Sophie and the Locust Curse

by Stephen Davies

  ‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur,’ said the girl to Gidaado. ‘J’aime bien votre cassette.’

  Gidaado simpered and nodded. He obviously did not understand a word.

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ Sophie said to him in Fulfulde, and she turned to the red-haired girl. ‘Comment t’appelles tu?’ she said in French. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Marie,’ said the girl.

  ‘You don’t speak Fulfulde, do you Marie?’

  ‘No,’ said the girl. ‘I only speak French, Moré and Dula.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘The capital, Ouagadougou. My father is General Alai Crêpe-Sombo. Perhaps you have heard of him.’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie.

  ‘He is making a speech in Gorom-Gorom today to launch his election campaign.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Sophie. ‘Now, Marie, are you going to buy a cassette?’

  ‘How much are they?’

  ‘Twelve thousand francs.’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘That seems a little expensive.’

  ‘Of course it’s expensive,’ said Sophie, rolling her eyes. ‘Gidaado the Fourth here is the best griot in the province.’

  ‘Oh. Well, in that case...’ Marie took a red purse out of her handbag, and began to thumb through a wad of notes. Sophie smiled to herself.

  Gidaado had been looking on in bewilderment all this time. Now he leaned towards the girl and handed her a cassette. She looked up at him.

  ‘Cadeau,’ said Gidaado, grinning from ear to ear.

  Cadeau was French for ‘present’.

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Marie and smiled prettily. She put the cassette in her handbag, turned on her heel and left. Gidaado goggled after her.

  For a moment Sophie was too angry to speak. ‘WHAT THE ZORKI DID YOU DO THAT FOR?’ she spluttered at last.

  ‘I felt sorry for her,’ said Gidaado.

  ‘YOU felt sorry for HER?’

  ‘She’s a stranger here, Sophie. You of all people should know what that feels like.’

  ‘Do you know how much your poor little stranger was about to give you?’ said Sophie.

  ‘How much?’ asked Gidaado, interested.

  ‘Enough for you to buy your grandmother’s medicine and two sacks of millet,’ said Sophie, and she pressed the EJECT button so hard that the cassette flew out and landed in the dust on the ground. She put her cassette player under her arm, grabbed her dancing flowers and stomped off.

  Two minutes later she was back.

  ‘I thought you didn’t speak French,’ she said, glaring at Gidaado.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Gidaado. ‘But everyone knows the word cadeau don’t they? It’s what we used to shout at the tourists when we were little. Sometimes they would give us sweets or biros.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Sophie, and stomped off again.

  Chapter 9

  Sophie lay on her bed and stared up at the gecko on the ceiling above her. It was the middle of the day and she felt unbearably hot and sticky. Flies buzzed tiredly around her room and occasionally bumped into the white mosquito netting over the bed. Up on the top shelf Ali Farka Touré was crooning softly on the cassette player, but the dancing flowers were away in the drawer of Sophie’s desk. She did not want to even look at them any more. It had been three days since the Marie incident and Sophie was still feeling bad. The gecko gazed down at her with its lidless eyes and clicked disapprovingly.

  How could Gidaado have thrown away his one big business opportunity? After everything she had done to help him. Generosity is one thing, thought Sophie, recklessness is another.

  ‘POLIO VACCINATIONS IN THE MARKETPLACE TOMORROW!’ shouted a voice passing along the street outside. It was one of the town criers, but not Gidaado. ‘BRING YOUR CHILDREN! FREE OF CHARGE! BRING YOUR CHILDREN! FREE OF CHARGE!’

  Sophie turned her face to the wall and thought about that Marie’s red hair and camel-skin handbag. She remembered the way Gidaado had goggled. He was Sophie’s only friend in Gorom-Gorom and she did not want anyone to spoil that. Is that why I’m angry? she wondered. Am I really that selfish?

  ‘PEOPLE OF GOROM-GOROM!’ shouted a voice in the street. Another crier, thought Sophie. Why do they have to make their stupid announcements during siesta time?

  ‘PEOPLE OF GOROM-GOROM! THE OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE WILL TAKE PLACE ON MONDAY!’

  Sophie sat up. The Oudalan Province Camel race - hadn’t Gidaado once talked about wanting to enter that with Chobbal? Monday was the day after tomorrow!

