by Les W Kuzyk
Chapter 5
Aahil awoke to the din of the pre-dawn city. Rising in the broken shadows from his rooftop mat, he touched Hilal’s shoulder. His son, feeling his father’s hand, rose to wipe at his sleepy eyes. This eldest son would come learn the ways of the world today; the other children must attend classes and assist in the restaurant. Hamina would organize the household. He stepped down through the rooftop portico, one hand on the wall and each foot seeking out the next familiar brick step below.
On the main floor he felt the shelf where Hamina had left Taguella spread with goat cheese wrapped in a cloth. His Hamina, his eyes softened, his Tin Hinan. They ate as they walked through the door to the plaza. “Open the gate.” He spoke English to his sons by rule. French only when necessary out there in the city. Tamajaq was a language to be spoken among family from the Tinarimen, the deserts of the north. English, the world language of business must be one stitch in the fabric of his camp.
His father had made business the way of Aahil’s childhood. With insight he had journeyed from the desert tents into this city of Niamey. Food, he knew all people must eat. The restaurant along Avenue de l’Afrique became the centre of life for his mother and father. They negotiated and jostled out a life, dealing in meals to support an urban lifestyle. That restaurant had for him been a classroom, as there he learned not only lessons on how money changes hand, but the languages of the world. At every chance he spoke with government workers in French, those on their lunch breaks and he mimicked their etiquette. He paid attention to the television English, picking up on the mannerisms of Europe and America. The official classroom may help others speak foreign but for him the words of another mother tongue translated as he simply listened.
He slid into the front seat to start the Nissan, pulling out into the street.
His son pulled the steel gate closed behind, and scurried about to jump in the far seat. They turned left from their compound onto the side street, circling the block to check on the restaurant. His mother wanted Ténéré, the true desert, for a restaurant name. But his father told her Drakkar was French, the title of a European warrior ship from the north. Now the wooden carved sign with the sailing ship beside Drakkar had gathered many clients. His father had insight into people and business. In another land, he would say, we must fit with how those who live take in each day, there in that place we go. Leave the ghosts of our desert past to swirl among the dunes; his eyes would twinkle as he spoke.
They stopped for fuel. Aahil explained to his son how the new contract credit card worked. For this one, he had only to walk into the Minister’s office and speak to the Asian at the project office. The card would last for all the time of the contract. As had that contract before—escorting the young white haired Canadian some days after the rains of August. That one had been two weeks; this one will be two weeks absolutely and perhaps extend longer. The rule: always keep the fuel tank full, as when they decide the contract finishes, the card will no longer purchase. The Asians made good business partners though, truly good. They at times paid in advance, they paid always, they accepted no tips and they paid well.
The Minister’s office had been abuzz that time. Not just the election coming, but something other was causing a stir. Connected to these recent contracts he suspected. He would need to keep talking with those he knew. As a Berber, he would never sit at a government desk, but there were those others he knew, the ones who spoke openly. More than one language helped in many ways.
He turned the Nissan into Hotel Gaweye to park. Leaving Hilal to guard the vehicle, Aahil walked up the steps and in through the main entrance. Speaking softly with an attendant, he followed the gesture through a wall of crystal windows. He walked up steps to push opened a glass door leading to the dog leg angles of the tourist swimming pool. Shifting his glance carefully, he picked out two white men sitting in cushioned chairs, each with a jPad before him. He walked directly into the shade of their thatch table parasol.
“I am Aahil,” he announced. “I am your driver and I will answer your questions.”
Vince and Brad looked up and came to their feet. Aahil shook each hand as was the custom of Europeans. When the one called Brad motioned to a chair, he took a seat on the edge.
“You want a coffee?” Brad said. American, he would say by the voice.
Aahil raised a hand to decline, yet also shook his head as he had learned. He respectfully took in these two, not looking directly their way, but remaining attentive. He watched, as the silent Vince took a sip from his cup. Not quite American, this other one, close but something else. He gave them time to adjust to his presence, patiently setting for them his own image.
“We were checking out your bridge.” Brad showed many teeth as he spoke again. “We’re engineers—well known for building bridges.”
The smiling engineer pointed through the poolside grove to the green steel-railed bridge crossing the wide waters of the Niger River. They had been discussing, he told Aahil, how and when the bridge was built. How its stick-in-the-mud construction crossed the wet earth-bank island in the middle where the water spliced the island into smaller ones.
“That one has the name Pont Kennedy,” Aahil said. “The first built, yes.”
“The U.S. built that bridge,” Brad said. American, yes, Aahil was sure now.
“When we cross you will see better. Look past, two kilometers more distant. Pont Chinois the second built.”
“Chinese Bridge,” Vince said. This one spoke French Aahil detected.
“The second bridge has two lanes each way,” Aahil said. “The bridges are Niamey’s way to ocean ports. China now builds a third.”
“So why,” Vince asked, “would a country like China or the United States build a bridge in an African country?”
“People here call the second bridge Pont Chinois,” Aahil told him. “But the bridge has an official name that may explain. The China Niger Friendship Bridge.”
“There you go, they want to be buds.” Brad winked. “Strategic friendship.”
This American spoke so lightly of things that Aahil relaxed. What another takes as serious. “You have not come to build a bridge.” He allowed his eye the slightest twinkle.
“Nope. We don’t do bridges.” Brad grinned. “We do atmosphere.”
“You will change our air?”
The American looked at Vince, smile fading. “That’s what I think.”
“The Chinese own mines at Agadez,” Aahil said. “They require transport trucks to carry cargo to the ports.”
Vince nodded.
By the voice of this other engineer he was European Aahil thought. Or with French, as that white haired Canadian. But the American spoke again, pointing. Aahil followed his gesture to the horned animals grazing in the tall green river grass closer to the water’s edge and as far along as they could see up and downriver. “Those cattle look thin. They live here in the city?”
“Yes, the rain was small this season,” Aahil explained. “The Hausa graze their herds where the grass grows.”
“Droughts come with climate crisis,” Brad said.
“Seasonal variation,” the other white man spoke back.
Aahil waited for the whisper of tense air he sensed to settle.
“You speak French?” Brad broke the silence.
“Oui monsieur. Et vous aussi?” Aahil’s eyes twinkled brighter at Brad’s blank look. English preferred for this smiling one. “Yes, I am available to translate for you. I speak English, French, the local Hausa dialect, local Zarma and the Tuareg language if we need. The Tuareg language has the name Tamajaq.”
Brad turned to Vince. “You’re on top of French, right?”
“Maybe not on top of, but I can get by.” Vince nodded. Then he looked to Aahil. “I’m Canadian, where the French colonized along with the English, so we are officially bilingual.”
“Wild, man, we are set to communicate.”
Aahil’s ears perked. Two North Americans from two countries. He took in these tw
o more closely. This American connected well with people, one he could enjoy being around. But he had guided many foreigners, and knew trust was earned. What to trust would come with time. “I am available to take you where you wish, any day, any time of day,” he told them. “My Jeenyus number is here.” He pulled the phone from inside his loose colorful jacket and showed the visiscreen. The American Brad looked, and spoke the digits into his jPad.
“Come. I am to take you to the storage compound today.” Aahil rose from his chair. “We will cross the bridge you are talking of and go more past the city’s edge on the Boulevard du Gourma.” He stood waiting beside the table.
The other two finished the last of their coffee and gathered up their devices. They came to their feet beside Aahil, and he led them back out through the glass door.