Harmattan
Page 2
‘But he has taken it from me before, Mother!’ I protested.
After school, my friend Miriam Kantao and I went down to the river and found Adamou and a handful of his no-good cronies, up to mischief, as usual. We all knew that we were not supposed to go there without an adult, but it was a favourite pastime for the boys of my village to taunt crocodiles with sticks and stones from the safety of the river bank.
‘Give me back my bear, Adamou,’ I pleaded.
‘I don’t have it, stupid girl!’ he said, looking to his friends for confirmation.
They grinned at each other. As far as these boys were concerned Miriam and I existed – like the crocodiles – only for the pleasure of tormenting.
‘Fawako enjoyed it very much!’ one of the boys called out, pointing to the river. Fawako , ‘butcher’, was the name we had given to the largest of the male crocodiles. There were stories of how he had devoured many people over the years, and of how two children from the neighbouring village of Goteye had gone missing and only their water pitchers had been found. But there was only one incident which we knew to be factual. It had happened the previous year when a government surveyor, while preparing a report for a proposed water tower and borehole for the Wadata region, had lost a leg. We also knew that crocodiles do not actually devour their prey instantly but, having drowned it, lodge the carcass underwater, on a submerged tree trunk or the like, where it can rot and be picked at according to the creature’s urge.
I looked out over the lazy, fetid water and knew that I would never see my little bear again. As we turned to go back to the village, one of the boys fired a stone at us from a slingshot which he’d fashioned from a twig and an old piece of inner tube. It struck me just above my right buttock, stinging sharply.
‘I will tell Father!’ I promised, through my tears. My threat was greeted only with wild cackling.
The walk from the river to Wadata takes thirty minutes – twice that if carrying water. When we got back, my father and three or four of the other village elders and griots were sitting on palm-leaf mats in the shade of a woven reed canopy, playing dominoes and drinking mint tea. I was fearful that he would be angry with me for being home late, and that he would guess that Miriam and I had been to the river. I greeted him and his friends respectfully, all of whom remained engrossed in their game. My father patted my back, barely pausing from his game to even look at me.
‘Help your mother now, Haoua,’ he said. ‘There’s a good girl.’
I decided not to mention the bear.
Mademoiselle Sushie visited our house quite often, sometimes bringing with her other anasara workers – doctors, photographers, teachers and interpreters. One of our visitors – Richard – had grown up in Goteye, studied in Niamey and Washington D.C. and now worked for Vision Corps International, the same organisation that had brought Sushie into my life. Richard opened up my world further still. Through him, the strange words which Katie and Hope and their father wrote to me became real, mine. Richard translated their letters from English to French, and, when necessary – which was often at first – from French to Djerma. At first I had nothing much to say to my new friends in Ireland. Monsieur Boubacar showed me how to make a thumb print, in ink, at the bottom of a little drawing, but it did not occur to me that I might actually reply: I did not think that they could really be interested in my life in Wadata. But Katie and Hope wrote often, asking me questions about my family, my school, my village. They enquired about my father, my mother, my sister and brothers – even Abdelkrim – and I began to want to tell them more.
***
Haoua Boureima
Child Ref. NER2726651832
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger
West Africa
3rd July, 1995
Mr N Boyd
Member No. 515820
Ballygowrie
Co. Down
N. Ireland
BT22 1AW
Dear Noel Boyd,
Thank you very much about the gifts that you sent me. Every one of us have received gifts from you. My mother got one perfume and one watch, my father one watch and all my brothers and sister they got gifts. Thank you very much, you and your family. May God bless you always and your Mrs Boyd and your daughters.
I don’t have dog, but we possess goats, sheeps and hens. It is quite cold now because of the rainy season. My family is greeting you. My supervisor Monsieur Richard Houeto helped me to write this letter.
Kindly your daughter,
Haoua
***
Not everything that the foreigners brought to Wadata was pleasant. Before Sushie’s arrival, the old folk in the village had revelled in teasing children with stories about monstrous, pale-skinned anasaras, and how they would come and pique us with their needles if we misbehaved.
Every child in Niger, whether at school or not, was familiar with the story of Captaine Paul Voulet, the French officer who, a century ago, had ravaged our country; destroying whole villages and ordering his troops to slaughter men, rape women and throw children down wells! Now, here was one of these monsters, flesh and bone, in our midst!
To we older children (Miriam and I were eight when Sushie first arrived) the promise of health and protection through Sushie’s medicines and injections, and the fact that both our teachers and mothers actively encouraged such practices, seemed reason enough to grin through our tears and fears: Wadata had seen many infants die – of malnutrition, dehydration, dysentery, malaria and AIDS. Before Adamou was born, my own parents had lost two children. Both were boys, little more than babies. My mother rarely talked about them.
In one of Katie’s letters she had told me that her great grandfather was still living. He was ninety-five! That in itself seemed good enough reason to take the anasara’s medicine. I had never known my father’s parents, or my mother’s father.
My grandmother, however, continued to treat Sushie and her ‘potions’ with the deepest suspicion, right up until her death. Bunchie, as we called her, was equally wary of Monsieur Boubacar, Richard and anything to do with my school.
