Sushie nodded. ‘I’ll keep to the piste, don’t worry. And I have my compass – and Haoua here.’
Abdelkrim looked at me and grinned. There was the roar of another engine and the tooting of a horn as the French men’s Citroen pulled away from the camion post in a cloud of dust, its passengers saluting my brother and blowing kisses towards Sushie as they passed us. Abdelkrim sucked air in through his teeth but there was no time for words.
As if in reply, the camion’s great klaxon emitted a series of loud blasts.
Abdelkrim touched my face and then clambered like a lizard up the vehicle’s tailgate. Moments later the truck moved off and my brother was gone; no more than a waving speck on top of that strange, groaning, rattling, creaking hulk, moving wearily across the sands.
‘Let’s get into the shade again,’ said Sushie. ‘We’ve got a long wait ahead of us.’ I followed her under the canopy, all the while peering southeast at the diminishing cloud of dust. She sat down and leaned back against the gable end of the building, patting the sand beside her. ‘Don’t be sad, Haoua,’ she said as I leaned against her shoulder.
I tried hard to be strong but, eventually, just like my mother earlier that morning, I sobbed. ‘It was such a short visit,’ I said through my tears.
Sushie put her arm around me and kissed the top of my head. ‘Hey,’ she said.
‘You’ll see him again soon.’
13
Boyd
Member No. 515820
Ballygowrie
Co. Down
N. Ireland
BT22 1AW
21st October, 1998
Haoua Boureima
Child Ref. NER2726651832
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger
West Africa
Dear Haoua,
Sorry I haven’t written for quite a while. I have been thinking of you, though, and wondering how you are getting on at school. I’m so glad you liked the photographs and books we sent. They are in English, of course, but hopefully your friend Richard will be able to help you read them. This time we are sending a book in French, which our father bought when he was in Paris last month with some of his pupils.
Perhaps your teacher will want to read the story to your class. It is one of our favourite books – ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone’, by J. K. Rowling. It’s a bit weird at first, but funny too. I hope you like it. All our other friends think it’s great.
Love,
Katie. X
Dear Haoua,
How cool that your brother came to visit your family! He sounds nice. I think that having a brother must be great. I hope the rest of your family are doing well also. Our mother says that perhaps, one day, we might have a baby brother, but our father says that we girls are enough! Our parents are well, but our great grandfather (we call him ‘Papa’) has been quite sick. As you know, he is very, very old.
It would be lovely to hear from you again. Please give our regards to your family.
Oh yes – we put the little picture of you, which VCI sent us, in a frame. It sits on top of our TV, in the kitchen. So now you are really like one of our family! Your friend,
Hope. XOXO
***
My heart ached for weeks after Abdelkrim returned to the capital. It was obvious to everyone that my gentle mother felt the same way. It seemed to me that the gleam in her beautiful eyes began to fade, and she carried herself differently, so that with every new day she seemed to become more like her own mother and less like mine.
Each afternoon on the way home from school, I checked with Richard or Sushie to see if a letter had come from my brother, but none did. Katie and Hope continued to write to me, and of course I was glad to receive their letters, but I would have given up a year’s worth of their kind thoughts for just a line or two from Abdelkrim. Before his visit I had not worried about him much; now I could not get him out of my head. Perhaps I picked up on my mother’s anxiety - for anxious she certainly was - but, somehow, it was no longer possible for me to ignore occasional snippets of news from Niamey on Monsieur Letouye’s television or Sushie’s wind-up radio. Although Wadata was far removed from the unrest in the capital, we were all too aware that any upheaval there could crucially affect our village too. I had also been finding it difficult to concentrate at school too, but the prospect of reading Katie and Hope’s storybook with my class filled me with excitement. So I was greatly disappointed when Monsieur Boubacar, having read the book himself, announced that it was not suitable reading for us because it was largely about sorcery and witchcraft.
Furthermore, he did not offer the book back to me and I was too timid to request it from him, and so it was lost to me forever. The idea that my friends had sent me a book about such matters seemed very strange, but there was nothing I could do but try to forget about it and hope that they would send me another, different story soon.
I had also taken my little adding machine into school and this had caused great excitement also. Even Monsieur Boubacar was impressed.
‘Yes, I have seen these machines before,’ he said, ‘but never one so small!
You are a very fortunate young lady to have such a useful item – and such good friends. Unfortunately I cannot permit you to use it in counting class; you must use your own brain instead, Haoua!’ He said this as if he was angry with me, but the whole class laughed, knowing that he was not. ‘Can anyone tell me about an experience they’ve had when being able to count was useful?’
Oduntan, a boy two years younger than Miriam and me, raised his hand.
‘Yes, Oduntan.’
‘Please, Sir, when I am doing my homework, Sir.’
There was a titter around the room.
‘Toh,’ Monsieur Boubacar said. ‘But what about besides school and school work?’Oduntan looked blankly at our teacher.
‘He’s so stupid!’ Miriam whispered – unkindly, I thought.
Monsieur Boubacar shook his head and looked around the class. ‘Anyone else?’ A boy named Samuel, who walked eight kilometres to and from home each day to attend class, shot his hand up eagerly.
