by Gavin Chait
Her eyes harden: the colour of the sea before a storm.
‘Depends who’s asking,’ she says. ‘For the funders, my pitch goes like this: everyone has agency. I want us to stop treating seekers as if we can package them neatly into little boxes and manage them like so much excess chattel. Each of them has their own ideas about what they want. All we can do is support the best of what is already here and let them build their own lives.’
‘It’s a good ambition,’ he says, pausing carefully, ‘for an organization. What’s your real reason?’
‘For Michèle,’ she says. ‘For all the people who need somewhere safe, because I can’t tear down that wall, and because I couldn’t help the last time.’
21
‘Where now, Duruji?’
It is near noon, and they are hiding inside an abandoned homestead on the edge of the hamada. A single tree, dead and partially burned, leans over the roof, and blackened stumps of a hedge surround the periphery of the property. There is an old dirt road wandering through the stones outside leading who knows where.
The group have been travelling south for weeks, trying to find safety and others of Ansar Dine. They are not sure if anyone escaped the fortress cities.
That night in the canteen, they watched as the naked man captured Abdallah Ag Ghaly, saw their leader dragged away like a slave. Their sense of invulnerability and authority has been shattered. Khalil alternates between periods of wild lucidity and moments of tortured delusion where he screams that Gaw Goŋ is chasing him. His ears are chafed raw from where he rubs them incessantly, trying to keep the mad howling out of his head.
Duruji copes by ignoring any doubt. Ag Ghaly will return, and he and his team of elite soldiers must be ready to serve him when he comes.
‘We keep going south, to the river. We will find a town, and we will hide there until our Janab returns.’
The men have heard him say this many times. They keep asking, for the reassurance that someone knows what to do.
They have not seen anything or anyone. Their radio calls have gone unanswered. No replies to their messages. No instructions. They assume that their radio station has been taken.
Their rations have almost run out. There is little water. They have been surviving by killing birds and rodents, wastefully shooting at anything that moves, and they have almost no ammunition left between them.
‘Duruji, look!’
The man is pointing out the window towards a column of dust rising up along the road.
Rattling along the path is an ancient cream-coloured self-drive Mercedes Benz diesel piled high with boxes and dragging a vast trailer behind it.
It clatters to a halt in the road outside the homestead. The driver’s door screeches open and a portly man, who appears only slightly younger than his century-old vehicle, struggles out, leaning heavily on a two-headed stave, his hair a grey burst about his head. He grins, sets a faded blue peak cap firmly on his head and slaps one of the bales on the roof, sending up a cloud of dust.
‘Come, Saafaandu,’ he shouts, leaning his two-headed stave against the door and digging in the footwell for a bottle of water and a bowl.
A semi-blind, balding Golden Labrador, as stout as its owner, hobbles out from the back of the car, clomps arthritically to the road and drinks thirstily.
The man sips from the bottle, tears open a bar of chocolate and unfolds a yellowing paper map which he lays out on the wide, rusting bonnet of the car.
‘I think we should be there in another three or four hours,’ he says to the dog.
Duruji and the men stare in astonishment. Khalil groans in the clutches of his madness on the floor. ‘Gaw Goŋ is here,’ his throat torn.
‘Who’s there?’ shouts the man. He sounds curious rather than frightened. ‘Come out. I won’t hurt you. It’s only me and Saafaandu.’
Mohamoud shrugs at Duruji. None of the other men can understand what this stranger is saying.
‘What does he want?’ whispers Duruji.
‘He says we should not be scared of him,’ says Mohamoud, his eyes wide.
‘Come with me,’ says Duruji. ‘The rest of you, stay here.’ He points at the only other man who still has ammunition and cocks his head. That man takes up position in the corner, hidden in the shade and watching the road.
Duruji and Mohamoud walk carefully from the homestead towards the car.