  ‘ALL ENTRANTS MUST PICK UP A NUMBER-PLATE FROM THE MAYOR’S SECRETARY AT THE TOWN HALL. ANY CAMEL WITHOUT A NUMBER-PLATE WILL BE DISQUALIFIED!’

  Amazing! Here was another chance for Gidaado to help his family. Where was he? Out in his village or here in Gorom-Gorom? She must find a way to get the news to him quickly.

  ‘ANY CAMEL CAUGHT CHEWING COLA NUTS OR OTHER PERFORMANCE-ENHANCING DRUG WILL BE DISQUALIFIED!’

  The crier’s voice got quieter as he moved off down the street. Sophie listened until the voice was no more than a faint hum in the distance and then she untucked her mosquito net and sprang out of bed. The gecko on the ceiling stared as she slipped her feet into her sandals and dashed out of the room.

  ‘Dad!’ Sophie called as she passed the study door. ‘I have to go out!’

  ‘Two-thirty,’ came a faint voice from within.

  Sophie slammed the front door, ran down the path, opened the high metal gate and ran smack into a set of fine strong teeth coming the other way. Camel teeth.

  ‘Salam alaykum,’ said a familiar voice.

  Sophie got up off the ground and brushed herself down. She would have a big bump on her forehead tomorrow morning, but she was pleased to see Gidaado and Chobbal. ‘Alaykum asalam,’ she said.

  ‘Are you passing the day in peace?’

  ‘Peace only. How is your grandmother?’

  ‘Peace only. She needs medicine. How are you?’

  ‘Peace only,’ said Sophie. ‘About the other day, I’m sorry I stomped off like that.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Gidaado. ‘I’m sorry I gave away our cassette like that.’

  ‘Your cassette,’ said Sophie. ‘Anyway, you have a second chance. Have you heard the news?’

  ‘The Oudalan Province Camel Race? Of course. I’ve just come from the town hall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Chobbal will be wearing number 10 on Monday!’

  Sophie clapped her hands. ‘That’s fab!’ she said.

  ‘And Sam Saman will be wearing number 3.’

  ‘That’s less fab. I didn’t even know he had a camel.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Is it fast?’

  ‘Like lightening. Rumour has it that Saman’s father bought it a few years ago from-’ Gidaado lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘Moussa ag Litni.’

  ‘Zorki,’ said Sophie. Moussa ag Litni was a wicked Tuareg bandit who had trained the fastest camels in the whole of West Africa. Ag Litni himself was no longer at large but some of his camels obviously were. ‘What do you think?’ asked Sophie. ‘Can you beat Saman?’

  ‘I have to beat him. Uncle Ibrahiim says that if Chobbal doesn’t win the race we must sell him.’

  Sophie was shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s nothing else to sell,’ said Gidaado simply. ‘If we do it sooner rather than later we can get a better price for him.’

  Sophie said nothing. Tears pricked the back of her eyes.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Gidaado. ‘If we win the race, our prize is a big gold nugget and our problems are over, at least for a few months. A gold nugget will buy about fifteen sacks of millet. If we win the race, Chobbal stays with me.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s clear what you have to do.’

  Gidaado nodded gravely. He reached down and stroked Chobbal’s tufty white neck. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We have to run faster than the harmattan wind.’

  Chapter 10

  Sophie
left the house on Monday morning with a tremendous feeling of excitement. Today would be the four hundred and fourth Oudalan Province Camel Race, but it was Sophie’s first, and she cared about the result too much for comfort. She was so nervous that she had not even been able to eat her usual bowl of maize-flakes.

  The race was to be held on the vast sandy plain beyond the white rock Tondiakara. When Sophie arrived there she found a multitude of villagers and townspeople, gossiping happily in groups. At the centre of one cluster Salif dan Bari was telling the story of his rope bite and explaining how his rope pills had saved his life. Elsewhere Belko Sambo was showing off his new mobile phone to a group of wide-eyed cattle-herders. Further along, Al Haji Wahib was taking bets on the upcoming camel race.

  ‘The favourite for today’s race,’ said Al Haji Wahib, ‘is Hurryhump at three to one, ridden by reigning champion Mustafa ag Imran. Next is Fat Wah at five to one, ridden by the exquisitely beautiful Salimata bin Lina. Come and place your bets.’