She would shake her head and click her almost toothless gums. ‘These ways will do you no good, Little One,’ she used to tell me when my mother was not nearby.
It seemed to me to be the only subject on which my father and grandmother agreed: ‘Educated girls argue with their parents more!’ my father would say.
Bunchie was fifty-two when she died; her skin hard and leathery and wrinkled as a dry date. She had been a widow for over three decades and had never even visited Niamey. Perhaps, looking back, she was right to warn me, but back then my greatest wish was to see more of the world, and slowly I had begun to believe that, one day, I might do so.
Little Fatima had just turned two when Sushie came into our lives. At first, my sister became hysterical each time she set eyes on the kindly white nurse. My father and his friends took great delight in Fatima’s terror. Whenever they saw Sushie or one of her colleagues approaching, they would call out, ‘Attends! Attends!’ before disappearing into our compound and reappearing with Fatima, or one of the other babies from our part of Wadata. The child would then be held up, in front of Sushie’s face, whereupon it inevitably began to squeal – much to the delight of my father and his cronies.
Sushie would make great play at being angry with the men, swearing wildly in Djerma, much to their amusement, while at the same time trying to pacify my sister or whatever unfortunate child had been seized from its mother.
One day, when I had been attending school for nearly three years, my family received a letter from Abdelkrim. Although it was still necessary for me to carry out many chores at home, I had also worked hard at my studies and so took great pleasure in being able to read my brother’s news to my mother and father, Adamou and Fatima.
The letters from Ireland had also continued, and I enjoyed replying to Katie and Hope. R
ichard or Monsieur Boubacar were never far away if I got stuck with either reading or writing, so that the process now felt like a natural and important part of my life. Abdelkrim wrote that he had some leave to take and that an army vehicle, en route to the military base at Tera, was going to drop him off at Wadata for a short stay. We children were overjoyed, as was my hard-working mother: she had grieved for a full year since the death of my grandmother and had not seen her eldest son for four years.
With each day, my father grew more agitated by my mother’s sadness and inability to pay attention to his needs; indeed, he made no secret of his dissatisfaction, and Miriam’s brother Dendi had heard talk in the village that Father planned to take another wife.
2
Haoua Boureima
Child Ref. NER2726651832
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger
West Africa
21st June, 1998
Katie and Hope Boyd
Member No. 515820
Ballygowrie
Co. Down
N. Ireland
BT22 1AW
Dear Katie and Hope Boyd,
I have received happily your new letter with the little gifts and photos (ten coloured pencils, two notebooks, four pencils, twenty-five balloons, two erasers, a pen, three pencil sharpeners, some candies, three photos, three postcards of your country). For these gifts thank you.
My father is working and my mother is working. Soon we will see my brother. I am fetching water. I have a friend called Miriam (also eleven years old). We like to play in groups. My father and mother wish you God’s blessing. Also to your father and mother we wish you God’s blessing. Peace be with you.
I am liking school very much. My teacher Monsieur Boubacar shows me where is your country. I am liking the photos and the postcards. It’s my supervisor Richard Houeto who helps me with writing to you.
Lovely,
From Haoua
***
It was early September. The sun continued to beat down relentlessly and the air was humid and alive with mosquitoes at dusk and dawn. The rains had been good and the hard, baked ground around Wadata was covered in a thin fuzz of greenery. There was a feeling of well-being in the village but, not long before Abdelkrim returned home, a fierce and unexpected harmattan blew in from the north, whipping up the desert and coating everything in a thick blanket of red dust. Darkness enveloped Wadata. The storm lasted three days, during which time it was difficult even to venture outside. Tempers flared in our little house. Meals consisted mostly of dried dates and boule without sugar. On the afternoon of the first day, my father abandoned his basket-making, wrapped his cheche around his head and made himself scarce, leaving my mother to cope with the problem of how to keep Adamou, Fatima and me from squabbling. While the wind howled and beat our wattle fences flat and the sand worried and bombarded our walls and stripped away what little hardpan topsoil there had been to nurture our crops, she sang to us and proudly told us stories about Abdelkrim’s childhood. She made plans to make a hard, goat dung floor. She told us about her visits to Niamey, of my grandmother, Bunchie, of her hopes for all of us. I missed school desperately and, when I wasn’t helping Mother to prepare food or repair clothing, spent most of my time reading to Fatima and writing to Katie and Hope. It was a great relief to everyone in Wadata when, finally, the battering ceased and a strange silence filled the air. I eagerly bundled my books together and skipped most of the way to school, across unmarked sands. I could not wait to hand my letter over to Richard. I had also made a little drawing of our chickens for Katie and Hope because Hope had written that their father also kept some animals.
Later that day, when I returned from school, I was surprised to see what appeared to be a civilian truck parked near our compound. Very few vehicles passed through Wadata. Aid workers visited, of course, and, very occasionally, a bush taxi or a party of lost anasaras would turn up on the outskirts of the village. Yet any vehicle that did make it here was still an object of wonder. Even the trans-Saharan camions would not venture this far off-piste, so that anyone returning to Wadata, having already endured a long, arduous journey onboard one of these massive, over-laden trucks, still faced a three hour walk after drop-off.
