At meal times we would call out to the neighbors in our gini—our little hamlet: “Have you eaten yet? Come, come and eat with us! You can’t eat alone!”
We believe that the bigger the group that is eating, the bigger your appetite will be. We eat off one big tray set in the center, each person taking food with their right hand and throwing it into their mouth. We’d sit outside in the fresh air, drinking milk fresh from the cow, and eating meat fresh from the animals and vegetables fresh from the gardens. In our village eating was a celebration of good food, good company, good conversation, and good health.
My favorite food was acidah, the thick maize-flour mash. It was delicious with mullah, a spicy meat stew. But it was best when mixed with a dark powder, called kawal. Grandma used to make this using the leaves of a particular tree. She’d place them in a clay bowl along with some water and spices, and leave the mixture in a hole in the ground for several days. When she took out the gooey mush it smelled horrible. But once it was dried and ground into a powder, it had a rich, meaty aroma.
For breakfast I loved acidah with fresh yogurt. Yogurt making was another of my chores. Each evening Grandma would take me to the fields to milk the cows. I’d perch on a low stool and grab the back leg of the nearest animal, holding it tight between my knees. I’d place a clay bowl under the cow, take two of the teats, and start pulling and squeezing at the same time. If my hands got tired I’d ask Grandma to take over.
I’d pour the warm, frothy-fresh milk into a tagro, a gourd with a hole cut in it. I’d pop a cork into the top, and hang the tagro from the rafters of Grandma’s hut. Three or four days later I’d take it down, and start to shake, shake, shake. Eventually, the milk would separate into a thick layer of butter, with the thinner yogurt beneath. The longer I shook, the more butter we’d have.
In the same field as the cows we kept our goats and a donkey. Grandma was very proud of her goatherd, and she’d get so excited if one of her goats was about to give birth. She would sell off the young kids to earn herself a little private income, or keep them to fatten for the pot. I loved the goats when they were alive, but I hated having to eat them. They were so cute and so cuddlesome, and the meat seemed to me to be hairy, somehow, even after the goat had been skinned.
One day Grandma became so angry that she wanted to cry. Three of her goats had fallen ill, and she had to get a man to slaughter them. They must have been poisoned by something, but we had no idea what it might be. Grandma argued that they had probably eaten some plastic bags, which had bunged up their insides. Goats would eat just about anything. But I was worried that they’d been poisoned by something really dangerous, and if Grandma made us eat them then we’d all die.
Of course, Grandma was having none of it. She gutted the animals and each turned out to have a horribly twisted intestinal tract. Normally, we’d eat the liver, kidneys, and parts of the intestines fried with spices, as a delicacy. But even Grandma relented when she saw the state of the goat’s innards. She threw them out for the village dogs.
She skinned the animals and jointed up the meat. There was too much for our family alone, so she gave some to the neighbors—but she didn’t breathe a word about how the goats had died. The remainder of the meat she soaked in fermented sorghum flour, which has a strong bitter flavor. She argued that this would kill off any poisons that might remain. Grandma fried the goat meat and added lemon juice, watching over me with a big stick as I ate my share.
I survived eating Grandma’s poisoned goat meat with no obvious ill effects, and shortly thereafter my baby brother was born. I was five years old at the time, and the first I saw of him was a tiny wrinkled face all wrapped up in a white bundle. Like all firstborn Zaghawa males he was named Mohammed, after the Holy prophet of Islam.
Baby Mohammed grew up shockingly fast, and in no time at all his true nature began to show. He had inherited my father’s generosity and calmness, and my mother’s gentle softness—and none of Grandma’s warlike spirit and argumentative ways. As a toddler he spent his time making shapes from clay, and playing quietly in the yard. He was openhearted and kind. If my father gave him some sweets, Mohammed would share them. If my father gave him some money, he would pass it to Grandma to look after.