‘Yes, Samuel?’
‘Please, Sir, when I have to check the goats for my father!’
‘Good. Right. Now,’ said Monsieur Boubacar. ‘Moving on…’
And, as usual, we sat on our mats with our exercise books on our laps, pencils at the ready, eager to learn.
I liked Mathematics very much, and I was good at it, but Miriam and I were especially fond of reading. Certainly we were disappointed that our teacher considered the Harry book inappropriate for us, but I was somewhat relieved; for I had looked through it and felt a little daunted by the number of words that I did not recognise. Besides, the VCI people had provided Monsieur Boubabcar with a small selection of beautiful picture books and I had read only half of these. And Monsieur Boubacar was an excellent and engaging storyteller; we all listened, enthralled, when he read to us or made up a story from his own head. I often imagined myself in front of a classroom full of boys and girls, and I prayed for the day when I too would actually be a fine teacher and make my mother and Abdelkrim proud.
Miriam put her hand up to attract Monsieur Boubacar’s attention. ‘May we read The Story of the River Island People again please, Sir?’ she said.
‘Not today, Miriam,’ he answered.
More hands shot up. ‘ The Hunter and the Ebony Tree, please, Sir!’
‘The Tale of Harakoye Dicko!’
‘Perhaps later.’ Monsieur Boubacar shrugged, apologetically, and then turned to the rickety blackboard and scrawled the words Personal and Project in big, chalk letters.
‘For now I want each one of you to consider this: in one week’s time I shall expect you all to do a little presentation to the rest of the class – to talk, for a short while, about a subject that really interests you.’
A wave of mur
murs and groans rippled through the classroom. Miriam looked at me with a scowl on her face, but I felt quite excited at the thought of this project.
My classmates had been intrigued with Katie and Hope’s letters and gifts to me (even those of them who had their own sponsors) and I was often asked about them outside the classroom also. I knew that, like me, they were fascinated by the fact that my sponsor’s daughters were twins, but I was sure that it was the gifts in particular that interested them. (I had shared my candies around the class on a number of occasions).
Still, I was already planning my presentation and couldn’t wait to speak to Richard about the ideas that were bouncing around inside my head.
As I walked home with Miriam later that day, we met ‘Aunt’ Alassane walking towards us. I recognised the dress she was wearing as being an old one of Sushie’s: plain, blue, much too short for a Wadata woman – and it made her belly look lumpy. She was carrying a bag made of red netting, full of supplies from Monsieur Letouye’s shop.
‘I’ll bet she didn’t have to pay for those!’ said Miriam under her breath.
‘Hush!’ I said. ‘She’ll hear you!’
We stopped and exchanged greetings, politely. I knew that this was a mere formality; she had very little time for me or my friends, really. When one spoke to Aunt Alassane one always sensed that she was anxious to be elsewhere.
Aunt Alassane was not married. Nor, in fact, was she my aunt. She lived in a large, brick house on the edge of the village with her two younger sisters – Flo and Hamidou. They were not originally from Wadata. It was said that their late parents had been nomads who had settled in the village after losing their livestock to persistent drought. Even so, their household had more goats, sheep and chickens than any other in Wadata, with the exception of Monsieur Letouye’s. It could not have been said that these women were liked in our village. In fact, we children took great delight in concocting outrageous tales about them. Yet, all over Wadata and as far away as Goteye and Konni, there were men beholden to Alassane and her sisters, and when they snapped their fingers, a man would always come running.
It was my father who had encouraged us to address Aunt Alassane in such a formal manner. My mother never spoke about her. Once, when I had taken Fatima to the dispensaire to have a damaged toenail removed, I had overheard Sushie and some visiting VCI officials discussing the ‘health risks of the Big House’. I was not then certain that it was Aunt Alassane’s home to which they were referring, but I had a fairly good idea that it might be.
‘You remind your father that he promised to fix my roof, girl. Okay?’ she said, as we continued on our separate ways.
‘Toh.’
‘Tell him to come and see me soon.’ She gave us a great, toothy smile. Like a crocodile, I thought: a pretty, dangerous crocodile.
Miriam and I watched her as she continued on her way. Her broad hips swayed like those women in movies and she swung her bag, plump with onions and peppers, like a schoolgirl.
‘What age do you think she is, Miriam?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Who cares? She’s a witch!’
I didn’t want to admit it, but she had said exactly what I was thinking.
At home, Fatima was watering Mother’s okio patch. She was not in good form.
‘What’s wrong with you, Bébé Boureima?’ I said. She did not answer. I tried again. ‘Why do you scowl so?’
‘I want to go to school too!’ she said, sulkily. ‘You get to go to school and I have to do all your work!’
‘I have to go to school and work,’ I said.
‘It’s not fair,’ Fatima said. ‘Can’t you ask those anasaras to let me go to school too?’
‘I don’t think it is quite as simple as that,’ I answered. ‘Besides, I think you are still too young.’
She kicked at the empty pail by her feet. ‘Hmmphh! Father says even Adamou is going to go to school soon – and he’s a stupid boy!’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, setting my schoolbag down. ‘And perhaps you will go to school one day also, Fatima.’