Although we had been expecting Abdelkrim, we had not known exactly when he might arrive, and it did not occur to me that the figure sitting on the bonnet of the white Land Rover might be my brother. When I drew nearer I could see that he was dressed in army fatigues and a maroon coloured beret. He wore expensive looking sunglasses. A cigarette hung from his lip. Another soldier, somewhat older and scruffier, stood beside the vehicle, talking to my father, who pointed towards me as I approached.
‘Aiee! It’s the scholar,’ my father said.
The soldier on the bonnet inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then tossed it into the dust. ‘ Fofo! Look at you, Little One,’ he said. ‘How you’ve grown!’ He jumped nimbly down from the vehicle and removed his sunglasses.
‘Abdelkrim? Mate fu?’ I said, uncertainly. The handsome, athletic looking young man standing before me bore little resemblance to the gangly youth I’d last seen some four years earlier.
Abdelkrim grinned and held out his arms. ‘ Bani samay walla.’ When his lips parted in that cheeky, lop-sided way, I knew that this was, truly, my brother. Pressed close to him, I found his garments and military accessories alien, their scents unfamiliar, and yet somehow I felt safe in his arms. It was a feeling I had also experienced when Bunchie used to rock me, singing, ‘Haoua-Haoua-Haoua, HaouaHaoua-Hoo,’ over and over again, until sleep took me. My father often teased me with my gentle grandmother’s lilt but, although he was not always a cold-hearted man, I had no memory of him holding me like my brother did now: Abdelkrim held me like he knew not to let go until I’d had enough. The only other person who could make me feel that way was my mother.
We went into the compound where my mother was talking excitedly to another of Abdelkrim’s comrades. Fatima clung to Mother’s pagne, clearly using her as a shield.‘Haoua,’ my mother said, tapping the soldier’s forearm lightly, ‘this is Sergeant Bouleb.’
I nodded, a little shyly. Sergeant Bouleb was a massive man: taller even than Abdelkrim, with broad, square shoulders and piercing eyes. His cheeks were marked with small, regular scars and, when he smiled, his teeth seemed even more perfect than Sushie’s. He transferred a fat cigar from his right to his left hand, before greeting me with a little wave.
‘ Foyaney. Ça va, Haoua?’ His accent was not local; his voice deep, almost musical but slightly intimidating. Scarification was not something we saw often in these parts, but I guessed that he was Hausa nevertheless. I could not stop myself from staring at the gold ring on his finger; valuable, unclean, forbidden. Towering above the slight figures of my mother and sister, he looked odd here in the bush; like he did not belong here, like someone who had never before left the city perhaps – like a hippo who has strayed too far from the river.
‘Abdelkrim’s friends will eat with your father,’ my mother said. ‘Fetch some wood now, while I make some tea for the sergeant. That’s a good girl.’
I could tell that she was nervous and keen to impress my brother’s superior.
I had just gone a few yards when I met Adamou, coming back towards the compound with a freshly slaughtered chicken. He flapped his elbows and made a silly squawking sound in the back of his throat, then held the bird up by its legs and shook it, dripping, close to my face.
‘We’re having chicken!’ he exclaimed. A slick of blood on the bridge of his sandaled foot was peppered with dust.
‘I know,’ I said, dodging past him. Meat of any kind was for special occasions only. I followed the trail of blood spots back out to the little animal enclosure my father had made, and gathered up some twigs and branches under the watchful eyes of our few scraggy sheep and goats.
I had not realised t
hat I had missed Abdelkrim quite so much until I began to think of him leaving again. Fatima had been too young to remember our brother when he had left to join the army but, as I watched her watching him that evening, I could tell that she had already begun to feel a strong family bond towards him. Adamou, too, was clearly pleased to have Abdelkrim home. He took great delight in showing off his soccer and wrestling skills to our big brother, and to Mohammed – the soldier who had been talking to my father earlier that day.
As we served the men their supper, Sergeant Bouleb told us that he had had to ‘pull some strings’ in order to be able to visit Wadata; our village was something of a detour from the route to Tera. The vehicle in which the soldiers were travelling had been specially built and imported via the Togolese port of Lome for the use of the Presidential Guard. It was to be taken to the military base for ‘specialisation’ and its paint job. He described his experience of sheltering in the Land Rover with two other grown men during the sand storm in such precise detail that I could almost smell their bodies and feet. His strange, clipped pronunciation of our language mesmerised me and I listened, fascinated, as he told us how, at the age of seven, his parents had sold him as a slave. He had been taken to Sierra Leone and worked in the diamond mines. Then he served as a child soldier. He eventually converted to Christianity and, many years later, returned to Niger to live with his uncle, finding happiness in the form of both the army and what he called ‘a modern approach to spiritual life.’ It was impossible for me to imagine such hardship.
I was about to join my mother and sister so that we too might eat, when my father called me back to his guests. ‘Be sure to drink plenty of goat’s milk, Haoua,’ he said, hooking a ball of rice and meat from the dish. He smiled, slyly, at Sergeant Bouleb. ‘We must fatten this girl up!’