My little brother quickly became my mother’s favorite. As night settled over the village and oil lamps were lit in people’s homes, I knew the competition for the best sleeping place was about to begin. Especially during the cold season we both wanted to sleep with our mother, but Mohammed was always the one invited into her bed. As a consolation Grandma would stoke up the fire in her hut, and allow me to sleep by her feet—which was hardly the same as cuddling up to my mother.
Once he was old enough Mohammed started to venture outside to play, but it almost always ended in tears. He’d come crawling back in, wailing: “That boy, that boy, he beat me!” One day he was out playing when he was set upon by some boys from the Fur tribe. They stole his toy airplane, ripped his clothes to shreds, and beat him soundly. He came home with his face streaked in mud, and covered from head to toe in dust and scratch marks. He stumbled through the gate, half blinded by his tears.
Grandma Sumah was the first to spot him. “Mohammed! Mohammed! What happened? And where’s your plane?”
“The Fur boys . . .” he wailed. “They beat me . . .”
“WHAT? You let the Fur boys beat you? But you are Zaghawa—why didn’t you fight them?”
“I tried to,” Mohammed sobbed. “But there were four . . .”
Grandma knew just where those Fur boys lived. Their family had a house on the outskirts of the village. With barely a moment’s hesitation she scooped up Mohammed, grabbed me by the hand, and we set off to seek our revenge. The Fur boys saw us coming and they scampered inside their house, slamming shut the gate. But that didn’t stop Grandma. She hammered on the gate with her fist, demanding that they open up. When they refused, she flew into a burning rage.
“Come out!” she screamed. “Come out and fight! Come and fight like men, you Fur cowards!”
Still the Fur boys refused to open up. The fence was over a meter and a half tall, but Grandma wasn’t going to let that stop us. She lifted me up and dropped me on the far side. I was around seven years old at the time, so I was considerably bigger than the Fur boys. Even so, I was outnumbered, and as soon as they saw me they came running. Quick as a flash I unhooked the gate, just as the first of the Fur boys tried to slam it shut. By then it was too late, as Grandma set her shoulder against it and forced it open.
She burst in to the yard, her eyes blazing like angry coals. The Fur boys fled to a distant corner, where their mother was preparing some food. Grandma marched up to them in a towering fury. The Fur lady tried asking what her sons might have done, and told them to apologize, but Grandma simply ignored her. She grabbed three of the Fur boys and started to beat them, while I jumped on the fourth. I can’t remember if we managed to get Mo’s toy back—but it was a good fight and Grandma won the day.
My father was reluctant to buy us any new toys, especially if they were just going to get stolen off of Mo. As a result, we had to make our own entertainment. My favorite game was chasing my father’s Land Rover. When it chugged away in the morning it would take awhile to pick up speed, which meant we could jump onto the rear bumper. Kadiga, Mo, and I would hold onto the canvas-covered back for dear life, while trying to stifle our giggles.
Eventually, someone would call out to my father that he had a bunch of unwanted passengers. He would slow to a stop and come around to check, only to discover us kids hanging there. My father always found it too funny to get angry, or to punish us properly. We’d run back home, and on the way we’d stop to play the shadow game. I’d stand in the sun and make my body into an animal shape, or the shape of a teapot, and Kadiga and Mo had to guess what I was simply by looking at my shadow.
We’d make rag dolls from old clothes stuffed with straw. We’d roll up a sausage of straw and sew it into a length of cotton, tying it into leg
and arm shapes. Then we’d sew those into the shape of a human body. If it was a man we were making, we’d use our own hair to give him a head of short fuzzy hair. But if it was a woman, then we’d try to find something longer and softer, like some sheep’s wool.
There was always a bag of our hair hidden in the rafters of Grandma’s hut. Each evening, she would comb and oil my hair, to keep it shiny and healthy. She would collect all the combings, and when the bag was full she would bury the hair in the yard. Grandma was forever warning me of the danger of letting others get hold of my hair. If you wanted to curse someone there were evil Fakirs who could do this for you, but they would first ask for some of the person’s hair to “work” the curse onto.
