Harmattan

by Weston, Gavin

  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!’

  4

  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!’

  5

  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.’

  ‘A soldier’s life is hard, Mother. Sometimes it just helps me to forget.’

  ‘It is not our way, Abdel.’

  ‘I’ve been away from those ways for a long time,’ Abdelkrim said, softly.

  ‘You would do well to remember your upbringing, my son. Do not turn your back on the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. Alsilamo. A time may come when you will need your faith, and you will have call to reach out to Allah. I pray that He will always be there for you.’

  There was a long silence, then Abdelkrim spoke again. ‘Last night… I meant what I said about Father, you know?’

  ‘I know you did,’ my mother said, wearily. ‘But what can I do? If he has decided it shall be, it shall be. And if God wills it… Inshallah.’

  ‘Aiee! Look around you!’ Abdelkrim snapped. ‘He can’t even support the four of you! How will he feed and clothe another wife? This is madness. You must not let him do this!’

  ‘Abdel,’ my mother said, sadly, ‘do you think that I could stop him?’

  ‘And how will he pay? He’ll have no more of my money! I won’t send it to you for him to squander!’

  My mother did not answer.

  ‘ God will provide, I suppose? Yes? When will he provide, Mother?’

  ‘My son, God will provide.’

  There was the familiar sound of teeth being sucked, marking the end of their conversation. My mother came back into the house, bundled up a pile of soiled clothing and placed it on her head.

  ‘Put your papers away now, Haoua, and bring the rest of the clothes down to the river, please.’

  I groaned. Washing clothes was a chore that I did not like, and I had made a good start with my colouring pencils and had drawn a fine chicken for Katie and Hope. ‘Just do it, child! You’ve had your rest!’ she said, curtly. ‘And remember, youhad your fun yesterday.’

  Abdelkrim wandered into the house after my mother had gone. He was smoking a very bad-smelling cigarette. I screwed my face up and smiled when he threw it outside, onto the dust, with a mutter.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘are you going to show me your treasures?’

  It was the first time that my letters and pictures had been referred to as ‘treasures’, but the word suited perfectly: it was exactly how I had come to think of them. They were, to me, like little doorways to another world. I knew that I would probably never actually go there, but it somehow reassured me to know that this other world existed. I knew that my friends, far away in Ireland, were every bit as real as me and my family. At night, as the cicadas sang their lullaby under a majestic canopy of stars and I waited for sleep to take me, I wondered if Katie and Hope were sleeping under those very same stars too.

  ‘Mother needs me to help her at the river. But I will show you quickly.’ From beneath my bed roll, I eagerly took the large, tatty envelope that Monsieur Boubacar had given me, and spread its contents on the floor.

  Abdelkrim squatted beside me and began sifting through my photographs and postcards. ‘Phwooo!’ he whistled. ‘Quite a collection.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, happy to share this secret world with my favourite brother.

  ‘Everything looks so green!’ He picked up a postcard showing a huge, rocky hill with an imposing stone tower on top. Dotted all around the base of the hill were tiny houses – as white as sun-bleached bone; while in fields plump with grass and divided by hedges as coiffeured as human hair, clusters of fat, strangely patterned cattle grazed themselves fatter still.

  ‘And blue, too!’ I said, pointing out the image of the sea at Katie and Hope’s village.

  ‘Beautiful. Reminds me, a little, of Tarqua.’

  ‘Tarqua? Where is that?’

  ‘Nigeria – on the coast,’ Abdelkrim replied. ‘We had to go there last year for training exercises.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen the sun set over the ocean, my god!’ ‘You like the army, don’t you, Abdel?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve met some very good people – Bouleb is one of them – and some very, very bad people. I’ve seen things, done things, been places I could never have imagined. I’ve shaken Mainassara’s hand! … The toad. . .’ he laughed. ‘It’s my life now, Little One.’ He shook the postcard wistfully as he spoke.

  ‘I’m not so little now!’ I protested.

  He smiled. ‘No. Not so little. But when I left the village you were not much older than Fatima.’

  ‘Seven,’ I said. ‘I was seven.’

  He nodded. ‘Anyway, yes, I like the army. Don’t tell Mother though – she has enough to worry about – but things have been difficult recently.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well… you know… some of the barracks have not received their wages for quite some time now. There is a great deal of unrest across the country.

  Many people want our president to step down. There has been a lot of trouble – unpaid wages, protests, plots, rumours of another coup, that sort of thing – mostly in the provinces, but there is talk that it may reach us in Niamey too.’

  ‘It’s not serious though, is it?’ I asked, somewhat alarmed by his tone. We were used to hearing frightening reports from neighbouring countries all the time on Monsieur Letouye’s television or Sushie’s wind-up radio. For the most part I was too busy to pay much attention, but I did not like the sound of Nigeria
– Hausaland.

  Monsieur Boubacar had told my class about a letter he had read in a newspaper when he was visiting relatives in Lagos. It had haunted me. The writer had demanded that the authorities remove a body from the roadside which had been dumped there three weeks previously. I could not imagine a world which treated human life with such disrespect. It was a world apart from the Djerma ways in which I had been brought up. ‘You won’t be in any danger, Abdel?’

  My brother shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, Little One. It will pass.’ He set the postcard on the floor and raised his eyebrows quizzically as he leaned across to pick up a photograph of Katie and Hope.

  I was keen to change the subject; I did not know or care much about the ways of our capital and government. ‘That’s Katie,’ I said, pointing, ‘and that’s Hope… I think.’

  ‘They’re twins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re very pretty. And they’re from Ireland, you said?’

  ‘Yes, Ireland. Have you been there?’

  He laughed. ‘No! The Nigerien Guard don’t often have much call to be in Nigeria, never mind Ireland!’ He tapped the photograph. ‘And these twins are what age?’ ‘Eleven,’ I said. ‘Like me.’

  ‘Toh’ For a moment he seemed lost in thought. ‘There are twins in Niamey,’ he said. ‘ Dancing twins – I see them almost every day at the corner near the barracks. At least I think they’re twins. They are very alike.’

  I was intrigued. There were no twins in Wadata. Once, Miriam’s grandmother had told me about twins whose heads had been joined together. They had not lived long. Their mother had been cursed by a witch from Tillaberi, she said. In our own village Madame Monnou had given birth to twin girls, five years earlier, but one of them had died while Madame Monnou was in labour. The surviving girl – Amina – was a friend of Fatima’s. I always imagined that Amina felt like half a person. We knew that twins were powerful yet dangerous, lucky, extraordinary. Bunchie told us that we should fear them, because they could kill offenders and see things which normal people could not see. Often she would repeat the story of Adamu and Hawa (after whom my brother and I had been named). They had been blessed with fifty sets of twins, and had hidden the more beautiful twin of each pair away from the Creator in a secret cave. The god saw that they had deceived him and made the hidden twins invisible for ever. Bunchie said that the spirits who plague people were the descendants of the beautiful twins.