‘Hello,’ says the old man in delight. ‘You’re the first folks I’ve seen out here.’ He strides towards them, his hand open and outstretched in greeting. He scarce comes up to Duruji’s shoulder. The dog whuffs at them and drops exhausted in the shade of the vehicle.
‘Oh, don’t mind her. She doesn’t even have any teeth left.’
The man appraises the two jihadis and since his hand has not been accepted lowers it slowly to his side.
‘You’re Ansar Dine, yes? More of you inside?’
Mohamoud translates rapidly. Duruji nods, uneasy at the man’s familiarity, as if he had expected them, recognized them.
The old man chortles, looking pleased. ‘I was wondering when I would run into you fellows. You hungry? Want to eat? I have plenty of food. Beats eating rats.’
Duruji looks at him suspiciously.
‘What do you want, old man?’ asks Mohamoud.
‘My mine,’ says the old man. ‘I’ve waited forty years for you bastards to get yours, and now I’m going back to my mine. But I don’t hold a grudge. Your getting me out of the desert probably saved my marriage. So, come eat, then we can part in peace.’
He turns his back on them and walks to the trailer. The rear gate crashes open, and he drags out a grey battery-powered cooler box from amongst a stack of others. He carries it to the boot of the car and places it on top.
Inside it is tightly packed with vacuum-packed bags of chilled cured meats and dried fruit.
‘Saafaandu and I were about to have our lunch, and you’re welcome to join us,’ he says.
So saying, he opens a bag and squeezes out a thick helping of pastrami into the dog bowl. He pulls out an old clasp knife and finds a bag of French loaves from the back seat which he starts cutting into pieces.
Duruji takes a bag, sniffs it and then devours the contents. The others come rushing out from the homestead. Khalil stumbles through the doorway last, hesitating in confusion as he sees the old man smiling at him. ‘Gaw Goŋ . . .’ his concentration blurring once more, and he joins the others where they have launched themselves at the cooler and begun to inhale the food.
There is no conversation as the men have their first real meal since the night in the abandoned mining town.
Translating for Duruji, Mohamoud asks, his mouth full, ‘Why do you have so much food for one person?’
‘Wait, wait,’ says the old man. He digs through his cavernous pockets and extracts a spectacle case. He opens it carefully and settles a thick set of rims on to his ears. Its oversized controllers are integrated into the arms, and he fiddles with the side panels.
‘There,’ he says. ‘That should do it.’
There is a faint echo as he speaks and the rims translate a half-beat behind him.
‘What did you say?’
‘Food,’ says Duruji. ‘Why do you have so much for one man. And a dog?’
‘There will be others who will join me. Others who remember what we were doing there.’
Duruji looks back along the road, but the horizon is empty. ‘Who are you, old man?’
‘Just an old miner on his way back home,’ he says.
He smiles, looking at the sky. ‘My wife passed two years ago. We had a good life together. Probably better than if I’d stayed out here. She hated it and thought it was a blessing when your people invaded. But she’s gone now. Only Saafaandu and me left, and I’ve never forgotten my mine. I want to see it working again, before I die.’
His gaze is that of a man certain of his place in the world and unafraid of where that is.
Duruji stares at him, unsure of himsel
f. ‘Why are you not scared of us?’
The old man looks at them in surprise. ‘Why should I be? Your kind are finished. They are hunting you everywhere. Either you will hand yourselves in or you will die.’ He nods towards where Khalil is standing, looking lost and terrified, rubbing his ears. ‘The big lad. He knows it. He can hear it coming.’
Duruji looks back at Khalil. ‘It is his first time above ground. He should not have been up here so long.’
‘If you say so.’ The old man returns to his map, leaning on his two-headed stave, studying his route and smiling to himself. Duruji feels unsettled by his confidence.
The men huddle at the trailer.
‘We should kill him, take his things,’ whispers one of the men. ‘He is a demon. He scares me.’
Duruji shakes his head. ‘No. We are the enemy now. Few will show us kindness. We should be grateful for what is freely given. In truth, this man scares me too. We must let him go.’
