Harmattan (6 page)

‘I’m hungry!’ Miriam said, as we left the village behind us. ‘Why couldn’t we eat with them? Why couldn’t we have the
anasara
drive us home? What were you thinking, Haoua?’

‘Just walk!’ I snapped.

Back at the river, the two men with whom we had spoken earlier were busily hauling in their nets.

The older man noticed us on the shore and called out from his pirogue. ‘Did you see that fellow, little sisters? Isn’t he something?’

‘We saw him, Father,’ Miriam answered.

‘But he does not have a magic camera,’ I added.

‘A wasted journey then, girls?’ the younger man called across the water.

The older man tutted, then sucked his teeth. ‘
Walayi!
Not a wasted journey: see what a fine evening it is. God is good!’ He lifted something shiny from the floor of his pirogue and threw it onto the shore. It landed in the mud, with a splash, a few metres from my feet.

I could see now that the object was a medium-sized
Capitaine,
freshly caught.

Its head poked skywards from the stinking mud which thwarted its dying efforts to protest.‘It’s your supper, sisters,’ the fisherman called. ‘Take it home to your mother and have her cook it up with some peri-peri.’

I waded through the mud and, with a loud, sucking noise, extracted the fish by its tail, holding it up to let the fisherman know that I had retrieved his gift. The creature gave a final, weak wriggle as life left it. ‘Thank you, Father!’ I shouted.

‘That is very kind of you.’ I stooped down to brush a small area of the water’s surface clear of its bubbly scum, and rinsed the
Capitaine
off.

‘Thank you, again!’ we called. As we left the river bank we could hear the younger man complaining to the older man. Like the trees, the giraffes, the giant crocodiles, the water itself,
Egerou n-igereou’s
fish stocks were disappearing dangerously fast and the younger fisherman was evidently not so happy to share its bounty.

By the time we reached the great bend where we would turn off towards Wadata, an angry, orange sun was just beginning to kiss the river’s surface.

The fish was slimy and had also begun to feel a little heavy in my hand. ‘Will you carry this fellow for a while, please, Miriam?’ I asked my friend.

But Miriam was still sulking. ‘I’m not touching that!’ she said. ‘It stinks.’

‘But you’ll want your share, no doubt!’ I said, angrily.

She continued walking and did not answer.

I untied my headpiece and used it to wrap the
Capitaine
up in a bundle. This I then tied onto my waist, alongside my water gourd. ‘Now my favourite
pagne
will stink too!’ I called after Miriam, through the fading light.

We knew the route home from the bend in the river very well – even in the darkness which had enveloped everything rapidly – and continued on without trepidation, our sandals slapping a steady rhythm. I was more concerned about my father than any mythical monsters. We were tired and hungry and, each time we stopped to rest for a moment or two, we soon began to feel cold. The fishy ooze on my thigh did not help my spirits. Above us, in an immense, blue-black sky, more vast even than the desert, the stars flashed as usual, like a thousand jewels. We padded over the cool, firm sand, until at last we caught sight of Wadata’s own twinkling array of wood fires and kerosene lamps in the distance.

Miriam’s house was situated on the outskirts of our village and so we came to it first.

Monsieur Kantao was sitting outside in his compound, spitting and chewing on kola nuts and waiting for his daughter. When he saw us at the entrance, he said nothing.

Instead, he stood up, crossed the compound and took Miriam by the shoulders, staring at her all the while, as if to make sure that she really had returned home intact.

Then he turned to me and simply pointed in the direction of my house.

I knew that his intention was for me to leave immediately; Monsieur Kantao was a gentle man but he was clearly angry. I made to go, but then remembered our
Capitaine
.

Quickly, I unwrapped the bundle at my side, and held the fish up, proudly, for him to see by the light of his lamp. ‘Half of this is for your household, Monsieur,’ I said. Without a word, he crossed the compound and disappeared behind the latrine, where a few scraps of kindling were stored. There was a brief rattling of metal implements, then Monsieur Kantao re-emerged, holding a machete in his right hand. As he walked back towards us, I was seized more by curiosity than fear.

‘Father?’ Miriam said, concern in her voice.

