Harmattan (8 page)

‘He is opposed to alcohol. That’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ he said, lighting his cigarette.

I searched his face, but it gave nothing away.

‘Kala a tonton
. I’ll see you later, Little One,’ he said, and we parted company.

The sun beat down intensely as I walked to the river. The load I carried on my head was not a particularly heavy one. Mother had taken the majority of our garments but I was still tired from the long trek of the previous day.

I wondered what Miriam was doing – how difficult things had been for her with her father. I was reminded that I had yet to face
my
father.

As I neared the river, I could hear singing and my spirits began to lift. In all, there were about thirty people there, mainly women and girls, most of whom were scrubbing garments in the shallows. Draped over bushes and low branches, articles of clothing of every size, type, pattern and colour dried in the sun. A group of infants were amusing themselves on the riverbank. Some of the women had younger babies tied onto their backs as they worked.

Souley, a girl Adamou’s age, made a rude gesture at me when she was sure that no one else was paying much attention. Miriam and I had no time for Souley. She was a clever girl, but her parents did not send her to school and we were sure that she was jealous.I sucked my teeth at her, set my bundle down on the dry ground and waded through the silted water to join my mother. She was stooped over, her hands moving furiously back and forth over my father’s
jel aba
, as she sang the chorus of our working song.

Han kulu ay ga maa zanka jindey.
Every day I hear children’s voices.

Han kulu ay ga ba aran.
Every day I love you.

At first, she did not hear me hail her. ‘Mother!’ I called again. ‘Azara! Are you alright?’ For a moment, when she looked at me with weary eyes, I almost thought that it was Bunchie, my late grandmother, standing before me.

‘Haoua,’ my mother said, breathlessly. She stood upright and coughed a little, banging her chest with the flat of her wet hand. She nodded, then, frowning, she turned her head away to clear her throat.

The realisation that she was getting old, and that one day I would lose her too, suddenly filled me with dread.

‘Toh
,’ she said, returning to both her work and her song.

It was mid afternoon by the time we got back to the village. We found Abdelkrim in our compound sitting on a plastic crate and surrounded by Adamou and his friends.

As usual the boys were in a great state of excitement. Abdelkrim was busily working at something with a rusty pair of pliers – I could not make out what – while, all around him, the boys shouted and jostled and pushed each other playfully.

‘We’re each going to have our own rally car!’ Adamou told us excitedly, as we approached them.

‘Dakar here I come!’ shouted one of his friends.

It was a favourite pastime for the boys of our village to make fantastic toys from wire coat hangers – mostly scrounged from Monsieur Letouye’s shop. Sushie, Richard and Monsieur Boubacar were also regularly pestered for coat hangers each time word got about that one of them might be travelling to the capital. The heavy wire would be used to create elaborate outline forms of all manner of vehicles – complete with moving wheels, axles, doors and even sometimes what the boys called ‘working suspension’. Some even had drivers – little see-through figurines, desperately clutching tiny steering wheels in see-through pick-ups,
camions
and Jeeps. One or two of the boys in particular were exceptionally skilled at creating detailed models; so much so that they were considered lieutenants in Adamou’s gang.

Attached to the rear of each of these truly impressive vehicles was a wire
pusher
and handle, allowing them to be raced competitively through the dusty alleys of Wadata.

As a child, Abdelkrim, like every boy in our village, had spent many hours making and racing his own creations – dreaming of one day owning a real vehicle, or of participating in the
anasaras’
races even. We had often seen images of such races on Monsieur Letouye’s television set, but these mostly stirred up interest only among the boys. The craze for these toys was widespread across the country, and Abdelkrim said that the children of our capital were particularly fond of, and accomplished at, creating models of modern rally cars.

Miriam’s brother Dendi began to chase Adamou around the main throng, kicking up great clouds of dust as they passed Mother and me.

‘Yours is a pile of junk!’ he shouted.

‘No!’ Adamou protested, ‘Yours is!’

Abdelkrim looked up at my mother and beamed.

Mother shook her head and said, ‘
Walayi!’
She chastised the boys for wrestling too close to our water pots, but she too was smiling broadly.