  Sophie went to the starting line. At one end of the line were some wicker chairs on which were seated the mayor of Gorom-Gorom and the chiefs of all the villages in Oudalan. Behind the line fourteen camels paced nervously to and fro. Their riders were sitting bolt upright in their saddles and trying to avoid eye contact with one other. Gidaado was there, wearing a borrowed Number 10 football shirt. He was leaning over and murmuring in Chobbal’s ear. Sam Saman was also present, sitting in the saddle of a muscular beige camel and smirking across at Gidaado.

  ‘Hey, skink-teeth!’ called Saman. ‘There you are! You’re so thin now that I can hardly see you!’

  Gidaado ignored him.

  ‘Nice camel,’ yelled Saman. ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Chobbal,’ said Gidaado quietly.

  ‘Good name,’ said Saman, ‘because we’re going to eat him for breakfast.’ He cackled at his own joke and a few of the other riders laughed as well. Gidaado stared straight ahead and tightened his grip on Chobbal’s reins.

  Gidaado’s cousin Hussein appeared next to Sophie, sucking on a stick of sugar cane. They greeted each other and Sophie asked him where his brother Hassan was.

  ‘He’s back home in Giriiji with Uncle Ibrahiim,’ said Hussein. ‘They are practising a praise song for whoever wins the race today.’

  ‘Why aren’t you with them?’

  ‘I am just the calabash player, aren’t I? Besides, I need to go and let them know who has won, so they can make the last-minute changes.’

  The hubbub of the crowd was suddenly drowned out by a voice so loud that the sand vibrated underneath Sophie’s feet. She looked up with a start to see a small bearded man standing on top of Tondiakara. He wore a red beret and very dark glasses. Sophie recognised him as Furki Baa Turki, the loudest crier in Oudalan.

  ‘PEOPLE OF GOROM-GOROM!’ cried the man, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Welcome to the Four Hundred and Fourth OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE!’

  ‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ laughed Hussein, putting his fingers in his ears.

  ‘PLEASE UNDERSTAND,’ yelled Furki Baa Turki, ‘that the Oudalan Province Camel Race has a STRICT no-biting policy, which applies to all contestants and their camels. Other rules are as follows: NO leaping from one camel to another, NO grabbing of ears or tails, NO unsheathing of swords. NO swearing in Fulfulde, French, Tamasheq, Songhai, Bambara, Moré, Dula or Arabic, except for the word “Zorki” which each contestant may say up to three times. Contestants will run to the Sheik Amadou calabash tree, go round it ONCE and return to this point. The FIRST camel to cross the line will be declared the winner, so long as it has on its saddle the SAME rider who started the race on it. The judges’ decision is final. NO attacking the judges after the race. NO strangling the winner, NO stealing his or her gold nugget, and NO declarations of war on his or her village. IS THAT CLEAR?’

  ‘YES,’ cried the fourteen riders in their various languages, tiptoeing their camels up to the starting-line.

  ‘Good,’ said Furki Baa Turki. ‘It is a GREAT HONOUR for me to introduce the celebrity who will start today’s race. He came all the way from OUAGADOUGOU yesterday on a VERY bumpy dirt track, VOMITING all the way, and last night he didn’t get a WINK of sleep on account of the DONKEYS, ROOSTERS and WILD DOGS just outside his window. Please welcome MONSIEUR ISAAKU SAODOGO, the Chief Assistant of the Assistant Chief at the OUAGADOUGOU INSTITUTE OF TOPOGRAPHY AND CADASTRAL PLANNING!!!’

  The crowd went wild. A small man in a neat white suit stepped up onto Tondiakara next to Furki Baa Turki. He had bags under his eyes and he kept sneezing.

  ‘Monsieur Saudogo has a severe CAMEL ALLERGY and an even more severe DUST ALLERGY, yet he has honoured us with his presence here today.’

  The crowd clapped and stamped their appreciation, sending great clouds of red dust billowing into the air. The man in white wheezed and sneezed and clutched his collar.

  ‘Monsieur Saudogo was signalling to me a moment ago that he has COMPLETELY lost his voice, so we will forego the speeches and let him go ahead and start the race. THE FOUR HUNDRED AND FOURTH OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE WILL START AT THE MOMENT THAT MONSIEUR SAUDOGO NEXT SNEEZES!!!!’

  There was rapturous applause from the crowd and then some urgent shush-ing and then silence. Everyone’s attention was concentrated on the figure in white. He was bent over double, struggling to undo the top button of his collar. His eyes were streaming and his nose twitched.