Once we’d made our rag dolls, we’d need cars for them to drive and houses for them to live in. We made them out of clay. We’d mould a car, complete with a roof, windows, and wheels, and leave it in the rafters of the hut directly over the fire until it was baked hard as iron. Or sometimes we’d made herdih—horses—for the rag dolls to ride. We’d place a man on the horse’s back, and a spear in his hand made out of a fine sliver of wood.
I’d make a warhorse for Mohammed, one for Kadiga, and one for me, and then we’d ride forth to fight the other children. We’d have one row of clay horses with rag doll warriors facing another, and on the order to attack the ranks would advance. “Haribah! Haribah!”—War! War!—we’d shout, although little Mo never sounded quite as enthusiastic as we girls did. Each side’s horseman would pick an opposing horseman to fight. Of course, the clay horses would eventually break, and the last one left standing would be declared the winner.
Often, it would take us several days to make replacement horses. Water was in limited supply, and Grandma used to grumble that it was for drinking, not for making playthings. I’d have to wait until no one was around and then scoop up a bowl-full, hoping that Grandma wasn’t watching. If that failed, we’d head down to the village well to see if we could scrape up enough mud from around there. But there were usually several other children with the same idea, so the competition was fierce.
My favorite game of all was the “moon-bone” game. I used to keep one of Grandma’s goat’s thighbones hidden in the rafters of the hut. On an evening when the moon was full I’d run out into the yard and cry out: “Keyoh adum jaghi gogo keyh!”—let’s play the moon-bone game! It was as if all the neighborhood kids had been waiting to hear those words. At the center of our hamlet was an open area similar to an English village green. Crowds of children would rush down there, their parents bringing tea and milk and hot snacks.
It was so nice to be out under the bright moon, enjoying the cool of the night without needing oil lamps to light our way. The children would line up in a row, with their backs toward me, and I’d throw the goat’s thighbone as far as I could. Then I’d yell out “Start!” Everyone would go racing off searching for the bone. It would be lying in the grass somewhere, glistening blue-white in the silvery moonlight. Whoever found it would cry out: “I’ve found the treasure! I’ve found the treasure!” and then race back to the starting point.
Of course, all the other children would be trying to snatch the bone out of their hands, so this is when the game became really fun. Sometimes there’d be a huge pileup, as one child dove onto whoever had found it, and everyone else jumped on top of them. Parents would be watching, laughing, and yelling out excitedly. I could hear my father calling out his support for me, and that always spurred me on to win.
What I loved most about the moon-bone game was its total unpredictability. The main advantages you might have over the others were speed, and skill at fighting. And for some reason—most likely Grandma’s influence—I seemed to excel at both. Once the others realized what a tough, merciless fighter I was, they seemed to hold back from tackling me. Whenever I won my mother would cook me some fangasso—sweet doughnuts, deep-fried in oil. I’d eat them finger-scalding hot and dipped in milk.
But of course life could never be one long episode of fun and games. Shortly after our fight with the four Fur boys I landed myself in some real trouble. As ours was a Muslim village there was supposed to be no alcohol, but there were always people who broke the rules. A handful of women specialized in making sorghum beer—goro. They couldn’t do so openly, but they had private drinking dens in their homes. We could always tell which men were their best customers, because drinking goro made them have big, bulbous stomachs.
The location of the beer dens was communicated by word of mouth. Some of the beer women had the reputation for making good, strong brews, but others would water it down. The drinkers would gather tot gether, sitting on a rug on the floor or on little stools. The beer women would serve big trays of smoked lamb, and goro by the half-gourd full. Often the men would drink too much and it would end in a big fight. The beer women made certain that they only had cheap furnishings, as everything would get smashed up.
Everyone knew who the beer women were. The only people they could really socialize with were other beer women. Sometimes the village Imam would speak with the men who drank, warning them that they were terrible sinners. He tried arguing that both the beer and the money earned from selling it was haram—forbidden. But more often than not the beer women were single mothers or widows. They would argue that they had no way to survive other than by selling their beer.
