Harmattan (15 page)

‘Fatima!’ I said.

We met her, hand in hand with Sushie, at the entrance to the compound.

‘What in good God’s name have you two been doing to yourselves?’ Sushie said, in her odd, lazy drawl. ‘You stink to High Heaven and you look like shit!’

Adamou laughed. ‘It
is
shit, Mademoiselle! We’ve been fixing the floor in our house.’
‘Toh
.’ Sushie looked at me, quizzically. ‘And school?’ she said.

I shrugged. ‘It’s Father…’

Fatima was bouncing around us, eager to tell us all about her trip to the city.

Sushie gritted her teeth. ‘Right. We’ll talk about that later.’ She bent down and pulled Fatima towards her. ‘The main thing now is to let you know that this little madam is fine.’

Fatima giggled as Sushie tickled her.

‘She’s not going to get sick?’ I said.

‘No. She’s fine. The tests were negative.’

‘And Mother?’

‘We’ll talk about that later, too. Right now you two need to get cleaned up. Gather up all your buckets and gourds and we’ll drive down to the river. Fatima can tell you all about her adventures as we go. You can have a proper wash and stock up on water supplies at the same time.’ She let go of Fatima and stood up, then clapped her hands together. ‘And I’ll keep an eye out for that monster, Fawako, while you’re bathing,’ she added, winking at Adamou.

We clambered into the back of Sushie’s truck with as many buckets, gourds and jars as we could find and, squeezed between boxes of medical supplies and blankets and cases of imported spring water, we set off for the river.

9th February, 1999

Haoua Boureima
Wadata
Tera Area
Republic of Niger

Dear Haoua,

Here is a little radio for you, as I promised some time ago. I think that it is not so fine as the one that your friends sent me, but I hope that you will like it anyway.

Please give my best wishes to Fatima and Adamou and tell them that I will send them something also when I can.

Pray for our mother.

Your loving brother,

Abdelkrim

***

That night we had a fine supper of dried meats, cheese and soft, sweet-smelling bread, the likes of which I had never before tasted.

‘It’s from the French supermarket,’ Sushie said. ‘Those bastards really know how to fleece us
anasaras
!’ She grinned as she spoke and I felt warm, not just from the fire which flickered before us but because, for the first time in ages, I felt safe.

Fatima lay with her head on my lap, drifting in and out of sleep. Adamou sat cross-legged on his mat, poking at the fire and belching occasionally while Sushie told us about the shanties in Niamey, the markets heaving with illegally acquired aid relief goods and warehouses full of ill-planned consignments of rotting Spanish tomatoes. Her speech, although full of venom and foul language for what she said was a flawed and corrupt system, was also passionate and sincere; so much so that had any stranger wandered into our compound that evening they would have been left in no doubt as to the fact that this woman truly loved Niger.

But, though her stories were, as ever, funny, scary and engaging, I longed only to hear about Mother. Adamou was also becoming restless and, eventually, Sushie knew that she could hold out no longer.

She nodded, then screwed her big, steel coffee cup into the sand. ‘Your mother,’ she said, ‘is a very ill woman.’ She paused and looked hard at us. Firelight danced across her pale, anxious face.

We did not speak.

‘I am sorry.’

‘How long?’ Adamou said, after another silence.

Sushie opened her hands towards him, as if asking for his forgiveness. My brother jumped to his feet, kicking dust into the fire, and in a flash he disappeared into the night.

‘He is angry,’ I said, wiping tears away from my eyes.

Yes.’

‘But not with you, Mademoiselle.’

‘It is okay to be angry. I was angry when my grandmother died,’ Sushie said.

‘And me,’ I said. ‘But Bunchie comes to me in my dreams sometimes.’

‘That’s good. She was a good woman. I liked her very much – even though she didn’t trust me a pick!’

We both smiled, sadly.

‘I don’t dream much. At least if I do, I rarely remember.’ Sushie nodded towards Fatima, who was snoring gently. ‘I wonder what she’s dreaming about. The big city, perhaps… the president’s palace, riding on your brother’s motorcycle… vegetables growing under Kennedy Bridge – who knows?’

‘Abdelkrim is well? Really?’ I asked.

