‘Don’t exaggerate,’ called Sophie after him, but there was a lump in her throat as she said it.
Chapter 6
The animal market was a long walk from Sophie’s house, situated on the north side of Gorom-Gorom. By the time Sophie arrived, the heat of the day had passed and there was even a breath of wind. She greeted the guardian at the market gate and slipped into the throng of buyers, sellers and gossipers.
The animal market was a large enclosure with different areas reserved for different kinds of animals. Sophie stood right in the middle of the enclosure; there were cattle in front of her, camels behind her, sheep and goats to her left and donkeys to her right. All around her milled a chattering squabbling bargaining mass of human beings. Some she recognized as townspeople but most were herders from far-flung villages like Giriiji, Yengerento and Bidi. Sophie headed for the cows.
It was usually possible to tell the buyers from the sellers. Buyers wandered around in fine long robes and surveyed the animals with beady, calculating eyes. Sellers wore simpler clothes and stood in nervous clusters, leaning on their staffs and pretending not to watch the buyers. A third group, the gossipers, were just there for a natter.
Normally, the Gorom-Gorom animal market was a fun place to be. After all, this was the social capital of the whole province, a place to catch up with friends and gaze at beautiful, long-horned cows. But today, the atmosphere was heavy. All around her Sophie heard the words ‘pink death’ repeated over and over in the solemn tone of voice you hear at funerals. The locusts seemed to be the sole topic of conversation at the animal market today.
‘They came to Yengerento on Wednesday afternoon,’ a herder near Sophie was saying. ‘They were like a terrible army.’
‘Yes,’ said his companion. ‘Locusts show no mercy.’
‘They sent Abdullai Bodeejo insane, you know. We had to tie him up.’
‘There has never been a worse harvest,’ said another. ‘Not since the Great Famine of 1972.’
‘May God help us,’ said another.
‘BROWN ZEBU COW!’ bellowed a voice behind the herders. ‘LAST SEEN ON MONDAY BY THE JAWJAW BAOBAB TREE! CONTACT IDRISSA GOREL!’
Sophie recognized the voice. She ducked through the crowd and there before her stood Gidaado the Fourth.
‘Salam alaykum,’ she said.
‘BROWN ZEBU COW!’ Gidaado bellowed in her ear. ‘HAVE YOU SEEN HER?’
‘No, I have not,’ said Sophie rubbing her ear. ‘And I’m surprised you haven’t got yourself arrested yet.’
‘This is the stupidest job ever,’ said Gidaado. ‘Ten years of training in the griot art and what do I end up doing? Yelling about a brown zebu cow.’
Sophie was about to reply when Gidaado grabbed her arm and took off through the crowd, pulling her behind him. He dodged behind a herd of wide black bulls and crouched down.
‘Who are we hiding from?’ said Sophie.
‘Sam Saman,’ said Gidaado. ‘I just saw him coming towards us.’
‘Is he still mad about the other day?’ said Sophie. She couldn’t help smiling whenever she thought of the staff-in-the-spokes gag.
‘No,’ said Gidaado. ‘He’s delighted just to see me working as a crier. He has been following me around all day, crowing. Keeps on asking me if I am enjoying my new job.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Sophie. ‘You get paid for this announcement.’
‘Only if the cow is found.’
Sophie frowned. That was simply not fair.
‘I’ll tell you the real bright side,’ continued Gidaado. ‘At least my father isn’t here to see his son working as a crier.’
Sophie looked away. She knew that Gidaado’s father Alu the Fearless had died when Gidaado was about seven. Then she thought of her own mother. It had been a long time since she had died but still Sophie missed her.
‘Look out!’ shouted Gidaado.
There was a commotion amongst the cattle. A frightened bull had broken away from its group and was careering through the crowd, bellowing in rage. People were squealing and running away, except for one brave young herder who dived onto the animal’s tail and hung on there as it bucked furiously. Two other herders ran in to help; one of them slipped a noose of rope round the bull’s back right leg, and tugged. The other tried to grab a front leg, leaping back and forth to evade the lunging horns.
