During the long summer holiday the rains were especially good, and the trees became heavy with fruit. In the farms around the village there were mango, guava, orange, and lemon groves. There was such an abundance that we reckoned the farmers could spare a little. The trouble was that each farmer was jealously guarding his trees, just in case any pesky children came looking to steal his fruit.
One morning Grandma told us to go and fetch her some lemons and mangoes from a nearby farm. She didn’t openly instruct us to steal them, but we got her meaning. We knew that farm well. There was an old man looking after it, so we weren’t especially worried. We sneaked down there, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. We started hurling sticks and stones into the branches, knocking down the ripest fruit.
As we gathered the fallen lemons and mangoes, we heard a roar of anger from behind us. We tried to make a run for it, but powerful hands grabbed Omer and me from behind and knocked poor Mo to the ground. Suddenly, we were starting into the face of a young and very tough-looking Zaghawa man.
“Throwing stones and damaging my fruit trees!” he thundered. “You bad children! Stand in line, while I decide what to do with you.”
He took a couple of steps backward and glared at us. “I know you, don’t I? You’re that Grandma Sumah’s lot. No wonder! I bet she sent you. Well, speak up!”
“No one sent us,” Mohammed wailed. “No one sent us to do anything.”
“He’s right,” I added. “We came of our own accord.”
As for Omer, he just glared at the man in a stubborn silence.
“Well, you can stand there until someone comes for you,” he announced. “I’ll bet that Grandma sent you—and I’m not letting you go until she comes to explain herself.”
All morning we were made to stand beneath the fruit tree, under the watchful gaze of the angry man. But there was no way Grandma would come for us, of that I was certain. She was far too smart for that. If she did, it would be akin to admitting that she’d sent us to steal some fruit. The angry man could then demand payment, and he might even try to claim compensation for his damaged trees.
Eventually, the angry man lost patience. He gave us each a sound beating and sent us on our way. When we got home Grandma showed us no sympathy whatsoever. Instead, she scolded us for failing in our mission.
“Go try another farm,” she ordered. “And this time, try not to get caught!”
We went to Kadiga’s house and recruited her and her brothers to help. Then we headed for another farm. We split up into two teams. Kadiga’s gang went ahead, deliberately revealing themselves to the old man guarding the farm. We watched from our hiding place as he raced after them, yelling for the thieves to get off of his land. As soon as he was out of sight we rushed in and grabbed as much fruit as we could. It was lying on the ground in neat heaps.
We made our getaway and headed straight for the prearranged meeting place. Kadiga and her gang had managed to outrun the old man, and we divided the spoils between us. We took the plundered fruit to the marketplace, where we sold half to one of the traders.
The rest we took home for our crime boss—Grandma Sumah.
CHAPTER TEN
Cousins in Love
Toward the end of my summer holiday there was a big wedding in a neighboring village. The groom was a close cousin, and we all had to go to support his side of the family. My father was away in his fields, so we would have to travel there in a big truck that doubled as the village bus. Twice weekly the truck would do a circuit of our and the neighboring villages. Most passengers would crouch on the open truck bed, or stand gripping the sides. But the best was if you could get a seat inside the cab.
I didn’t want to travel to the wedding on the truck’s rear, as we would ruin our nice clothes. Passengers would carry a wild assortment of luggage with them: cages of chickens; goats on a string; sacks of maize; old bicycles; even the odd cow. Whenever the truck hit a bump everything would fly into the air. More often than not you’d end up on your back with a goat on top of you and a cage of chickens on your head. It was impossible to arrive at your destination looking even remotely neat and respectable.
Luckily, Grandma had spoken with the truck driver and booked three seats in the cab. As a result, we arrived at the neighboring village in fine fettle. That evening the groom had his head ritually shaved. There was singing and dancing and drumming, as we celebrated the groom being cleansed of his body hair in preparation for the wedding.
Of course, the bride price had been set many months before. The groom had already paid the bride’s family a quantity of gold and a number of animals. He had also bought a new set of clothes for the bride’s family members, so that they could look their best on the wedding day. For their part, the bride-to-be’s family had built a house for the newlyweds and furnished it completely, even down to the kitchen things.
The day after the head-shaving ritual we headed over to the bride’s family home. We took our places on rugs on the floor as we waited for the bride to appear. Everyone kept asking when they would get to see her, but it turned out that there was a problem. The bride’s family said that somehow, the bride had been spirited away in the night.
“Perhaps there will be no wedding at all,” the bride’s grandmother announced, dramatically.
We all knew what was going on, as this was a regular charade. The bride’s family had hidden her in order to extort some last minute money out of the groom. The bride’s mother tried to retain a dignified silence, as the grandmother did the talking.
“Perhaps we could find her and talk her back,” she declared. “But you will have to pay something, to help us persuade her.”
The grandmother named an extortionate price as the fee to deliver the bride. But on our side we knew that the bride price had already been paid in full. The bride’s family were dressed in their fine clothes, all of which had been bought from our side. We refused to pay up, and so the arguing and the bargaining began. Grandma Sumah loved these fights, and she quickly rose to the challenge. She marched out in front of the bride’s family.