For a moment I observed them both as if they were strangers, or actors in a movie; these two people whom I loved more than life itself, reflecting each other’s smiles in that way that only a mother and her child can. It was a moment I wish I could have captured somehow – frozen it in time forever: not as a photograph, but as a tiny, physical fragment; one to which I might actually have reached out and touched whenever I felt troubled. Would that I could have had such a talisman for the dark times that lay ahead of us.

The moment was shattered by the arrival of my father. ‘Get out of here! All of you!’ he bellowed.

‘Do you mind telling me exactly what you thought you were doing yesterday, Haoua?’ my father demanded, when things had quietened down in the compound.

‘Salim,’ my mother said, ‘I have already reprimanded the girl.’

I knew that it had been a mistake for her to speak at all.

My father glared at her, intensely, a sinewy vein bulging at his temple. ‘I did not ask you to interfere,’ he said, coldly, his hands wringing the staff of his hoe. ‘Why don’t you do something useful, Azara, and prepare some water for me. I must wash again before prayers.’

From the far side of the compound I heard Abdelkrim draw air in through his teeth. My father looked furiously towards him, but said nothing.

‘Come, Adamou,’ my mother beckoned to my brother. ‘You can help me.’ Adamou remained standing beside Abdelkrim’s crate. ‘But we have to finish my car, Mother!’ he protested.

‘
Walayi!’
She pointed towards the house.

Abdelkrim gave him a gentle push.

‘Boori arwasu
. Good boy,’ my father said, patting Adamou’s shoulder as he stomped by sulkily. ‘I have to discuss this matter with your sister.’

‘I’m sorry I was so late, Father,’ I said, warily, when they had gone. ‘I wanted to send Katie and Hope a picture. Miriam and I wanted a
magic picture –
like Abdel’s…’

‘Katie and Hope! Katie and Hope!’ my father mimicked. ‘That’s all we ever hear from you these days! If the
anasaras
really want to help us, why don’t they send us money, eh? Real money! You’d do better to settle down and concentrate on your work, girl!’

I was stunned. ‘But, Father,’ I said, ‘I
am
concentrating on my work.

Monsieur Boubacar says…’

He cut me short. ‘Monsieur Boubacar says… pah! I mean your
real
work –

helping your family to put food in their bellies – not those fancy ideas from that school!’

‘I thought you liked it that I could read and write, Father,’ I said, quietly.

‘I’m beginning to wish that I’d never agreed to any of it!’ he snapped.

‘But I thought you wanted Adamou to start school too, Father?’

‘You see! You see how disrespectful you are!’

‘But…’

‘Silence! It is not your place to question my decisions, child. These days it is important for a young man to have an education. If it pleases God, Adamou shall go to the Koranic school. But there is much work to be done here and education is expensive.’

Abdelkrim, who was still sitting on his crate working at Adamou’s truck, let out a loud, exasperated ‘Aiee!’

‘Is there something you wish to say?’ my father asked Abdelkrim.

‘Yes, Father,’ my brother said, setting the model on the ground and standing up.

‘There are lots of things I’d like to say.’

My father snorted, noisily, then turned his face away to spit.

Abdelkrim dusted his hands off and stretched, his movements an attempt, perhaps, to hide his agitation. ‘First of all,’ he continued, ‘Adamou is eager to do his military service. Perhaps he will like the life and stay on – like me. He could do worse. The army educated me – in more than just the ways of the Koran.’

My father said nothing, but his glare caused me to shudder.

‘Secondly, you cannot have it both ways…’

‘What?’ my father snapped.

‘You are not paying for Haoua’s schooling.
Vision Corps –
that British NGO – pays. Isn’t that the way it works?’

‘You ought to mind your own business, boy!’ my father said.

Abdelkrim strode towards my father and looked down into his face. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘I am not a boy, and this
is
my business. I don’t like your bullying, your lies and your deceit. I’ve witnessed plenty of that. Nobody likes it.’

By now my father was seething, and for the first time in my life I feared that something awful might happen between these two grown men, both of whom I loved dearly.‘Be mindful of what you say,
soldier
!’ Father said, his voice shaking and tinged with sarcasm.