The frenzied animal was too strong. It pulled the rope out of the herder’s hands and started to charge again, dragging the younger man behind him. Sophie screamed - the bull was coming straight at her. Fifteen metres, ten metres, five metres. A tall thin man with a gun stepped briskly in front of Sophie, took aim and shot. The animal staggered and crashed to the ground at her feet. A cloud of red dust rose into the air.
‘NO!’ screamed Sophie. ‘What have you done?’
Gidaado took hold of her arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘That’s a sleep gun. It fires a dart to make the bull go to sleep.’
Sophie felt very foolish. She knew all about tranquilizer guns but she had not expected to see one here in Gorom-Gorom.
‘Does that happen often?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Gidaado. ‘With so many animals and people packed in together, it’s not surprising some of them get frightened. It’s always good if someone at the market has a sleep gun at the ready.’
Sophie took a deep breath to calm herself, and tried to remember what they had been talking about before the bull interrupted.
‘That thing you said about being glad your father wasn’t here to see you,’ she said. ‘You didn’t mean that, did you?’
‘I certainly did,’ said Gidaado. ‘It is shameful for a griot to work as a crier.’
‘But you are doing it to support your family, Gidaado.’
‘Supporting them and shaming them at the same time. Marvellous.’
Sophie thought again of her mother. What was it she used to say? Whatever you find yourself doing, Sophie, do it as well as you can. Do it with all your heart and strength, as if you were doing it for God himself.
‘You are a crier now,’ said Sophie bluntly. ‘Try being a good one.’
Gidaado looked at Sophie as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Boil your head,’ he said, and walked off.
Chapter 7
For a whole week Sophie did not see Gidaado at all. She did not know if he had gone back to his village or if he was staying somewhere in Gorom-Gorom. But early on market day, while she was pouring her maize-flakes, Sophie heard his familiar ‘Bahaat-Ugh!’ outside the window. She opened the front door and went outside.
‘Salam alaykum,’ said Gidaado, sliding off Chobbal’s back. Sophie looked at him. Was it just her imagination or was Gidaado getting thinner?
‘Alaykum asalam,’ she said. ‘Did you wake in peace?’
‘Peace only. How is your father?’
‘Peace only. How is your grandmother?’
‘Peace only. She is angry with me because I have no money to buy her medicine this week.’
‘That’s not your fault,’ said Sophie.
Gidaado shuffled his feet. ‘Try telling her that,’ he said.
‘What about Uncle Ibrahiim?’ asked Sophie. ‘Can’t he help?’
‘My uncle’s music group is not getting any work these days. Since the pink death came, people in Gorom have stopped inviting griots to their ceremonies. They are saying that the tarik is an unnecessary expense. How can they call the tarik “unnecessary”? If we stop singing the tarik at our naming ceremonies we might as well all be dead.’
Sophie did not know what to say. There was a long silence and she was relieved when Gidaado spoke again.
‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I told you to boil your head.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Sophie.
‘I’m glad you didn’t boil your head,’ continued Gidaado, ‘because I need your help with something. I need a few words of French.’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘I want to
say: “Have you seen my cow?”’
Sophie thought for a moment. Was it mon vache or ma vache? Probably ma. ‘Est-ce que tu as vu ma vache?’ she said.
‘Est-ce que tu as vu ma vache?’ repeated Gidaado.
‘Good.’
Gidaado turned and climbed back onto Chobbal’s hump. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Can I borrow Salif, Ali and Gorko Bobo?’
‘Sure.’
‘I thought about what you said,’ said Gidaado, crossing his feet in the U of Chobbal’s neck. ‘You may be pleased to know that today I plan to be the best crier Gorom-Gorom has ever seen.’
‘Great,’ said Sophie and she ran inside to fetch the dancing flowers.
*
When Sophie went to the animal market that afternoon, it did not take her long to find Gidaado. He was squatting on a straw mat in the middle of the marketplace. Behind him knelt Chobbal the albino camel, beside him stood the dancing flowers, and all around him stood a large crowd of herders and townspeople. Sophie was pleased to see that Gidaado was holding his hoddu.
