Harmattan

by Weston, Gavin

  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!’

  9

  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.

  Miriam was just completing her latest creation when my sister and I entered the house. She pointed at the two large horns which she had given Narcisse and gave us an immense smile. A great sense of relief washed over me when I realised that we did not even need to discuss the events of the day before. This was a new day.

  Narcisse was peering into a little scrap of tarnished mirror glass which Madame Kantao usually kept propped up on a battered set of drawers in their living area. She beamed at Fatima and me and then, twiddling her new horns proudly, she proclaimed, ‘I’m cow!’

  We all fell about laughing, so much so that Madame Kantao took a break from her work to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Toh,’ she said, smiling, when finally we settled down. ‘There is food to prepare, Miriam.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Miriam replied, then turning to me she rolled her eyes and said, ‘We’re having smoked fish!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think we are too. We’d better get back to help Mother before there is more trouble at home.’

  As Fatima and I bid our farewells, I realised that I was full of apprehension about the thought of facing my father again, and wished that my sister and I could somehow borrow a little of the Kantaos’ warmth; that we could wrap it carefully in palm leaves, like a baby bird fallen from its nest, and hide it in the folds of my pagne to take home with us.

  10

  A strange blue mist hung over the river as I approached it. I heard no voices, and yet I knew that someone was waiting for me there. As I drew closer, the sound of wet clothing, slapping against rocks, broke the silence. I pushed on through the thickening, soupy haze and at last caught sight of a solitary figure, ankle-deep in water and stooped over what appeared to be a huge, craggy log. Beside the figure, a half submerged pile of garments quivered in the eddies of the river.

  I waded cautiously through the silt until I was just a few metres from the working figure. I could see now that it was a woman and was about to call out to her when all of a sudden the log began thrashing about in the water. I realised then that it was not a log at all but a gigantic crocodile. It twisted its head from side to side and smacked its huge tail against the surface of the water. Then, with a final lurch, the beast turned towards me and bared its great jaws, before swimming off in the direction of the other shore. As the animal submerged, an array of red garments, which had been attached to its knobbly back, floated to the surface and bobbed there forlornly for a few moments, before they too sank into the deep.

  All this time, the woman had stood, rock steady, with her back to me and the shore, but now she turned silently to face me. It was my grandmother.

  ‘Bunchie!’ I said, my voice shaking with emotion. ‘Bunchie!’

  ‘Little One.’ She spoke softly. She reached out and took my hand, but I could not feel her touch.

  ‘Where have you been, Bunchie?’ I asked her.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why did you have to go away?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ she said, sadly. ‘I didn’t want to go away, my child.’

  ‘Then, stay here,’ I said. ‘Just stay with us now. Please, Bunchie.’

  ‘I have to go, Haoua,’ I heard a different, urgent, voice say. ‘I have to go right now, Little One.’

  When I opened my eyes, I found that I was looking into the face of Abdelkrim.

  11

  It was still dark outside, but I could just make out the crouching, silhouetted form of my brother. A cockerel crowed impatiently in the distance, yet I knew that it was really too early to leave the warmth of my bed. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The rest of my family were still sleeping.

  ‘Little One,’ Abdelkrim whispered, ‘come through to the other room for just a moment. I want to talk to you.’ He stood up and stretched, then drew back the curtain that separated our two rooms.

  A dizziness enveloped my head; perhaps part of my spirit was still standing at the river with my grandmother. Without a word, I crawled off my bed and stumbled behind my brother through to our living area. In the faint glow of the kerosene lamp, I was surprised to see Sushie sitting at our table.

  She gave me a little wave. ‘ Ça va, Haoua?’ she whispered, her pale skin glowing in the lamp light.

  My fatigue may have overridden my manners; I am not sure if I answered her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked my brother.

  ‘I can’t stay here any longer,’ he said, removing a chewing stick from his mouth. ‘Mademoiselle Sushie is going to drive m
e to the camion.’ He pointed at his kitbag, which was lying by the door. I realised then that he was dressed in civilian clothes for the first time since he had been home.

  ‘There is some medicine coming in from Niamey,’ Sushie explained, ‘so I have to go out there anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ I fidgeted with the little wire knob on the lamp.

  ‘You were already asleep when I came back last night,’ Abdelkrim said.

