Harmattan (45 page)

This is not happening to me.

This girl is dragged across the compound, her kicking heels ploughing deep, broken furrows in the cooling sand.

Her assailant has buried his fingers in the bedraggled cornrows of her hair. His jaw is set; his brow creased with fury. Without looking back, he trails his victim towards the storehouse. He kicks open the door – swears as it bounces back and strikes his elbow.

The girl has taken hold of the door frame and is gripping it tightly with both hands.The attacker barks something at her; then, still clutching her hair, boxes her ears with his free hand.

She grits her teeth and grips the frame still harder, until a series of kicks to the ribs forces her to let go with one hand. With the other she clutches frantically at the rough timber, the look of desperation on her face suddenly replaced by one of anguish as her fingers are crushed against the doorframe by the sole of her assailant’s sandaled foot.

As the girl finally releases her grip, her attacker grabs her wrist and flings her into the storehouse. She stumbles forwards, trips over her neatly-rolled bedding and crashes into a stack of oil drums and a wheel-less bicycle frame. She fights back tears, coughs, quickly wipes the back of her hand under her dripping nose and then scrambles to her knees. She puts a hand flat against the oil-stained floor and tries to push herself to her feet but, feeling the weight of a body much larger than her own bearing down on her and realising that she cannot break away, she succumbs at last to her assailant, who once again has a fistful of her hair.

He pushes her forward. Presses her face into the dust. Pins her down. Grapples with her
pagne
; wrenching and tearing at the fabric until he has exposed her.

Then – as the girl sobs and reaches back with one small, broken hand in a futile attempt to thwart him – he forces her legs apart and ruts her like an animal.

* * *

When Moussa leaves the storehouse, I remain on the filthy floor for quite some time, oblivious at first to the surge of pain building up within me. Then, as my head begins to clear a little, it strikes: burning my gut; searing behind my eyes, between my legs; stabbing at my knuckles and the oddly crooked fingers of my left hand.

I realise now that I was wrong not to fear this man more. That Doodi’s wrath is just a gentle breeze compared to the rage that Moussa has just unleashed on me. This is not the first time. But it is the most vicious. He has hurt me more than ever before. I know that this time I am really damaged.

I am lying on the ground with my knees drawn up to my chest, my torn
pagne
clamped tightly between my calves. I taste my own blood, mingled with dust and grit, and smell the stench of the slaughtered beast, transferred from Moussa’s loathsome body to my own. Outside, the light has all but faded, yet I can still make out the shapes of bicycle parts and tools strewn all around me; knocked from their shelves or from a nail on the wall in the recent struggle. I recall the morning, soon after I was brought to live in Niamey, when Yola came to me and helped me arrange the space; reorganised Moussa’s clutter, so that I could at least sleep here in relative comfort. I wonder if Yola is aware that Moussa has retrieved me from the Kwao-Sarbah house – if she even knew that I was there. I try to raise my head a little to listen for her but, in truth, I know that neither she nor anyone else will come to help me.

With my good hand, I brush some of the dirt from my cheek. I push myself up, so that I am in a crouching position. I lean forward and attempt to bear some weight on my left hand but an intense pain, like none I have ever experienced before, tells me that I cannot. I bring the grazed, misshapen form close to my face, then, gritting my teeth to fight back the tears, I wedge it into my right armpit.

With great effort I roll myself on to my bottom and lean back against the cool wall.

Each breath I take is punctuated by a fresh wave of pain in my side. I remember my father telling me the story of how once, as a boy, he had climbed one of the great upside-down trees near our village and fallen, awkwardly, cracking several ribs. For weeks afterwards he endured great pain, with every step he took, every movement he made, even when he laughed. I am certain that I too have damaged ribs. I wonder if I shall ever laugh again.

With my eyes closed, my mind again starts to wander back to Wadata. I see my mother’s face. Bunchie’s. I see little Fatima, Adamou, Abdelkrim, Miriam. Then, as another surge of pain catches me, I let the images go and, attempting to control the discomfort, concentrate instead on trying to breathe calmly and steadily.