‘FIVE YEAR-OLD COW, BROWN FACE, WHITE BODY, BIG UDDERS!’ Gidaado was shouting. ‘LAST SEEN HERE IN GOROM-GOROM. CONTACT BELKO SAMBO!’
‘That’s me,’ said a wizened shepherd in the front row, turning and waving shyly to the crowd.
Gidaado stood his hoddu upright beside him on the mat and he started to pluck the strings, a complicated tune smattered with trills and grace notes. The dancing flowers began to boogy and the crowd chortled and pointed and tapped their feet to the music. Gidaado took a deep breath so that his whole body seemed to swell up, and then he began to sing:
‘No milk since Tuesday,
I wish I could die,
My coffee is black
And my chobbal is dry.
Bring back,
Bring back,
Oh, bring back Big Udders to me.
No milk since Tuesday
And that’s no mistake,
I’m all of a twitter,
I’m thin as a rake.
Bring back,
Bring back,
Oh, bring back Big Udders to me.
No milk since Tuesday,
I hate to complain,
But Beastlé milk powder
Just isn’t the same.
Bring back,
Bring back,
Oh, bring back Big Udders to meeeeee.’
Gidaado gave three loud staccato taps on the body of the hoddu and beamed around at his audience. ‘FIVE YEAR-OLD COW, BROWN FACE, WHITE BODY, BIG UDDERS!’ he yelled. ‘LAST SEEN HERE IN GOROM-GOROM. CONTACT BELKO SAMBO!’
‘I’ve seen that cow!’ cried a young boy excitedly. ‘It’s in Bidi now. Mariama the marabout’s wife is looking after it.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ shouted Belko Sambo pushing his way through the crowd towards the boy.
‘Result,’ said Gidaado, re-tuning his hoddu. ‘And so to my next song. Imagine, if you will, a skinny-legged Zebu cow belonging to a certain Jibi Sisse. Yellow with red splotches. Last seen near Djinn Rock east of Aribinda. This is a very sophisticated song and one line of the chorus is even in French. Special thanks to my friend Sophie Brown for her help with the translation.’
Sophie tried not to blush and failed. Gidaado started plucking the strings again, swelled up and began to sing:
‘My skinny-legged cow is astray in the bush
She is yellow with splotches of red.
If I don’t find her soon she will hunger and thirst
And the genies will jump on her head.
Has anyone seen my Skinny Legs?
Est-ce que tu as vu ma vache?
If you give me a hand to find Skinny Legs
I’ll give you a handful of cash.
For seven long days have I wandered the land
And listened for Skinny Legs’ “Moo”,
But all I have seen is her prints in the sand
And all I have smelled is her–’
‘Excuse me, Mr Crier,’ said a man at the back of the crowd, raising his hand timidly. ‘Do you have any cassettes of your music for sale?’
Gidaado stared at him. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I’m not that good. Now where was I?’ He swelled up and opened his mouth to sing again.
‘Excuse me, Mr Crier,’ said Sophie, thinking quickly. ‘Do you think you could possibly record a cassette and make copies in time for next week’s market?’
Gidaado looked at her. She winked meaningfully at him and nodded her head vigorously. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.
Gidaado stared back blankly for a while and then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
Chapter 8
The recording sessions took longer than Sophie had expected. Gidaado was fine in practice but whenever she put the microphone in front of his mouth and pressed RECORD he got flustered and fluffed his lines. Eventually though they managed to record near-perfect versions of ten lost cow songs.
Sophie enjoyed designing the cassette covers. On each one she drew a picture of a cow’s head, complete with boggly eyes and dangly tongue. Above the cow she wrote in bubble letters ‘Greatest Hits of Gidaado the Griot’. On the back she drew a copyright symbol and wrote out the titles of the songs in her best handwriting:
1. Lost under African skies
2. Where now Brown Cow?
3. Has anyone seen my Skinny Legs?
4. Losing you
5. Since my Daisy left me
6. Absent without leaves
7. Mucky Tail I miss you
8. No milk since Tuesday
9. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for
10. Zebu Blues
Gidaado begged Sophie to let him record a bonus track (‘Sam Saman Has A Face Like A Skink’) but she refused, on the grounds that it was not in keeping with the rest of the album.