  A Tuareg rider adjusted his copious turban. Saman’s camel lowered its head and snorted. Gidaado fingered Chobbal’s reins and stared in front of him, as unblinking as a gecko.

  ‘A-TCHOO,’ said Monsieur Saudogo.

  ‘HOOSH-KA!’ cried fourteen voices, and the camels sped off, their hooves pounding the sand.

  Chapter 11

  ‘HOOSH-BARAKAAAA!’ cried the camel riders, getting into top gear as soon as possible.

  For the first fifty metres of the race the camels galloped along in a pack and it was difficult to tell who was in the lead. Then one of the Tuareg riders nosed in front, his copious white turban flapping in the wind. His camel had a fine leather saddle edged with silver and gold.

  ‘That’s Mustafa ag Imran,’ said Hussein. ‘He’s fast and he’s tricky so watch out for him. He won this race last year.’

  Sophie looked for Chobbal and saw him streaking along in fifth place. Go on, Chobbal, she breathed. Run your heart out.

  In second place now was a tall light-skinned woman whose long black hair streamed out behind her, shining in the sun. She was rocking back and forth gracefully in time with her camel’s strides. Sophie had seen her at the starting line and had noticed that her lips were tattooed black in striking contrast with her light skin. Amongst Fulani women tattooed lips were considered beautiful.

  ‘Salimata bin Lina,’ said Hussein devoutly. ‘Look at her go.’

  In third place was Saman, leaning forward in his saddle. He was twirling an acacia branch in his hand and bringing it down on his camel’s side with sharp cracks. Each time the camel felt the whip it sprang forward in terror. It was cruel but it was working. Bit by bit, Saman was drawing level with bin Lina.

  Mustafa ag Imran reached the calabash tree first, and as he went round it he grabbed hold of a long bendy branch. He bent the branch forward until it could go no further, then ducked under it and let it go. The branch flew backwards.

  Sam Saman saw the branch just in time and he ducked hurriedly. Riding beside him, Salimata bin Lina was less quick. The branch hit her with a sickening thwack just above her beautiful tattooed lips, knocking her clean off her camel.

  ‘Oooh!’ said the crowd.

  Mustafa ag Imran glanced back and let out an evil guttural laugh, muffled slightly by the folds of his turban.

  ‘Is that allowed?’ said Sophie, turning to Hussein.

  ‘You tell me,’ said Hussein. ‘Did you hear anything in the rules about not touching the calabash tree?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Then it’s allow
ed. It’s a superb piece of strategic racing.’

  The racers galloped on. Mustafa ag Imran was still in first place, Sam Saman in second. Gidaado was back in third place, just rounding the calabash tree.

  ‘COME ON, GIDAADO!’ yelled Sophie. ‘STAY WITH THEM!’

  Saman’s camel was gaining ground on the Tuareg with every stride. Camels trained by the famous bandit Moussa ag Litni were known for their stamina, and the second half of the race was sure to be good for this one. Whipping his camel savagely, Saman came up on the outside of Mustafa ag Imran until he was within arm’s reach of him. He leaned over and grabbed the flapping end of the Tuareg’s turban.

  ‘Zorki,’ came the muffled voice of Mustafa ag Imran.

  Saman yanked the turban hard, pulling the Tuareg half out of his saddle.

  ‘Zorki!’ said ag Imran.

  ‘Bahaat-ugh!’ cried Saman, and his camel screeched to a halt. As the Tuareg’s camel ran on, Saman held on to the turban with both hands. Sophie cringed. Mustafa ag Imran span round twice, flew off his camel backwards and landed in the dust.

  ‘Oooh!’ said the crowd, and there was the unmistakeable sound of lots of people tearing up their betting slips.

  ‘Hoosh-ka!’ cried Saman, and his camel sprinted off again.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Sophie. ‘Surely Saman will be disqualified for that.’

  ‘Grabbing of ears or tails is forbidden,’ said Hussein, ‘but there is nothing in the rules about yanking turbans. It is a superb piece of strategic racing.’

  Saman’s brief stop was of course just what Gidaado needed. He was not far off the lead now and the gap was closing fast.

  ‘COME ON, GIDAADO!’ shouted Sophie, jumping up and down. ‘YOU CAN DO IT!’

  There were about a hundred metres left of the race. Gidaado crouched low in his saddle and his borrowed Number 10 shirt billowed in the wind. Chobbal was a blur of white, moving faster than Sophie had ever seen him go.