The door creaks open and the light from a kerosene lamp swings across the floor of the storehouse. I open my eyes and see Moussa before me once again.

‘You must draw me a bath, girl,’ he says.

I bury my head into my chest and do not answer.

‘Do you hear me, girl?’

I shake my head without looking up.

‘Hey!’ he says. ‘Get up and do as I tell you. I can’t go back over to the good doctor’s house looking like this.’

Although I still do not look at his face, I can tell from the tone of his voice that he is smirking. I put my right hand on the back of my head and ignore him until his fingers jab me on the shoulder.

‘Hey!’

I throw my head back so suddenly that Moussa takes a step backwards, much to my satisfaction. ‘I won’t do it!’ I shout, angry with myself for allowing great tears to well up in my eyes again, but hopeful that I have warned him off.

But instead of relenting, he bends down, leans his face in close to mine again and says, calmly, slowly, and with great menace, ‘I don’t mind doing that all over again, you know. It’s your choice,
Little One
.’ The light from the lamp flickers and reflects in the whites of Moussa’s bulging eyes. He sucks his teeth. Stands upright.

Shrugs. Gives a little laugh and then turns and leaves, taking the lamp with him and leaving me in the darkness with my pain and blubbering rage.

Seized by cramp deep within my belly, I wince again, my nose bubbling and leaving a filthy trail of slime on the shoulder of my already sullied
pagne
. I peer at it in disgust, through raw eyes, and realise that I feel sullied inside too. I put my good hand between my legs; feel Moussa’s ooze, cold, on my flesh and hair. I contemplate the task that Moussa has set for me: the lugging of numerous pails of water from the faucet outside to the tin bath inside the house, followed by several more to the big pot on the gas burner in Doodi’s kitchen to take the edge off the cold. I long to cleanse myself. To scrub and scrub at my skin. To peel it off, smooth it flat against the stones of the great river; scrub it clean with soap and rhythmic fervour, while the songs of my mother and grandmother swoop and dip around my head like swallows, heady with living.

I know that Moussa will return soon if he does not hear or see me going about my work. When I finally manage to get to my feet, I stumble, and have to catch hold of the edge of a workbench in order to reach the door of the storehouse.

The weight of the slopping bucket causes me great discomfort, jarring my ribcage and under my arms, and bouncing off my knees and shins. Usually I can carry two at once but, when I attempt to lift a second with my left hand, the pain takes me by surprise, shoots all the way up my arm and causes me to cry out. The pail falls to the ground, bending oddly, collapsing under its own weight and reminding me of the recently slaughtered beast. As its contents seep into the dust, my mouth fills with the foul taste of bile. I barely make it to the latrine house before I retch.

When there is nothing left inside me and my belly feels like a rag wrung dry, I return to the faucet, splash water over my face, retrieve the pail and wait for it to be refilled, my head lolling with fatigue and pounding with the rhythmic certainty of the pestle.When I enter the house, Moussa has already dragged the bathtub over the bare concrete floor into the centre of the living room. He sits in near darkness, with only a small towel to hide his nakedness, listening to the radio and smoking a cigarette.

I shuffle to the kitchen, take the large pan from the shelf and place it on the burner. I fill the pan from the bucket, the strain of lifting it above my waist causing me great discomfort. I turn on the gas, take the matches and attempt to strike one with hands that will not stop trembling. After several attempts, the match ignites and I leave the water to heat. As I make my way through the living room, Moussa rises from his chair and steps out in front of me, the towel sliding to the ground. I sidestep him quickly, without looking at either his manhood or his loathsome face and the smirk that I know it will be wearing. He laughs as he moves towards the door. I make another journey to the faucet. And another. And another. When I am satisfied that the bath is full enough, I begin to add the hot water. As I carry pan after steaming pan from kitchen to living room, I find myself thinking sinful thoughts; of vengeance, retribution, but push them quickly to the back of my mind. I pour the scalding water into the tub and dip my hand in to mix it. I am in no doubt that Moussa will complain: it is not warm enough, not full enough, or there has been grit in the bucket, but I am too exhausted to do more.

