Harmattan (25 page)

‘It’s all right, young woman,’ he said, his face half disappearing into the folds of his great, warm smile. ‘You may look!’ He thrust the hand towards me. ‘That’s shrapnel for you! A souvenir of the French Indochina war, that is; my medal from Général Navarre for helping him out at Dien Bien Phu in ‘53!’

‘Coffee, yes,’ Moussa said, a scowl on his face.

Monsieur Nourradin nodded. ‘And something for you now, Mademoiselle?’ he said, still chuckling.

I was very thirsty. Deciding that if I did not actually meet Moussa’s gaze it could not intimidate me, I spoke up. ‘I would like some tea, please, Monsieur.’

‘D’accord.’

‘You can pay for that yourself,’ Moussa said, as the old man returned to stoke his fire. ‘Monsieur?’ I said. ‘I have no money!’

‘You think I have?’

‘But, the shoes, Monsieur…’

He leaned across the table towards me again. Had it not been between us, perhaps he might actually have pounced on me. ‘Have you
seen
me sell them yet?’

He grabbed at his cigarettes and lit another.

‘I just thought…’

‘Who asked you to
think
?’ he snapped, smoke billowing from his nostrils and fire in his eyes. He fiddled with the carton, his features clearly laden with irritation and impatience, increasing as surely as the arc of the morning sun. ‘Your brother can pay!’ Monsieur Nourradin hobbled back over to our table and set the drinks in front of us. ‘Have you heard about our ghosts?’ he said, rubbing the back of his head.

Moussa exhaled and rolled his eyes. ‘Ghosts?’

‘Indeed, my friends. Evil spirits. Terrorising folk here – especially young women!’ he added, his eyes flit ing in my direction.

A shiver ran down my back. When Bunchie had been alive she had spoken of spirits often. It was the way in Wadata. Mademoiselle Sushie could explain ailments away and treat them with her medicine and
piques
, but there were few in my village who could honestly say that they did not hold our sorcerors, herbalists and bleeders in fearful high esteem.
The old ways
, my family said. But I knew that while my father might bow his head to Allah and beseech Him to request help with our crops, he might just as readily present our witch doctors with a sacrificial chicken on the same day. And my poor mother had always done what was necessary for a quiet life.

Monsieur Nourradin had shuffled back over to his trailer and now returned, slapping a copy of
Le Sahel
on the table in front of us. He tapped the lesser of two headlines with a stumpy finger. ‘Read this,’ he said, as another customer sat down further along my bench.

Moussa looked even more irritated now and very uncomfortable. He pushed the paper towards me. ‘You read it, girl,’ he said. ‘I’m smoking.’

As I scanned the front page, I could not help but enjoy his discomfort. I picked up the paper and considered it carefully. Printed in French. I would struggle, but I would manage. I had seen newspapers before, but not often. Occasionally Monsieur Boubacar would have produced cuttings from
Le Sahel
or
Le Républicain
and instructed us to translate them into Djerma in class, and Mademoiselle Sushie sometimes had copies of a publication called
Herald Tribune
brought back from the capital, but despite recognising some English words from Katie and Hope’s letters, I was unable to read these properly.

‘
Le Sahel. Quotidien Nigerien D’information. Jeudi Avril le huitieme, 1999
,’ I read aloud. Cousin Moussa flicked the stub of his cigarette into the air and shook his head.

‘Just read the article, you stupid girl!’ he said. ‘You’re not in school now!’

I ignored his comment. ‘
Mayor Tells Sorcerors to Banish Evil Spirits
,’ I continued, my finger following the bold, black headline. ‘
The Mayor of Niamey has
ordered
qualified
sorcerors to chase away evil spirits reported to be making terrifying
appearances at night. Nightlife lovers in Niamey have repeatedly complained of a
woman who appears from nowhere, curses and threatens them before vanishing as if she
had
evaporated
. Courting couples and women in skimpy,
Western
style outfits have been
particular targets for the evil spirits.

“Given the rumour, which has been circulating for at least three weeks now, of
strange apparitions stalking people, notably young women, I have ordered al the
elderly of Niamey to resort to the traditional sacrifices, with qualified people, to stop
this,”
Mayor Jules N’Dour said yesterday. “
People should be reassured: if there are any
evil spirits, they will be dealt with,”
the mayor told radio station R and M.’

‘What rubbish!’ Moussa said.