‘He’s well, Haoua, but he doesn’t get to visit your mother often. Mainassara’s people have to keep on their toes at the minute; there’s been quite a lot of trouble. We only saw Abdel briefly, one afternoon. One of his friends had been injured during a student riot and he was able to combine driving him to the hospital with seeing your mother. It’s not nice for her either.’

‘I have to see her,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘I don’t know if that is possible.’

‘Please, Mademoiselle. You must speak with my father.
Please
.’

She stood up and stretched. ‘I’ll try. Tomorrow I’m going to find your father and get your schooling sorted out again, at least. Let’s see what mood he’s in then.’

She bent down and lifted my sister from my lap. ‘Let’s get this little one to bed,’ she said, struggling with our newly issued VCI mosquito nets, which Adamou had rigged up over a rough timber frame. Together, we managed to wrestle my sister on to her straw mattress.

As Sushie was leaving, Adamou marched into the compound and threw himself down on his own bedding without speaking to either of us. I made myself comfortable, under the open sky, while Sushie stood silhouetted at the compound entrance until all was still.

I wanted to ask her to stay, to look after us, to be part of our family. I had not dared mention Alassane’s treatment of me. Suddenly I felt frightened and cold. I had no desire that night to be visited in my dreams by anyone, living or dead.

But, of course, I did not ask Mademoiselle Sushie to stay. How could I? She was only one nurse in a village of nearly three hundred children. Sent by the
anasaras
to train birth attendants and healthcare workers and to provide basic treatment for every ailing citizen of Wadata, many of whom would be on her doorstep at first light, demanding to know why she had been away for so long.

Of course she could not stay with us.

My father appeared again, late the following afternoon, angrier still than when we had last seen him.

Sushie had indeed found him.

‘That woman…
Walayi!’
he muttered. ‘Who does she think she is?’

As we went about our chores – making sure to keep busy and out of his way – he would catch my eye from time to time and mutter, but I dared not say a thing.

And it soon became apparent that Sushie had spoken not only with my father, but with Aunt Alassane also. Clearly they had had a difference of opinion. Later that evening, Fatima and I served the meal that we had prepared in silence, aware that Father was still seething, but thankful that at least the muttering had stopped. When he had finished his food Father went into the house without speaking to any of us.

But there was more trouble to come.

Adamou had gone to check on our livestock and Fatima and I were clearing away our utensils when I heard a familiar voice call out my name. I looked up and was surprised to see my teacher, Monsieur Boubabcar, standing in our compound.

‘Haoua.
Ça va?
’

I was a little flustered. ‘Monsieur Boubacar! Sir!’ I said, both pleased and anxious. I dried my clean hand on my
pagne
and offered it to him.

His square, genial face beamed at me and at once I felt less ill at ease. ‘I see you’re keeping busy, young lady,’ Monsieur Boubacar said.

I nodded. ‘Oh yes, Sir.’

‘I’m here to see your father,’ he said. ‘Mademoiselle Sushie spoke with me this morning and explained your difficult situation. I had, of course, heard about your poor mother, but Mademoiselle Sushie filled me in with the details.’ As he spoke he slapped an exercise book against his thigh. ‘I am very concerned that one of my best students might fall behind with her work, so I thought that perhaps we could work out some kind of plan whereby you might keep up your studies at home – until things return to normal.’ He smiled again, his strong, white teeth impressive in the fading evening light.

That this wonderful man cared enough to come to my home filled me with a great surge of hope and happiness. I smiled back at him and then turned to Fatima who was still cleaning our utensils. ‘Fatima, will you fetch Father, please.’

My sister made an irritatingly good impression of an adult sucking her teeth and for a moment I thought that she was going to embarrass me by protesting, but she did as she was asked and disappeared into the house.

‘Can I offer you some water, Sir? Or tea perhaps?’ I said, indicating that he should sit on one of the mats that we had spread out around our cooking fire.

‘Thank you, Haoua. Tea would be very welcome.’ He answered not in French but in Djerma. I guessed that he had switched languages to ensure that I felt more at ease and I was most grateful to him. Monsieur Boubacar had come to Niger from Mali, some years earlier, and spoke in an unusually precise way. This, along with his education and impeccable manners, the care that he gave to his general appearance (he was wearing a smart two-piece bush suit) and the fact that he was, as yet, ‘unspoken for’, ensured that he was held in high esteem by every woman in Wadata.