“Shame on you!” she declared, theatrically. “This is shameful! How can you behave like this? Soon, we will be one family. Let us pay this money, but proceed with the wedding first. This delay is a deep shame . . .”
The bride’s family knew what Grandma was up to: As soon as the bride was delivered, all thoughts of paying would be forgotten.
“No! No way!” the bride’s grandmother countered. “The shame is on you, for refusing to help us. Family or no family—you have to pay now.” The argument went backward and forward, our grandma facing off against their grandma. So far there had been no food or drink served. The bride’s family were holding back the wedding feast in an effort to force us to pay up. But all that seemed to matter to the adults was the fight over the money. Finally, I could bear it no longer.
“Eya, I’m hungry,” I complained. “When can I get something to eat?”
My mother told me to keep quiet. She was known as a great negotiator in these situations—a peacemaker and a go-between. But as for Grandma Sumah, the bigger the fight the better as far as she was concerned. Eventually the bride’s family agreed to accept all of the money that our family had on them. But the grown-ups on our side hid some of their money in their clothes, so that they wouldn’t have to hand over everything.
In our culture, if a wedding goes ahead without any fighting, people don’t really enjoy it. We always remember the weddings with the biggest fights, and the most heartfelt making ups. Once money was handed over the wedding feast was served, but it was well after midnight by the time we were finished. In spite of the hour my cousin refused to eat. He couldn’t relax until he had seen his bride. She was an only daughter and very beautiful, and he knew that her family would try to extract the last advantage out of the situation that they possibly could.
He asked his friends to go and search for the bride. At first, no one would show them where she was hidden. But then they paid off the
bride’s best friend, and she took them to the house. Still the bride refused to come, unless her family said that it was okay for her to do so. Eventually, the groom lost his patience and he and his friends carried off the bride, taking her across the village to the wedding house. The groom knew that once he had her in that house, then it was all over: No more money could be demanded of him.
At the last moment the bride’s family realized what was happening. They placed their biggest, fattest women in the doorway of the wedding house, to prevent the bride and groom from entering. Both sides faced off against each other, chanting as if they were about to go to war. But the groom’s party played a trick. As the groom pretended to try for the front entrance, his friends smashed down the fence at the rear. They hoisted the bride on their shoulders and carried her inside, crying out their victory as they did so.
The bride’s family knew when they’d been beaten, and they welcomed the newlyweds into their home. The drummer—the mayee—picked up his drum, made from cow skin stretched over a hollowed-out tree trunk. The wood was decorated with carvings of beasts, birds, and mythical spirits. A strap on the drum went around his neck, and he stood as he drummed. As each new person entered the wedding house, he beat out a deep, pounding rhythm, calling out their name and their lineage, and their family’s most famous exploits.
Every few seconds the new arrival threw some money at the drummer. It would fall at his feet, or even stick to his brow with the sweat that was pouring off of him. The drummer had a boy with him, whose job it was to scuttle about and collect up all the money. The drumming went on for an age—until those being welcomed ran out of money to throw at the drummer, or until the drummer ran out of grand things to say about them.
When all the guests were present, the drummer stood in the middle of the dance floor. The women formed one line, the men facing them. As the drummer took up the dance rhythm, each man would step forward to choose a dance partner. The chosen woman would come dancing out of line, holding up her scarf to half cover her face, as she peered at the man and decided if she wanted to dance with him or not. If the woman refused, the man would be left isolated on the dance floor, and everyone would laugh at him.
Mostly, she would accept, and then the couple would start to dance around and around the drummer, faster and faster as the rhythm grew in power, pirouetting like a pair or birds, whirling about each other but never quite touching. As more and more dancers joined them, they started to sing a song that came from deep within their hearts.
All we are here,
All we are here,
We are Zaghawa,
We are Zaghawa.
From the Coube clan,
From the Towhir clan,
From the Bidayat clan,
We are Zaghawa.
We are the warriors,
We are the people,
Nobody can overreach us,
No one can beat us,
We have our tribe around us,
Our family around us,
Our children around us,
Our lands around us,
Our camels around us,
Our cattle around us,
We are Zaghawa.
We are Zaghawa.
The party lasted all night, until it was time for the bridegroom’s breakfast. A sheep was slaughtered, and the bride’s mother prepared the first meal for her new son-in-law. Using a fine white flour she made a special acidah mash. She part-filled a coffee cup with distilled butter oil and heated it over the fire. The more of the hot oil that the acidah soaked up, the more successful the marriage would be. The newlyweds had to feast on the butter oil mash, together with a spicy stew made out of the sheep’s intestines.
Once the breakfast was done the wedding was declared complete. It was then time for us to return to our village, but the truck that was supposed to take us home had broken down. My mother took us to a relative’s house, to see if there was any other transport available. After two late nights I was exhausted, and I fell asleep on their rugs. I awoke in the early afternoon to discover that one of my cousins, thirteen-year-old Sharif, was offering to take us home on his donkey cart. It was a long way but he reckoned we could make it by nightfall.