Monsieur Kantao took the
Capitaine
from me and slapped it onto the rickety table at which he had been seated. Seconds later, the machete ripped through the creature’s innards and hacked into the timber surface. Silently then, Monsieur Kantao scooped up the front portion of the fish and handed it, dripping, to me.

I took the bloody mess and ran the rest of the way home, where my mother was waiting, anxiously.

‘You’d better get straight to bed, Haoua,’ she whispered, as I wiped fish guts from my hands. ‘Your father is in a foul mood. He and Abdel have quarrelled!’

Fatima and Adamou were already sound asleep when I rolled out my grass mattress and flopped down in the little room that our whole family shared. It was too cool during the night to sleep outside now. My belly ached with hunger and, despite the fact that I had made some attempt to wash, the pungent stench of fish still wafted from my body.

I lay awake for what seemed like a long time, thinking over the events of the day and worrying that I had caused more trouble than the trip had been worth. At least, I thought, tomorrow is not a school day. After my chores, I would go to Miriam’s house, apologise to her parents and make up with my friend.

With that thought in my mind, I drifted off, but was woken some time later by the sound of voices. Through the darkness, I could just make out the sleeping form of my mother, on my parents’ raised bed. I sat up and strained to listen, quickly realising that Abdelkrim and my father were outside. Both were attempting to subdue their voices, but the tone was hostile.

‘…It makes one forgetful of Allah and prayer, Abdel!’ I heard my father hiss.

‘
O ye who believe! Approach not prayers with a mind befogged
, the Holy Koran tells us!’ ‘Your ways are no longer my ways, Father,’ Abdelkrim replied, his voice cold, like a stranger’s.

‘I forbid you to bring that vile potion to my house! It is an abomination of Satan’s handiwork! The Devil wants to cast hatred and enmity amongst us by means of strong drink! See how he turns us against each other?’

‘Doesn’t the Koran mention
games of chance
also, Father? Have you forgotten that? Shall I set aside my alcohol and you your gambling with your cronies?’

‘You will respect me and my house!’

‘Like you respect my mother?’ Abdelkrim slurred.

There was a scuffle and the sound of clay water pots breaking. I sat up, fearful, panic-stricken. Just then I felt something touch my shoulder, and I looked up to see the silhouetted form of my mother looming over me in the darkness.

‘Lie down,’ she said, stepping over my stirring siblings and leaving the room.

‘Everything will be fine.’ The sound of quarrelling intensified as she opened the door of the house.

‘Enough!’ I heard her say, firmly. ‘There will be no more of this tonight!’

I knew that there would be a lot of catching up to do the next day. I had woken even before the
Adhan –
the
Muadhdin’s
first call of the faithful to our tiny mud-brick mosque:
Al ahu Akbar, Al ahu Akbar,
Allah is the Greatest.
As-Salatu khairun min
an-
naum, As-Salatu khairun min an-naum, Prayer is better than sleep. Having sensed an uneasy atmosphere while the others dressed for prayers in the gloomy morning light, I asked God to forgive me as I feigned the sleep of one still exhausted, pretending not to notice the competing clamour of cockerels and cattle outside. When I was sure that my father and brothers had left to tend our crops and graze our livestock, I faced the direction of the Kaaba and prayed quietly, then I rolled my bed up and went outside. My thoughts were still clouded by fragments of dreams and the morning sunlight hurt my eyes. My mother and Fatima were busy pounding millet, the musical rhythm of their work familiar and comforting.

My mother looked up as I approached, then, all at once, she doubled over and launched into a hacking cough. ‘Here,’ she spluttered, handing me her pestle. ‘You finish this. I will get you some food.’ She shot me a scolding look, as if to warn me that she was fine and wanted no fuss.

I was ravenous, and wanted nothing more than to eat immediately, but knew better than to challenge her. I stretched, then took the heavy pestle, worn smooth as young skin by years of toil, and began to pound.

‘You’re in big trouble!’ Fatima whispered, without missing a beat, her huge pestle bouncing back into the grip of her tiny, expert hands as I began to ease into the rhythm.We worked side by side for a few minutes, my fatigue and hunger forgotten for now, the labour hard but satisfying, and the familiar sounds of ancient wood on ancient wood reassuring, soothing, before my mother handed me a dish of rice with a little of the fish meat. The
Capitaine
ought to have been a welcome change – most days began with sugarless
boule
or millet gruel – but in truth I would sooner have gone without it. The sight of the large, bloody head, lying in a pail nearby, made me feel slightly nauseous, but I knew better than to refuse food of any kind. A swarm of fat, black flies seemed to find it more appealing, until my mother swatted them away and draped a piece of cloth over the bucket. The head would be boiled up for a broth later and I would partake of that too, and be glad of it.