When they have eaten as much as they are able, the old man packs up. He leaves them one of his cooler boxes, then helps his dog back into the car.
‘There’s a new city about four days’ walk from here,’ he says to Duruji. ‘Head south from here and, when you get to the river, walk upstream. You won’t miss it. You could do the right thing and give yourselves up to the border guards there. If not – well, I don’t fancy your chances.’
He stares at where Khalil is rubbing viciously at his ears, keening in terror, and shakes his head. The door scrapes closed, the diesel roars, and the last they see of him is the column of dust dissolving into the dark pressure of the horizon as he heads deeper into the desert.
Eventually, all that remains is a shimmering blur which looks almost as if it could be a baboon striding across the sands, gripping his two-headed stave, a painted dog yipping at his side.
22
Dawn, streaked in blues and reds, slices through the rain showering the city of Dakar. Mottled and muddy smells, singing of birth and new life. Clouds of hawks circling overhead shriek and scatter, black shapes against the sky, startled by the pandemonium of drumming and singing which rattles the earth.
A stream of buses enters the city, pouring forth a gay and excited river of people. A deluge dressed in ochre reds and yellows, greens and whites, boubous and djellabas, umbrellas and charms. Children stamp in puddles, their parents shouting in joyful bedlam, embracing friends.
The stadium swells, and the singing, the drumming, the roars, pounding of feet and howl of horns rise in a swirling, towering inferno.
It will be hours before the laamb starts, but people are here as much for this beating, riotous jubilation as they are for their favourite wrestlers. Already, each wrestler’s marabouts and juju-men are out on the field, dancing, drumming, singing: a musical challenge, a cacophony of taunts.
Young men, unassociated with any of the formal heats, spar on the sidelines, cheered and celebrated.
At the summit of the main stadium grandstand are two levels of private luxury seating. Most are still empty, although cooks and waiters are busy setting up.
The largest of these booths is set aside for the Parti Démocratique Sénégalais, where volunteers are preparing boxes of T-shirts, flags and umbrellas. Today is their largest rally before the local government elections and, interspersed with the main wrestling events, their leaders will each have the opportunity to speak. Across the city, the ruling Parti Socialiste du Sénégal is holding a similar festival.
As the grandstands fill, enthusiastic party volunteers distribute flags and banners which take root and sprout amongst the crowds.
A breath, as the chaos in the stadium harmonizes and then is released in a massed woof as if of a single exhalation. The wrestlers have arrived.
The marabouts dance and drum, singing the praises of their champions, for, truly, the gods are amongst us. These giants, their arms and legs thick with gris-gris, anointed with potions and herbs, their skin ebony and gleaming with oil and ointments to protect them from the charms of their opponents.
A thin marabout in a long white gabardine cloak and an enormous purple feathered hat, his ankles heaving with gris-gris, struts before his drummers and dancers. His feet sweep up sheets of sand.
‘Shago,’ he roars at his wrestler, ripping his knife from its sheath and pointing it at his own heart. ‘Know that, if you fall, you will also have to bury your own marabout. Your shame you will carry alone always on your shoulders.’
Shago screams, slamming his feet into the sand, advancing on his opponent. The two great warriors grapple, tearing at the earth.
With an immense heave, Shago finds his mark and flings his adversary to the ground.
The crowd answers his victory cry, erupting like the furnace howl of a volcano.
Through the morning, wrestlers take to the sand, lock arms and attempt to fling each other. The first on to his back is the loser. The chants of the marabouts rise in splendour with the rank of their combatants. Between each bout, a speaker from the Liberals takes to the sand and, to roars of approval, declares their forthcoming electoral victory.
‘I think I see him,’ says Tiémoko, waving and indicating where he is hanging on to their seats.
Simon, and Shakiso holding on to his hand, squeeze their way up through the grandstand, the crush of people threatening to drag them in different directions or topple them into the laps of those seated alongside the stairway.
Tiémoko and Simon embrace, and he leans across to shake Shakiso’s hand.