“Don’t worry,” he declared, brightly. “I’ll get you home.”
“What happens if the cart breaks down?” I objected, sleepily. “It’ll be dark, and we don’t know the way.”
“You’re a typical city girl, aren’t you?” Sharif teased. “That’s what comes of going to the big school. It’s made you weak and soft . . .”
“You’ve been spoiled by that father of yours!” Sharif’s mother added. “He drives you around in that nice car and you’ve forgotten how to walk!”
I tried to object. “No I haven’t, and no I’m not . . .”
“Look, I know you’re used to traveling by car,” Sharif interrupted. “It might not be as fast or as comfortable, but my cart is just as reliable. I’ll get you there all right.”
Before I could say another word it was agreed that Sharif should drive us home. But I didn’t really like this cousin of mine very much, especially after he’d teased me about being a soft city girl. I didn’t like his looks very much, either. He was dressed in a boring old robe, just like all the other simple village boys. I had decided that I wanted to marry a cultured, educated man from the city, a modern man who wore a smart suit and a tie.
The journey in Sharif’s donkey cart was uneventful, if uncomfortable. By the time we reached home my father was already there. He thanked Sharif for bringing us and insisted that he should stay the night, for he wouldn’t have him returning in the dark. After we’d eaten my father announced that he had some surprise news for me. One of my cousins had asked if he might marry me. He was a teacher working in a local school, and because he was an educated man his family believed that it would be a fine match.
“What do you think, Rathebe?” my father asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
“I hope you said no! How can I go to university and everything if I’m married?”
My father laughed. “Quite—and that’s exactly what I said. I said you had to get a proper education, and maybe we’d think about marriage later.”
“How did this cousin react?” I asked.
I couldn’t help but be curious. And in any case, I reckoned that Sharif was paying a little too much attention, as if he had an interest somehow. I wanted to show him that I was a long way from ever getting married, and that any hopes that a village boy might have were unlikely to be fulfilled.
My father shrugged. “He was very angry. The family was very angry. They took it as an insult. They told me that daughters weren’t for educating. They said you should get married and have kids and take on some responsibilities.”
“Well then, I’m doubly glad you said no. My life would be at an end. I’d be stuck at home, with no study, and no life . . .”
My father went on to tell me a story about one of my nieces. Her father had refused an offer of marriage, but the would-be groom had kidnapped her. They searched for her far and wide, but her “husband” had taken her to a distant village. For years the family had no contact with her, and then one day she returned to the village with her “husband” and son. Her father was extremely angry, but her “husband” proposed a settlement: He handed over some money and animals, and eventually they put their differences behind them.
“I’m telling you this story for a reason,” said my father. “The man we rejected will be angry. We should keep our eyes and ears open and be on our guard. Anything is possible. The way they see it, we have slighted them. So, the sooner we get you off to that new school, the better. Once you’re away, I’m sure it will all be forgotten.”
I needed no further urging—I was more than ready for my new school. My girlfriends from junior school had all passed their exams, so at secondary school Mona, Najat, Samirah, Makboulah, and I were able to re-form our gang. We had made it quite clear by now that we weren’t to be pushed around, and we fa
ced few of the problems that we had before. In any case, my own personal success had set a black girl from the village at the pinnacle of academic achievement—so who could possibly try to claim that we were somehow inferior?
My father was becoming increasingly active in politics now. He had volunteered as a local organizer, raising support for his democratic party to win at the forthcoming elections. When his party leader, Sadiq al-Mahdi, was elected President of Sudan, my father was overjoyed. But his happiness was to be short-lived. One morning there was a shocking announcement on the radio: Soldiers had seized power in the country. Sudan’s brief democratic spring had been cut short, and it was as if my father’s dream had died.
My father became angry and despairing. The President, Sadiq al-Mahdi, was a fair man who had felt keenly the neglect of the black African tribes in Sudan. Yet he had been thrown into jail. Those who had seized power were calling themselves the “National Islamic Front.” They declared that they were “a Government of Islam,” their mission being to purge Sudan of all un-Islamic thoughts, actions, and peoples. They would turn Sudan into a pure Islamic state ruled by Islamic shariah law.
They promised to quadruple their efforts to defeat the black African “unbelievers” in the south of the country. They called on all young men to join this jihad. Anyone who refused to volunteer would be rounded up for military service. My father knew what a government of soldiers and Islamic extremists would mean. He knew that this was truly going to be a government of the Arabs for the Arabs. His instinct told him that this was the beginning of a terrible time in Sudan, one in which the whole country would be plunged into war. And the people of Darfur would not escape unscathed.
So worried was he that he decided we should leave the country. We should go to live across the border, in Chad. But my mum and Grandma refused. He was overreacting, they said. In any case, what would happen to the children’s studies? In the coming months we heard of several families that had fled to Chad. They were getting out while they still could, my father argued, and we should follow their example. But my mother and Grandma refused to leave our people and our village, and so we stayed.
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