  ‘Father sent me to bed early.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I looked at him, crossly. ‘The others will be upset that you have left without saying goodbye!’

  Abdelkrim put his hand out towards me, reassuringly. ‘I told them I was going last night,’ he said. ‘It’s for the best.’

  ‘But why do you have to go so soon, Abdel?’

  ‘Because… it’s for the best.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Hush now,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep. I just didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. And I will come back – soon. I promise.’

  I wheeled around towards Sushie. ‘Let me come with you, Mademoiselle?’ I urged her, pouting, I hoped, like baby Narcisse.

  Abdelkrim sighed. ‘Haoua!’

  ‘Please, Abdel,’ I said. ‘I would be company for Sushie on the way back.’

  Sushie looked at my brother and shrugged. ‘It’s quite a distance,’ she said.

  ‘And there’ll be a lot of waiting about. The camion to Niamey should be through by midday but the one bringing our medicine won’t arrive until much later.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘Please let me go, Abdel?’

  We heard movement from the bedroom and then my father and mother appeared from behind the curtain.

  Abdelkrim glanced at my father. ‘That wouldn’t be up to me, Little One,’ he said. ‘You would need to ask our father.’

  My mother mumbled something in Father’s ear.

  ‘May I go with Mademoiselle Sushie, please, Father?’ I said.

  ‘And your work?’

  ‘I will do it, I promise. All of it.’

  ‘Your mother needs help,’ he said.

  ‘I know it, Father.’

  ‘She could help me later, Salim,’ my mother said, quietly.

  Everyone looked at my father. ‘You’d better get dressed quickly then,’ he said, returning to the bedroom without a further word to Abdelkrim.

  I had been in a car before, of course – several times, in fact – but it was still something of a novelty for me to be riding along in Sushie’s. The sun was only just beginning to think about rising, so our journey to the camion pick-up point was easier than the return trip to Wadata would be. Later, the air inside the vehicle would be breathless and hot and the firm sand on which we were now travelling would be much softer.

  As we bumped along, I could not help but think of my mother. She had taken Abdelkrim’s decision to leave very badly, although I knew that he had no real choice. I was sure that my mother knew it too. I leaned my head back on the rear seat and closed my eyes, content for the moment to be near my brother at least. Despite the lurching and jolting of Sushie’s Vision Corps Toyota, I soon drifted off into a shallow half-sleep, in which neither Egerou n-igereou nor my grandmother featured.

  Instead, only the voices of my brother and Sushie, as she wrestled with the steering wheel and cursed the furrows of soft sand, soaked into my consciousness.

  At first, their conversation seemed little more than the awkward but polite exchanges of two people who barely knew each other, but as their tones became more hushed, I realised that it was my mother, my father, my siblings and me that they were discussing. It soon became apparent that this was not the first such conversation which they had had. I abandoned any notion of sleep then and, keeping my eyes closed, strained to catch every word.

  ‘I could drive for a while, if you’d like me to,’ I heard Abdelkrim say.

  ‘No. I’m fine, thank you,’ Sushie replied.

  ‘Toh.’

  ‘How’s Haoua doing?’

  ‘I think she’s still fast asleep.’

  ‘She’s a spirited girl,’ Sushie said, over the whine of the engine.

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘Strong. Determined. Clever,’ she said.

  I felt a little embarrassed but also quite proud, and perhaps slightly guilty for my deceit.‘She was always clever,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘I hope that she will remain strong, Mademoiselle Sushie.’

  ‘I will keep an eye on her, Abdel,’ Sushie said. ‘And the rest of your family. I really do care about all of my Wadata children, you know,’ she added, with a little laugh. ‘I know,’ my brother said. ‘But you will not always be around, Mademoiselle. You will return to your life in America and forget all about Wadata.’

  Sushie tutted. ‘Abdelkrim, I’m not the only one looking out for your people.

  There is Boubacar, Richard – not to mention the other Vision Corps workers. They’re all good people, believe me.’

  I heard a muted grunt from my brother.

  Sushie’s voice took on a more serious note. I opened my eyes, slightly, and caught sight of her leaning over towards Abdelkrim. ‘I’m mainly concerned about your parents for now,’ she said, her words somewhere between a hiss and a whisper.