‘You,’ says Shakiso warmly as a young woman appears from behind Tiémoko. ‘You’re a long way from Aroundu?’ She has not seen Viviane since that day when Oktar . . .
‘Of course, you have met in my office?’ says Tiémoko, Viviane embarrassed at the attention.
They settle into their seats, jubilation and cheering around them.
‘I see even the grey men are here,’ says Shakiso, staring up at one of the windowed boxes where a member of the Gong Yuanxing collective stares out at the stadium.
‘I believe they’re at both events,’ says Tiémoko. ‘The great advantage of being able to be at more than one place at the same time. They are studiously neutral.’
The grey man appears to see them and withdraws from view.
‘Does our being here mean you support the Liberals?’ she asks.
‘I’d prefer them to win,’ says Simon, ‘but if I had the foresight of the grey men, I’d have been at both. No, the announcement will be coordinated. Both party leaders get to tell everyone this afternoon.’
Simon turns to Tiémoko. ‘I hear the griot has crossed into the desert?’
He nods. ‘I spoke with him of our needs, but he has other reasons to take him there. The region is free of Ansar Dine, and many millions wish to cross the sands. Even without the jihadis, the way is long and there is little water. He knows the desert’s secrets.’
‘I thought the Moroccans and Algerians had closed their borders?’
‘True, but there is another route. There were ancient rivers which ran through the desert to the coast in Libya. I believe he will open the way for them.’
Viviane stares in wonder. ‘The griot honours you with his trust,’ she says.
‘The griot has no secrets, only stories he has not yet told,’ says Tiémoko, laughing. ‘I think I should find us something to drink,’ turning to Viviane. ‘Will you come with me?’
They make their way down to the food stands, leaving Simon and Shakiso.
-
Tiémoko and Viviane queue at one of the many food stands beneath the stadium. The crowd swirls and eddies, like a turbulent river.
‘This will take some time,’ he says to her. ‘Would you wait here while I use the restroom?’
She smiles, and he threads his way around the stadium. When he is out of sight, he heads to the elevators leading up to the private stalls. The door opens, and the grey man emerges.
They say nothing, brushing against each other as if oblivious. Their han
ds touch as Tiémoko passes him a small transparent plastic card. The private keys for the Achenian printers.
They part without acknowledging each other. The grey man returning to his private rooms at the top of the stadium, Tiémoko to Viviane where she stands in the queue.
-
The day progresses, shadows crossing the arena, heat giving way to a languid dusk, and soon it is time for the Liberal leader, Sidiki Cissoko, to take his place in the event.
He passes down through the stadium, greeting supporters, and the never-ending grapple of those who wish to be near the man many believe to be their future president.
A volunteer meets him along the way, quickly sticking a microphone behind his ear.
In the basement of the stadium, two immense young men are waiting. They are the main event. The wrestlers Pathé and Birima. They are celebrated throughout the land. Fearless and feared.
They stand gently and in awe, as if before their genii.
Sidiki greets them both, holding their hands.
‘It is my honour to meet you,’ says Pathé, his voice gravel sliding down cliff-tops.
‘My father,’ says Birima, his voice, too, deep and vast.
‘No,’ says Sidiki, ‘it is I who am grateful. I thank you for your support.’
There is silence as Sidiki walks out into the arena. A lingering hush of reverence.
He stands before them, looking deeply into each part of the waiting crowd. For a moment, each person feels as if they have been seen. That, alone amongst so many, they have had a fragment of this man’s attention and time.
‘Our moment is at hand,’ he says, his voice amplified and intimate.
Calls from the distant crowds.
‘Even so, we are not at peace. For too long we have relied on the sufferance of others. Too many here have mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who live in lands not of their birth. Too many here know the pain of losing loved ones to the seeker’s journey, to the long roads that take them far from our ancestors.
‘Our homes are burning. An arc of fire across land which should be sacred, which should support life, cherish life, and provide abundance for all our people.