Just as I placed our old black kettle on the fire, my father emerged from the house, looking ruffled.

Monsieur Boubacar, who had just sat down, uncrossed his legs and stood up again, offering his hand to my father. ‘Monsieur Boureima…’

To my shame, my father did not take the extended hand of my teacher. ‘You needn’t sit down again, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a great deal of business, you and I!’

‘Father!’ I protested.

He glared at me. ‘Go inside, Haoua – now!’

Hesitating briefly, I considered the situation, but Monsieur Boubacar raised the fingers of his right hand and squeezed his eyes tight, indicating that he was not perturbed and would not be put off by my father’s rudeness.

I retreated to the house, glad of the opportunity to hide my embarrassment, yet anxious that my father was about to make matters worse still.

Fatima was standing just inside the doorway, looking tearful. ‘He shouted at me too,’ she said.

I put my arm around her and leaned against the doorframe, straining to hear the conversation outside.

‘Monsieur Boureima… Salim…’ I heard Monsieur Boubacar say.

‘I don’t want to hear it, Boubacar. My family has had enough interference from outsiders!’

‘I don’t like to think of myself as an
outsider
, Monsieur.’

‘I don’t care how you think of yourself!’ my father snapped. ‘I wish I’d never listened to any of you. Not you, not the
anasaras
, not anyone!’

‘Your daughter is a bright student. She has learned a great deal over the last few years and continues to make good progress in her studies. I have high hopes for such a promising girl.’

‘She is needed at home. My wife is sick. I can’t manage my crops, my animals, my house and three children alone.’

‘Salim,’ Monsieur Boubacar implored, ‘your daughter’s education is very important. You must not take it away from her now, please. With an education she can help to make things better. She could be a doctor or a teacher or a great writer, or an interpreter like Monsieur Richard.’

‘ She can make things here better
now –
by helping me and her family and by putting those
anasara
ways out of her head,’ my father said, scornfully.

‘These are not “
anasara”
ways,’ Monsieur Boubacar continued, ‘they are the ways of the world, my friend.’

‘They are not
our
ways! My daughter has grown indolent and disrespectful since she went to that school – questioning everything… answering out of turn. I tell you, I will stand for it no longer!’

There was a short silence before my teacher spoke again. ‘Look, Salim,’ he said, ‘I didn’t come here to anger you and I understand that things are difficult for you at present. I can see that you have a lot to contend with just now. I just thought that perhaps we could discuss a work programme for Haoua – one that she could continue here at home, until things settle down. It is essential that she does not fall behind in her studies any further. She needs to keep up with the rest of the class.’

‘And I tell you, Monsieur, my daughter does not need school work, you or the
anasaras
. I have decided.’

A cold chill ran down my spine. ‘No! No!’ I whispered, clutching at my sister more tightly.

Monsieur Boubacar coughed. ‘With the utmost respect, Monsieur Boureima: is it not true that you also have a lot to lose should you remove your daughter from the Vision Corps programme?’

‘That is my business!’ my father bellowed.

‘Indeed. But how do you intend feeding your children without the benefits of the loan scheme and the cereal bank, Monsieur? Mademoiselle Sushie has categorically explained to you, I’m sure, that Haoua’s sponsorship from abroad is directly related to your participation in both her education and in the seed loan programme. And with the possibility of the new ox-plough project getting started in Wadata there is still more potential for farmers such as yourself, I would have thought.’

‘Enough!’ my father shouted, so loudly that I plucked up courage and peeked around the doorframe, fearing that something still more awful was about to happen. It already had: to my horror he had grabbed Monsieur Boubacar’s lapels and was marching him, backwards, towards the compound entrance. ‘I want you to leave now,’ he hissed, ‘and I don’t want you or any of your sort prying into my family’s affairs again! I may not be an educated man, but I am not stupid. None of this was what I wanted for my daughter. It was my wife’s idea – and she is no longer here. My family will not starve, let me assure you!’