‘Are you angry with me, Mother?’ I asked.

‘No, child,’ she answered, ‘but your father was worried last night.’

‘But I
told
you where we were going,’ I said.

‘He is not angry with you. He is angry with me.’

Fatima’s pounding ceased for a moment. ‘Father is angry with everyone!’ she said. ‘Your father does not want you wandering off so far,’ my mother continued. ‘He fears that some ill fortune might befall you. We must respect his wishes.’

I made to protest. ‘But…’

‘You will apologise to him later…’ she said, ‘… as I have done.’

I finished my food and then resumed my work. Afterwards, all three of us took calabashes and pails and made our first journey of the day to the river, stopping numerous times along the way to allow my mother to catch her breath. As we walked along, Fatima chattered away like a
green
monkey – about the
upside-down trees
, the happiness the proposed water tower would bring to Wadata, about my school, Adamou’s mean friends, the candy which our friends in Ireland had sent, and the yarns with which Abdelkrim had teased her the previous day.

‘Walayi!’
My mother listened attentively, shaking her head proudly, casting kindly glances intended to draw me into the conversation; smiling or chuckling occasionally, while I sulked in silence. ‘She is just like you were at that age, Haoua-hoo!’ In truth, she knew that I longed to tell them all about my misadventure of the previous day.

By mid morning I had cheered up considerably. We had carefully stored our water supply and were sorting clothes and tidying up when Abdelkrim appeared.

‘Aren’t you helping your father anymore?’ my mother asked.

‘I can’t work with him, Mother!’ Abdelkrim said. ‘He forgets that I am a man!’‘Be patient with him, my son,’ Mother said.

Abdelkrim shook his head.
‘Walayi!’
He sighed. ‘I’m not sure that I can.’

Mother had been sweeping a woven mat with a twig broom that had seen better days. She leaned the handle against the wall and wiped her hands on her
pagne
.

‘We’ll have some mint tea,’ she said.

Fatima’s tasks had been to fold clothes as I pressed them and to fetch me glowing embers from the fire for my irons.

‘You two may take a break also,’ Mother said. ‘You girls have worked hard this morning.’

We thanked her, and Fatima ran off to find some of her little friends, while I took my exercise book and sat down on the floor near the door to write a letter to Katie and Hope. I wanted to tell them all about Abdelkrim, and about trying to have a
magic picture
taken for them. I decided that, to make up for the photograph, I would make a little drawing for them.

My mother continued to bustle about, and Abdelkrim leaned against the door frame, watching me chew the end of my pencil while I considered what picture my friends would find most interesting. I looked up and smiled at him, still scarcely able to believe that he was home with us. My mother filled a little blue pot with tea, sugar and mint leaves, took two glass beakers from a basin full of clean utensils and added boiling water from an old, enamelled saucepan. She stirred the infusion by agitating the mint stalks, then lifted the pot and poured the steaming liquid back into the pan.

When she was satisfied with her brew, she took the utensils outside and summoned my brother to join her on the mat.

Abdelkrim winked at me. ‘You can show me your photographs and letters later, ok?’ he said.

I nodded.
‘Toh, kala a tonton.’

‘
À bientôt.’

As he went outside I heard my mother whisper, ‘We can talk more freely out here.’ I went about my business and truly did not mean to eavesdrop. Evidently, however, my mother quickly forgot that I was sitting in our small living area, just inside the doorway.

‘Are you alright, Mother?’ I heard Abdelkrim say.

‘Just a little breathless,’ she replied.

‘You must not do so much.’

‘But there is so much to be done!’

‘Mother…’

‘Abdel…’

They both laughed.

They sat in silence for some time and then, at last, Abdelkrim spoke again.

‘I’m sorry about last night.’

Mother sighed. ‘You know that alcohol is forbidden anywhere near this house, my son. You are breaking your father’s heart – and you will break mine too.’