She looked at me sceptically. ‘Now I have to help Mother pound the stupid millet!’ she said.
‘I will help you.’
She allowed herself a little smile.
I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Bébé Boureima,’ I said. ‘Let’s find Mother.’
‘Toh,’ said Fatima. ‘But I’m not a baby!’
I should have noticed how silent the compound was when we entered it. Apart from the clucking of our few chickens as they scratched around in the dust, there was no sound.‘Mother?’ I called, expecting, I suppose, to see her emerge from the house.
There was no reply.
‘Azara?’ Fatima called out, cheekily, a great grin on her face. Again nothing.
‘Are you certain that she was not going to the river?’ I asked my sister.
‘She was pounding millet when I went to tend the okio,’ Fatima said. ‘She told me to hurry back to help her.’
‘Toh.’ I stood still for a few moments, wondering where she might be.
I walked instinctively around to the back of our house, not expecting to find her there at all.
But find her there I did. She was lying, face down, in a mess of millet and sand. ‘Mother!’ I cried.
Fatima came running to my side. ‘What’s wrong with her, Haoua?’ she said.
I was already on my knees, shaking the limp body. A faint groan told me that she was alive. I turned quickly and grabbed Fatima by the shoulders. ‘Listen, Fatima,’ I said. ‘She’s going to be all right. But we need Sushie. Now! Run as fast as you can!’
Fatima nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. In a flash she was gone.
I did not know what to do. ‘What if Sushie has gone to Goteye?’ I asked myself. ‘What if… oh please don’t die, Mother!’ I thought. I wanted to turn her on to her back, but something told me that I should wait. Instead, I eased my hand under her head and cradled her face in my palm. Gently then, I brushed the dust off her other cheek with the end of my pagne. I squeezed my eyes closed and begged Allah to spare her, promising Him anything, if only she should live. But it was Sushie I wished for most, in truth. ‘Come on, Sushie!’ I whispered, trembling with fear.
‘Come on!’
When I opened my eyes, I saw that Mother’s were open too. ‘Mother!’ I said, overjoyed. I bent down and kissed her forehead.
‘My Haoua,’ she said, her voice a faint, dry crackle.
I gently stroked her face. ‘Sushie is coming. Be still.’
‘A little water, child.’
With my free hand I untied my head wrap. Then, folding it into a pad, I eased it under my mother’s head. As I went to fetch the water, I continued to pray, all the while glancing at the entrance for any sign of Sushie.
‘Your water, Mother,’ I said, easing my knees under her head and putting the plastic cup to her lips.
Her eyes seemed to brighten a little as she sipped at the water. Two thin rivulets snaked their way across her still dusty cheekbone, leaving shiny streaks of skin. She gave a little nod, then brought her hand up weakly to her mouth. ‘My Haoua,’ she whispered again.
I cradled her head in my arms and put my forehead against hers. Her finger gently, rhythmically, tapped my elbow as we waited. I could not have been alone with her for very long, but to me it seemed like an eternity.
At last I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Sushie. Behind her, a small crowd had gathered. I looked for Fatima, but could not see her.
‘What have you been up to, Azara?’ Sushie said, panting a little. ‘Let’s get you onto this blanket.’ She helped me up, then quickly steered me away towards the crowd. Near the back, Adamou was standing, looking frightened and bewildered.
Beside him, I saw Fatima’s tiny frame. She clutched at the end of his tee shirt. I weaved my way through the on-lookers to join my brother and sister.
‘What happened?’ said Adamou, his voice faltering.
�
��I don’t know.’
‘Will she be okay?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She has to be okay.’ I looked back just in time to catch sight of my mother being whisked away by my father and three of the other menfolk, each of whom held a corner of the large, coarse blanket. Sushie followed them out of the compound. I pushed my way through the throng of people and caught up with her.
‘May I come too?’ I said.
‘No, Little One,’ she answered. ‘You stay here and look after your brother and sister. You’re the woman of the house until your mother returns – toh?’ She put her hand to my cheek and gave a little smile.
I nodded. ‘But you’ll tell me when I can see her?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you as soon as she’s well enough.’
14
When my father returned from the dispensaire, late that evening, he told us that Mother was fine. We were all in bed, but none of us had been able to sleep.
‘Does that mean she can come home?’ Adamou said, sitting up.
‘Not yet,’ my father replied, turning to me. ‘Sushie will tell you more tomorrow, Haoua. She wants to see you alone first.’
‘Haoua?’ my brother said. ‘Why does she want to talk to Haoua, Father? I am the eldest.’My father did not reply.
‘I want to see Mother too!’ sobbed Fatima.
‘Hush,’ my father said. ‘You will all see her. Now go to sleep.’ With that, he turned and left the room.
‘Why would Sushie want to talk to a little tick like you?’ Adamou demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps because Mother has requested it, or perhaps because I am almost a woman.’
‘Aiee!’
At the far side of the room, Fatima was still sobbing. I clambered off my own bedding and crawled in beside her. Immediately she snuggled up to me.
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