Monsieur Nourradin was chuckling to himself again. ‘
Walayi!
  It’s true, Monsieur. Just down there, behind the Sonara Building two nights ago, I was pedalling home with the tools of my trade and I witnessed just such an incident!’

‘Uhuh.’

‘On your children’s lives!’

‘I don’t have children!’ Moussa said, sourly, casting a look towards me.

‘Nevertheless,’ Monsieur Nourradin continued, ‘I saw a fellow in the bushes, with his
jellaba
up around his armpits, his great naked backside busily pumping away at some young floozy when, all of a sudden – as God is my witness – this very apparition appeared right in front of me on the road!’

‘What god is that, Monsieur Nourradin?’ Moussa said.

‘
Walayi!’
I said. ‘What happened, Monsieur?’

‘Well,’ the old man continued, with a glint in his eye, ‘she gave me a great wink and then turned, took a run at the fellow and kicked him right up his rump.

There was such a cloud of dust churned up in that young couple’s commotion that they all just seemed to
evaporate!’

Moussa heaved a sigh and spat over his shoulder.

Monsieur Nourradin’s sides were shaking as he turned to attend to his latest customer, who had been tugging at his skullcap, sucking his teeth and beckoning him impatiently.

‘Can it be true?’ I said, addressing my cousin.

‘It’s nonsense. He’s a ridiculous old fool. Almost as ridiculous as that story.’

He swung his leg over the bench and stood up, pocketed his belongings and shouted over to Monsieur Nourradin. ‘The girl’s brother will settle this with you,’ he said, waving his hand over the table.

Monsieur Nourradin threw another piece of wood on to his fire and then approached my cousin. ‘Monsieur?’

‘My cousin will pay you, I say. He’ll be along shortly.’

Monsieur Nourradin looked confused. ‘It’s three hundred CFA, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know!’ Moussa snapped. ‘My cousin will be along shortly.’

Monsieur Nourradin said nothing, but looked from Moussa to his table and back again.

‘Abdelkrim Boureima will give you the three hundred, old man. All right?’

Monsieur Nourradin shook his head, his dusty brow knotting into a serious frown for the first time since I had met him. ‘You are leaving the young lady here, Monsieur?’

‘Eh bien oui!
Now you have it!’ Moussa said, like he was talking to a simpleton.

I was no happier about the prospect of being abandoned than Monsieur Nourradin was of not being paid.

‘It’s three hundred,’ the old man said, firmly. He straightened his back a little, rearranged his features and held out his good hand. ‘Three… hundred… CFA, Monsieur!’ he said, firmly, like he was issuing a military command.

Moussa stared down at him for a moment, then swore and thrust his hand into a pocket. He poked at a handful of coins; pushed some into Monsieur Nourradin’s.

‘There’s two!’ he snapped, then jabbed a thumb towards me. ‘Like I say, her brother will be along shortly!’ With this, he turned on his heel and, without a further word, stormed off down the hill towards the Boulevard de la Liberte.

I was not surprised by my cousin’s lack of manners. And, indeed, I was relieved to see him leaving, due to his behaviour. Nevertheless, as the bustle of the market place continued all around me, I suddenly felt quite small and alone. Had it not been for the fact that I was already anxious about my mother, I might also have felt frightened.

Monsieur Nourradin cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, through the crowd, ‘Thank you, Monsieur. And don’t worry about the girl’s tea: it’s on the house…’

He turned to face me and shrugged, the warmth returning to his face as suddenly as it had disappeared. ‘He puts on a good act, but I think he’s not such a nice fellow, that one,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Thank you for the tea, Monsieur. You are very kind.’

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘And you may wait here as long as you need to. I’m quite sure your brother will be here in no time.’

It can’t have been very long before Abdelkrim did indeed turn up, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I was so overjoyed to see him that I wept.

I spied him as he pulled up on a little grey motorcycle on the road below, and, almost forgetting my own manners, had taken off down the hill to greet him before turning to address Monsieur Nourradin. ‘My brother is here, Monsieur!’ I called, pointing to the road. ‘I will come back.’

Monsieur Nourradin nodded.

Abdelkrim had dismounted and was making the motorcycle secure in the middle of a jumble of bicycles by the time I reached him. He pocketed his sunglasses, stood up and brushed the dust off his smart uniform, then rolled up his beret and pushed it under one of his epaulettes. ‘Abdel! Abdel!’ I called, as I stumbled down the hill. A great smile broke across his handsome face and he bent down and opened his arms to catch me as I threw myself at him.