One evening I went around to Kadiga’s house to ask her out to play. I noticed a group of men sitting around laughing and drinking. They were Kadiga’s uncles and cousins. We knew that some of Kadiga’s family were drunkards, and Grandma had warned me to avoid them. The men believed that beer made you fat, healthy, and strong, and so they were not averse to slipping the odd bowl-full to their children.
One of Kadiga’s uncles held out a bowl to me. “Come! Come! Try some,” he called. “It’s good for you. It’ll make you grow into a big strong girl.”
Of course, I’d never had any and I was curious. After a moment’s hesitation I took the bowl. I raised it to my lips, but the sweet, fermented smell made me gag. I steeled myself, as all the men were watching me now. I took a gulp. It had a lumpy consistency and a bittersweet taste. It wasn’t very nice, but it wasn’t totally disgusting, either. I knew that I’d never get the chance to drink any at home. I’d watched people drinking, and they seemed happy—chatting and laughing together—so I thought that maybe it was a good thing.
I drained the whole bowl. The first sensation that came over me was drowsiness. I forgot all about playing with Kadiga and made my way unsteadily home. With barely a word to anyone I went to bed and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke late the following morning feeling totally awful. I had a terrible headache, I couldn’t open my eyes, and I felt nauseous. At first my mum was worried, but once she got close enough to smell my breath she became suspicious.
“You were at Kadiga’s house, weren’t you?” she demanded. “Did you drink any beer?”
I felt so bad that I didn’t even have the energy to lie. I nodded. “I did. But please don’t be angry. I feel so horrible.”
My mother’s faced clouded over. She disappeared, and a second later she was back with a big stick. Suddenly she was beating me on my legs, and crying out that how many times had I been warned that I was never, ever to drink any beer? It wasn’t the pain of the blows that shocked me, it was the very fact that my mother was beating me. I was used to that from Grandma, but not from my gentle mother.
In an instant my hangover was forgotten, and I ran toward Grandma to escape.
“What? What is it?” she cried, jumping to her feet. “What’s happened?”
Before I could answer, my mother cried out that I’d been to Kadiga’s house and that I’d been drinking beer. In an instant Grandma had me caught in her iron grip.
“What! You went there, to that drunkard house? To drink beer?”
Grandma proceeded to give me my second, and much more fierce beating of the morning. So rarely did my mother hit me that just as soon as she’d raised that stick to
me I knew I’d committed a big wrong. But Grandma’s beating was only to be expected. Grandma used to beat us regularly, and mostly we used to think that we were getting what we deserved.
As with many things in our culture, the taboo on drinking was enforced much more strictly against the women than the men. I knew that my father occasionally drank sorghum beer. He had a group of friends who would call and take him away to one of the secret drinking dens. One day I overheard my mother quarrelling with him about it.
“Why d’you go drinking with those people?” she demanded. “They’re no good. They just use you for your car and money. Shame on you—you should be thinking first of your family.”
“But they’re my friends and I like being with them,” my father objected. “And anyway, we don’t go drinking . . .”
My mother snorted in derision and turned her back on him.
Whenever those friends came to call, she would tell them that my father wasn’t in. But then they’d point out that they’d seen his car outside. My mum would roll her eyes and give them the silent treatment. Finally my dad would come strolling out of his hut, welcoming his friends with smiles—and they’d head off to have a nice time drinking sorghum beer together.
Most Zaghawa women objected to their men drinking. They would go out with a pocket full of money and come back broke. In our culture men didn’t worry much about the cost of living. Nearly everything was freely available: meat, sorghum, milk, salad, vegetables, fuel, water—none of these things had to be paid for. So they didn’t see what the problem was if they spent their money on beer.
The women did most of the work, and the men believed that the more wives they had the easier life would be. A man with only one wife might be laughed at by his friends: They’d say he was like a man with only one eye. If a woman’s husband died, one of his brothers was duty bound to marry her—so as to keep the children in one extended family. Such customs might seem barbaric to outsiders, but to us that was the way things had always been. Our identity as Zaghawa was defined by such traditions.
Tears of the Desert Page 4