‘I am mindful, Father,’ Abdelkrim replied. ‘I’ve thought about these matters very carefully over the last two days. I’ve watched what goes on here. You demand respect, but what respect do you show anyone other than your gambling friends?’

Father threw down the hoe that he had been holding and clenched his fists.

Abdelkrim looked down at the implement and then, glaring back at our father, he raised his eyebrows and tipped his hand forward, as if to say ‘Well? What?’

My father’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Abdelkrim nodded and gave a little smile. ‘You talk about putting food in your family’s bellies, yet you squander
my
money!’

‘Mind your business!’

‘You boast about taking another wife, yet you can’t support the one you have!’‘How dare you…’

‘You ought to thank Haoua, Father. In truth she puts food in your belly, but all you can do is scold her!’

‘She is forbidden to go near the river!’

‘She has apologised.’

‘I might have lost her!’

‘At least that would be one less mouth for you to have to feed!’

In a flash, the shouting was over. With a loud smack, my father brought his hand hard against Abdelkrim’s face. ‘I want you out of here!’ he hissed.

I stood, trembling, before them. My mother and Adamou were standing in the doorway of our house, looking shocked.

Abdelkrim put his hand to his cheek and smiled again.

I had never before seen anger on a face that smiled.

‘Don’t worry,
Father
,’ he said, his eyes shining. ‘I’m going.’ He turned away and walked out of the compound, pausing only to spit.

My father turned towards me and pointed. ‘You!’ he said. ‘Go and find your sister!’

It was not difficult to find Fatima. She was playing with her friend Amina near Monsieur Letouye’s shop. I beckoned to her to come quickly, then took her by the hand before she had time to protest.

‘Where are we going?’ she said.

‘I have to take you home,’ I answered. ‘But first we must call on Miriam.’

We walked out briskly to the east side of the village until we came to the Kantaos’ compound, a large enclosure with four small dwellings housing Miriam’s large extended family. There was no sign of the halved fish which I had presented to Monsieur Kantao the previous evening. Three or four goats were tethered in one corner of the compound, waiting to be milked. Everything seemed to have returned to tranquil normality.

I had always liked visiting Miriam’s house and family. Despite the fact that there was always a lot of activity, there was also a calmness and order here that I found reassuring and comforting. The Kantaos always seemed well organised, friendly, hard-working and generous. There was a kindness about these people which made visiting them a joy.

I could not bear the thought of anything coming between myself and Miriam. We had grown up together. We talked about everything. Monsieur Kantao said that, one day, his daughter would become a doctor, and neither Miriam nor I doubted it for a moment. It was easy to see that he was equally proud of his other four children, all of whom, he said, would have an education, whether boy or girl.

Miriam’s compound was a place of intrigue and colour too. Often the Kantaos hosted interesting visitors from all parts of the Sahel. Miriam’s Uncle Memet was a Touareg who had done business with Monsieur Kantao for many years and then given up his nomadic way of life to be with Madame Kantao’s sister, Ramatou. It seemed to me to be such a noble, selfless, fine thing to do: to give up one’s way of life for the sake of love.

I had been standing quietly, hand in hand with my sister, in the middle of the Kantao compound for some time, wondering whether or not to approach the threshold, when Madame Kantao appeared.

‘
Ira ma hoi bani
,’ we greeted each other.

‘Madame Kantao.
Mate fu?’
I said, with my head bowed. ‘It was my fault that Miriam came home so late last night. I’m sorry.’

Her eyes rolled in her great, happy face and she nodded, then set to work on one of the goats. ‘Go on inside,’ she called to us. ‘Miriam is just finishing Narcisse’s hair.’

Little Narcisse Kantao was considered something of a miracle baby in Wadata. She had just turned two and was plump and healthy and happy, but the Kantaos had almost lost her a year earlier. She had barely put on weight during the first year of her life but Sushie had given her special milk and medicine which Madame Kantao said had saved the child’s life.

We girls found Narcisse adorable, amusing and, at times, infuriating. She was everyone’s favourite and always got her way, even with Monsieur Kantao. We took great delight in styling her hair in outlandish plaited and braided designs: the more elaborate we could make it, the more Narcisse liked it. If Madame Kantao plaited two elegant swirls into Miriam’s crown, Narcisse would demand three.