I kneel beside the bath, submerge my broken hand in the water and draw the other slowly backwards and forwards across the surface. For a moment, I consider submerging my head too; imagine sucking the water deep into my lungs and escaping this place forever.

The sound of the bedroom door banging shut brings me to my senses and I gather up the empty buckets and pans as Moussa enters the living room again. He does not thank me and I do not wait to see if my preparation is to his satisfaction. I return the buckets to their place outside by the faucet and then, having rinsed the cooking pans, take them back inside to Doodi’s kitchen. When I have stacked the utensils neatly, I pass quietly towards the main entrance once more, eager to return to the storehouse and my stained bedroll; to embrace sleep and so, hopefully, begin the long process of healing.

I stop at the main door, aware of the sound of snoring. I look back over my shoulder and, through the gloomy light of the kerosene lamp to see that my husband has fallen asleep in the now filthy water; his head tilted back against the lip of the bathtub, his mouth open, his jaw slack, his scrubbed skin strained taut around his windpipe. For a moment, I think that I may vomit again.

My head reels as I trudge across the compound. My bare feet are as heavy as tablets of salt. I drag them through the moon-cooled sand, past Moussa’s carelessly strewn skinning tools, and across the cold, blood-soaked patch near the corral. It is a short distance to the door of the storehouse, but I might just as well be travelling to Zinder or Agadez.

The sounds of music and laughter drift across the wall from the Kwao-Sarbah compound, mingling with a chorus of crickets, subdued motor traffic and other peoples’ parties, and I stop; stand still in the damp sand, to listen or not listen. The smell of roasting meat tugs at my gut, catching me unawares, and I steady myself, tilt my head back to gulp at the cool night air, and gaze up at a raggedy canopy of stars, dulled by the city’s electric lights; a poor imitation of the sky above Wadata.

***

19th September, 2000

Mademoiselle Sushie Varrelmann
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger

Dear Mademoiselle Sushie,

With God’s grace this letter wil find you in good health. My friend, Gisele, says that it will be a miracle if it reaches you at all , and that if it does so, it will be heavily censored, but I pray that if such a miracle is necessary then God will provide it; though I have tested Him and angered Him greatly.

Please do not be alarmed by the things I am about to tell you, because my main purpose in writing is to ask you to send me news of my brother Adamou and my sister Fatima. I have been here now for eight months and have had no news from my village. I want you to know how I came to be in this place, because you helped me and my family in so many ways.

As you may have heard, Mademoiselle, they say that I murdered my husband.

What I tell you now is the truth as I remember it, as God is my witness. I can remember deep despair, and that this man hurt me badly, and it is true that on the evening of his death I had witnessed him slaughtering a beast to celebrate Eid al-Adha and so I would have known exactly where to find the knife and how to use it. But as to actually cutting my husband’s throat, I have no recollection of this whatsoever. There seems to be no doubt that I committed this sin, but I can assure you, Mademoiselle Sushie, this was never my intention, and if I could alter events I certainly would. My lawyer, Monsieur Hubert Soglo, who was sent here shortly after my detention and who has visited only once since, briefly, says that this is a clear case of provocation, but days turn into weeks and months and still my case has not been heard. To me he seemed disinterested from the beginning.

During the time that I was living with Doodi and Moussa I have to confess that I sometimes felt great anger towards my them, but if I had planned to kill anyone I could have poisoned their food, or put a snake in Doodi’s cooking pot, or a scorpion in Moussa’s pocket. But, apart from the fact that such thoughts occurred to me only in passing moments of rage and humiliation, I would not have put Madame Yola and her unborn child at risk, since during my darkest hours she showed me some kindness. I am happy to say that my ribs and fingers have mended fairly well, although my hand is now a little twisted and gives me some discomfort. Most of the time I try to pretend that that part of my life never happened.