  He nodded. ‘Indeed, Mademoiselle. As I said before: my father is not to be trusted.’‘Hmm… ’ She paused, as if deliberating whether or not she should say any more on the matter. Then, ‘Abdelkrim…’ she said.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’

  ‘He really can’t be trusted…’

  ‘I know it.’

  Sushie took a deep breath. ‘Yes… but… I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to risk making a bad situation worse.’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘Your father – and he’s only one of many – well, to be frank… I’m not sure that he is careful, if you get my meaning?’ She was barely audible over the din of the engine now.

  ‘Continue,’ Abdelkrim said.

  ‘I spoke to all of Wadata’s menfolk, some time back. About protection, you know?’‘It’s all right,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘The waykuru women. I’ve heard the stories.’

  ‘Yes. It’s hardly a secret. Wadata’s not very large. And, like I say, Salim’s not the only one who goes to. . . that place.’ Sushie glanced over her shoulder and I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘The thing is, Abdel, the men in the village have the idea that they are not susceptible to infection, that protected sex is not for them and that if they are ‘quick’ there can be no problem!’

  ‘Yes,’ my brother said.

  ‘It alarms me greatly that they choose to ignore my advice and warnings,’

  Sushie continued, as the vehicle hit a deep pothole, ‘ – and the women they go to are just as reckless about the whole thing!’

  Abdelkrim sighed. ‘As you say, Mademoiselle Sushie, Wadata is a small village, and such has been its ways for a very long time.’

  ‘Dangerous ways!’ Sushie said. ‘Dangerous ways!’

  The camion post consisted of little more than a large, rickety shed and a latrine house.

  Parked nearby was a badly beaten up Land Rover. A tall, shiny communications mast was attached to one end of the main building and, at the other, a makeshift canopy had been erected under which passengers could wait for the camion. An array of baggage and belongings lay scattered about on the sand in no particular order, creating a sense that my brother’s fellow travellers and their possessions had recently been dumped there. From a battered speaker mounted on a wooden pole, the tinny sound of La Voix du Sahel assaulted our ears, even though we had parked some distance away.

  It was mid-morning by the time we arrived and uncomfortably hot inside the vehicle.‘I’m sorry the air conditioning isn’t working,’ Sushie said.

  I had drifted in and out of sleep throughout the journey and now had a throbbing pain in my head. My back was soaked with sweat, my pagne peeling from the vinyl seat each time I wriggled in an effort to get comfortable.

/>   Sushie reached into a large, green, plastic cool box at Abdelkrim’s feet and handed me a bottle of bitter-tasting water. I thanked her and was glad of the refreshment but could not help but screw my face up.

  ‘It’s the purification tablets,’ she said, in an unapologetic, matter-of-fact way. She fumbled in the little compartment in front of Abdelkrim. ‘Where the hell did I put those documents?’

  ‘I think you put them in your bag, Mademoiselle,’ Abdelkrim said.

  ‘Of course. I’m so tired I can’t think straight.’

  ‘You ought to have let me drive.’

  ‘Hey!’ Sushie said, winking at me. ‘I saw you driving those toy trucks with Adamou – we had to get here in one piece, you know!’ She grabbed her bag and got out of the vehicle.

  ‘Are you all right, Little One?’ Abdelkrim said.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

  ‘You had quite a sleep.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Maybe you’re still asleep?’ he teased.

  ‘Hmm.’ I took another swig from the bottle and handed it across to him.

  By now Sushie was talking to some other travellers, her long, pink arms flailing wildly as she worked her magic charm: she had a forwardness, a confidence with my people which few anasaras have and, judging by the gleeful expressions on these Touaregs’ faces, I could tell that it had not failed her with them either.

  ‘Abdel,’ I said, as my head began to clear.

  ‘Hmm?’ he mimicked.

  ‘Do you think she’s pretty?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who!’

  He turned in his seat to face me, mischief in his eyes. ‘Mother? Fatima?’

  ‘Sushie!’ I said.

  ‘Oh – Sushie…’ He looked out towards the gathering and then leaned back. ‘I think she’s a remarkable woman,’ he said.

  As if she’d heard our conversation, Sushie looked over at us and, smiling, gave a little wave.

  ‘Let’s see what’s going on,’ Abdelkrim said, opening his door and stepping out into the baking heat.