Gidaado was delighted when he saw the finished cassettes. ‘You know, Sophie,’ he said, ‘as I have always said, working as a crier isn’t all that bad.’
‘Right,’ smiled Sophie.
‘Did you see Belko Sambo’s face when he heard that Big Udders had been found? He was ecstatic.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘My Dad looked like that when he found his first desert flytrap.’
‘Of course,’ said Gidaado, ‘I’ll have to practise a lot before I can shout as loud as Furki Baa Turki.’ He took a deep breath.
Sophie chuckled and put her fingers in her ears.
*
On market day Gidaado turned up early at Sophie’s house and they discussed where to set up Gidaado’s stall.
‘We can use Salif dan Bari’s stall,’ said Sophie. ‘He got bitten by a rope in his field the other day and he’s still at the clinic recovering.’
No one here called a snake a snake. People thought that if you said the word ‘snake’, the nearest snake would think you were calling it and would come looking for you. So they always said ‘rope’ instead.
When the children arrived at the market they found sure enough that the rope charmer’s stall was empty. Gidaado took the tray of cassettes off his head and laid it carefully on the wooden trestle table. Sophie arranged the dancing flowers on one side and the cassette player on the other. Then she inserted a cassette and pressed PLAY.
‘Oh no,’ said Gidaado. ‘Look who’s coming.’
Sam Saman strolled up to the stall.
‘Salam alaykum,’ he said.
Gidaado did not answer. He gazed over the boy’s shoulder as if something had caught his interest there.
‘Alaykum asalam,’ said Sophie.
‘Gidaado, you’re looking thin,’ said Saman. ‘Anyone would think you had not been eating.’
Gidaado glared at his rival and his hand closed into a tight fist.
‘Don’t,’ whispered Sophie. ‘If you start a fight, we’ll be thrown out of the market. We can’t afford that.’
Saman took one of the cassettes out of the tray and sneered at the picture on the front. ‘Funny
looking goat,’ he said.
‘It’s a cow,’ said Sophie.
‘Greatest Hits of Gidaado the Griot,’ read Saman. ‘That should be “Gidaado the Crier”, shouldn’t it?’
Sophie reached over and turned up the volume on her cassette player as far as it would go.
‘LOST UNDER AFRICAN SKIES!!!!’ Gidaado’s voice bellowed from the speakers and the dancing flowers went so wild that it seemed their stalks would break. Saman was still talking but Sophie and Gidaado could not hear a word; they just grinned at him while his mouth opened and closed like a fish. Saman soon got fed up and went on his way.
Gidaado turned the volume back down. ‘Now do you wish we’d recorded that bonus track?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Sophie.
Loud noise in the market always attracted a crowd, and soon there was a big audience huddled around Gidaado’s stall, listening to the lost cow songs.
‘Sophie,’ said Gidaado out of the side of his mouth. ‘How many of these cassettes do we have to sell?’
Sophie looked at her notebook. ‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘if we sell two cassettes, we can buy your grandmother’s medicine. If we sell five, that’s a whole sack of millet.’
‘What about if we sell all fifty?’ said Gidaado. ‘Can I buy a mobile phone?’
‘Definitely,’ grinned Sophie.
The crowd seemed to be enjoying the cassette. By the time they reached the chorus of ‘Where Now Brown Cow?’ several of the audience were chuckling and others were clapping in time. ‘Has anyone seen my Skinny Legs?’ went down even better. One poor lad laughed so hard he wet himself.
‘A thousand francs for a cassette,’ said Gidaado, when the last mournful chord of ‘Zebu Blues’ had died away. The audience stared back at him and one by one they shuffled off. One man began to count out small change in his palm but then he shook his head and left.
‘Why aren’t they buying?’ said Sophie.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gidaado. ‘I suppose a thousand francs seems a lot when there is no millet in your grain-store.’
Everybody had left except for one smartly-dressed black girl carrying a camel-skin handbag. Her hair was dyed dark red and it was arranged in dozens of intricate plaits. She’s pretty, thought Sophie. And that hairdo alone must have cost a thousand francs.
Sophie and the Locust Curse Page 3