‘Hey, Little One!’ he said, lifting me off my feet for a moment. ‘
Foyaney.

Look at you!’

‘You have a motorcycle!’ I said, running my hand over the cushioned saddle of the dusty grey machine. ‘Fatima said she’d ridden on it with you!’

‘It’s Bouleb’s. Recently I’ve had to borrow it often. It’s meant that I can travel between the barracks and the hospital a lot more easily. Bouleb has been very good to me.’ ‘How is Mother?’ I asked, without further ado.

‘You’ll see her soon,’ Abdelkrim said, then quickly steered the conversation towards the topic of our cousin.

I told him all about my morning with Jacob and Moussa and then, taking my brother by the hand, began leading him back up to Monsieur Nourradin’s tea table.

Abdelkrim was muttering as we trudged up the hill. ‘Leaving you here alone!’ he said. ‘That Moussa is a no-good swine!’

‘Monsieur Nourradin was very nice to me,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, Abdel.’ Monsieur Nourradin was rinsing out some glasses in a pail of greasy grey water as we approached his pitch. When he saw us coming he stood to attention and saluted Abdelkrim.

‘This is my brother Abdelkrim, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘Abdelkrim, this is Monsieur Nourradin.’

‘An honour, young sir,’ he said. ‘I served four years as a sergeant under Général Navarre.’

‘At ease, Monsieur,’ my brother said, giving him a half-hearted salute. ‘Not only do you outrank me, but you served a different master.’

For a moment I was concerned that Monsieur Nourradin might think rudeness a trait of my family, but when I looked up I saw that both men were smiling, as if this was not, in fact, their first introduction.

‘Indeed, young sir,’ Monsieur Nourradin said with a nod, his lips puckered into a thoughtful twist. ‘You serve that buffoon, Mainassara, who’s going to cause our nation to boil over with despair!’

‘A Nigerien buffoon, at least – whereas you served a bunch of imperialist bastards who raped and pillaged their way to power!’ Abdelkrim said.

There was a brief silence, then both men laughed as if, having mentioned their differences, they had resolved them.

Monsieur Nourradin picked up some glasses and began shuffling towards his kettle. ‘You’ll have some tea?’ he said, over his shoulder.

‘Thank you, but no, Monsieur.’

‘Don’t worry about the cost, young sir,’ Monsieur Nourradin said, winking at me. ‘It’s no secret that our great leader, in his infinite wisdom, has frozen salaries all over the country.’ He tapped the newspaper that I had read from earlier and was still lying on the table.
Monsieur Tandja’s MNSD Party Calls for Restoration of
Electoral Commission
, the principal headline announced. ‘Your president can’t be sleeping soundly these nights! I hear there’s been another mutiny in Diffa!’

Abdelkrim shrugged. ‘We’ll have to discuss the matter another time I’m afraid, my friend. We must go. Thank you for taking care of my sister, Monsieur.’ He saluted again and turned towards me, his face suddenly serious. ‘We have to get going, Haoua.’ His voice sounded shaky. ‘I was with Mother last night when Moussa phoned the hospital, and I promised her that I would bring you to her as soon as I could.’‘She is all right, then?’

‘She is far from all right, Little One,’ he said, taking my hand as we began to descend towards the road.

‘God go with you!’ Monsieur Nourradin called, holding a ragged cloth up in his ragged hand.

‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I called back through the throng. ‘
Au revoir. Merci.

Kala a tonton.’
My head was reeling by the time we reached Sergeant Bouleb’s motorcycle.

I had never ridden on a motorcycle before, but as we sped away from the
Grand
March
é
,
I clung tightly to my brother’s waist and gave little thought to the blur of bitumen below us. With my eyes squeezed tight and my cheek pressed against Abdelkrim’s back, I pictured my mother’s face and prayed that she would grow strong again. I took comfort from the closeness of my brother and, by the time the motorcycle came to a halt, I was in a state somewhere between trance and sleep.

‘Are we at the hospital?’ I called, over the dying revs of the machine.

‘No.’

‘Then why have we stopped?’

Abdelkrim pointed towards the river. ‘Another student protest,’ he said. ‘They are blocking the bridge again. That’s the second time this week!’