling and the increasing menace I felt from Alassane, I was not about to give up my education without a fight. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that I should return to school, now that Father was home again. After all, Adamou and I had looked after the animals, the crops and the house for more than a full week. I had missed my presentation and a great deal of lesson time and, although I was always pleased to see Miriam, it had pained me greatly to hear her talk about school each day when she called at our compound in the afternoons.

Besides, I knew that it would also be Mother’s wish that my schooling continue.

The day after my father’s return, I rose early and slipped quietly out of bed in the dark. I had left my
pagne
and head wrap folded carefully on a chair in the outer room of the house the previous evening and had hidden my school bag in the corner of the room, behind a sack of millet. I did not dare to light the kerosene lamp, dressing instead in the grey half-light which had begun to creep under the door. Without a sound, I removed the cloth from the bucket on the table and poured some water into a plastic beaker. Then, grabbing a fistful of dried dates, I went to fetch my school bag.

It was not there.

My first thought was that I had changed my mind about hiding the bag there, but I could not think where else I might have put it. Was it Adamou up to his usual tricks?

But I had not mentioned my plan to anyone – not even to Miriam.

I rummaged around in the gloomy light but the bag was nowhere to be found. It would be pointless to go to school without my exercise books and the pretty pencil case that Katie and Hope had sent me. Besides, even though I had been absent for the project presentation day, I still wanted to hand my work in to Monsieur Boubacar, and it too had been carefully packed in my school bag.

I had just sat down at the table to consider what best to do when I heard a cough behind me.

‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ It was my father. He was standing in the inner doorway, holding out my school bag. I pretended not to notice the gruff tone in his voice. ‘Yes, thank you, Father,’ I said, crossing the room and reaching out to take the bag from him.

Instead of letting go, he gripped the straps firmly. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he hissed.

‘I have to go to school, Father,’ I said, somewhat shaken now.

He wrenched the bag from me and threw it on to the floor, behind him. With his other hand he grabbed my wrist. ‘What did I tell you?’ The whites of his eyes pierced the gloom.

‘You’re hurting me, Father,’ I said.

He let go of my wrist then and crouched in front of me, grasping my shoulders in his big strong hands. ‘Would you defy me, Haoua?’

I looked down at my feet.

‘Would you defy me, girl?’ he said again, shaking me now.

‘I
have
to go to school, Father. It is what Mother wants for me too.’

Suddenly his face took on the look of a stranger. It was as if he had donned some ancient mask and was about to perform a terrible ritual, calling on our ancestors for strength and guidance. His teeth were bared and his eyes were wide and, I noticed now, badly bloodshot. ‘I have to go to school! I have to go to school!’ he mimicked.

I tried to pull away from him but he pulled me back, grabbing my head and pushing his contorted face close to mine. His breath stank. This was not my father.

‘Don’t you understand? Didn’t you listen? There is too much work to be done! I need your help here!’ He was shouting now. ‘I should never have listened to the
anasaras –
or to your mother! Look at you now! Look what you’ve become! Defiant, disrespectful, lazy…’

For a moment the image of my brother Abdelkrim – strong, self-assured, resistant – flashed through my mind and I wondered if my father might be possessed. I knew that he was not a devil, but was sure that he could be at the mercy of a devil. I was frightened, but not so much that I could stop myself from at least trying to defend my actions.‘Lazy? Father! I work hard–always. I…’

He shook me again. ‘Disrespectful! So disrespectful! You can forget that damned school and your precious books and letters and nonsense! You can forget all of that! There are going to be changes around here. I can’t do this by myself! You are going to help me! You are going to
help
me!’

He was ranting, but still I could not give up. ‘Please, Father. I will do my work, but…’

The shaking continued. ‘Shut up! Shut up! I say! I’ve had enough of your insolence! I’ve had enough talk about ways which are not ours! I’ve had enough of interfering
anasaras
!’

‘What would you do without the
anasaras
’ seed programme?’ I blurted out through my tears. ‘They have helped you too, Father!’

As soon as the words had crossed my lips, I knew that I had pushed him too far. A tortured gasp heaved from deep within his chest and he raised his right hand to strike me.

‘Stop it!’ Adamou’s voice called out from behind him. ‘Stop it now!’

In a moment it was over. My father lumbered out of the house and Adamou and I stood facing each other in grim silence.

I did not challenge my father’s decision about my education again. Instead, I continued to tell myself that Mother would soon be well again; that she would return to Wadata with Fatima and that everything would return to normal.
Then
I would go back to school. Father would stay at home and tend his livestock and crops. Adamou would do his chores but have time to play with his friends also. Alassane would stay away from our compound and Miriam and I would resume referring to her as one of the witches from the Big House.

My father had left instructions for Adamou and me to resurface the floor of the main room in our house. ‘It will please your mother when she returns,’ he had said.

It was hard, slow, back-breaking work – collecting bucketfuls of cattle and goat dung, mixing it into a thick paste, then spreading and tamping it evenly with off-cuts of wood scrounged from Monsieur Letouye. We had, of course, carried out this job before, but never without the help and guidance of our parents. Even so, we were pleased with our handiwork and we were close to completion by mid afternoon.

‘Do you think that Father is sick too?’ Adamou asked, as he ladled out great dollops of the mixture with his hands for me to spread towards the door.

I stopped working and looked up from where I kneeled. ‘His face, Adamou… it was not like Father’s. It was as if he had a demon inside him or something…’

Suddenly his eyes filled with tears. ‘We’re going to lose Father too, aren‘t we?’ ‘Stop it.’

‘It’s true!’ he said, forcefully. ‘We’re going to be orphans – like the Gandemey children…’

‘No!’

He was sobbing now. I set down my piece of timber and shuffled across the dusty part of the floor, on my knees, towards him. ‘It‘s going to be all right,’ I said, putting my filthy arms around him. It felt a little strange to be comforting him like this. For him too, I think. It was more usual for us to squabble. After a few moments, though, he leaned his head in towards me and we just stayed still and silent for a time.

‘We’ll sleep outside tonight,’ Adamou said later, as he scraped the dried excrement from his hands and forearms. ‘You can be sure that we won’t see Father until tomorrow.’

I put my finishing touches to the floor around the doorway and stood up. Flies swarmed around us, driven insane by the lure of baking dung. Adamou was pouring water from a large plastic jug, first over one hand, then the other. I was just about to tell him to save some of it for me to wash too, when we heard the roar of an engine as a vehicle pulled up outside our compound. We looked at each other, hardly daring to breathe. There was the sound of doors opening and closing followed by muffled voices and giggling.