by Claire Hajaj
At this, her face clouded over. ‘Yes,’ she said, dropping her gaze. Stupid, he berated himself. Blind, cruel. How could Adeya with her damaged bowels and burned hands ever learn how to be an engineer? There’s no justice in this world. As the drill kicked back to life, he imagined the heavy cable smashing through the chains that weighed her down, breaking through into unseen possibilities.
The collapse of the rig could have been a disaster but Eric was on hand again. A new team arrived, ‘borrowing’ another from one of Eric’s friends working near the capital. A surprise guest came with them – Danjuma himself.
He arrived in a black car, stirring great blasts of dust into the already over-charged air. Nick saw Mr Kamil and Imam Abdi hurrying towards it, a small crowd coiling behind them.
Danjuma was easy to pick out – a head taller than Nick, barrel-chested under his Western suit, skin shining through the dirt-clogged air. Mr Kamil and Imam Abdi clasped hands with him, leading him over to Nick.
‘Well, sir.’ Danjuma removed his sunglasses and waved to encompass the new rig, the cement mixer and the crowd. ‘You are doing great things, I see.’
Nick mustered a smile in return. There was something about Danjuma, a glossy hunger, that raised his hackles.
‘Nice to see you again, too,’ he replied.
Danjuma laughed and turned to Mr Kamil. ‘Only the English use this word. Nice. I like it. Neither this nor that.’
The other men from Danjuma’s car were moving among the crowd, distributing leaflets. Nick saw a flash of the broad smiling face on the front page.
Mr Kamil said, ‘Danjuma wanted to see your progress.’
Eric had insisted no one learn of Danjuma’s hand in the drill permit. ‘Worse than a slap in the face and a kick in the balls,’ he’d warned.
Nick had no trouble agreeing; he would much rather forget about the politician altogether. He remembered Dr Ahmed’s fork stopping mid-air at dinner; it brought back that old feeling of foreboding – of consequences sweeping towards him.
‘Welcome to the site, Mr Danjuma,’ he said. ‘We’re about to start pounding again, as you can see.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Danjuma. ‘You had some delays, I hear.’
‘This is the most difficult part,’ Nick explained. ‘These hard rocks are weathered – they have cracks, through which the aquifer can flow. But they’re tough, and the rigs here are pretty old. They can’t cope if the rock is really stubborn.’
‘I see.’ Danjuma’s expression was alight with interest. ‘I am sorry for our stubborn rocks. And the people are more stubborn than the rocks!’ Laughter spread from Mr Kamil and Imam Abdi in a human wave.
A group of boys hovered beside the drill rig. Nick recognised Juma and Akim. The tallest among them was an albino, his skin shockingly white against the red of the cabin. A young man stood next to him; alarmed, Nick realised it was JoJo. But this was not the JoJo he thought he knew – not the eager boy with his homemade mortar and book of sketches. This was someone else: a young adult, deep in watchful silence.
What changed, JoJo? Nick wanted to ask him. Where did you go? But the questions felt dishonest. He knew what had changed: he could still feel the boy’s arms, tight around him in the garden, where the castle now lay broken. Now, between Margaret and the well, he barely had time to do more than wave him hello when they passed in Dr Ahmed’s corridors. When he’d asked JoJo about the broken castle, the boy had refused to meet Nick’s eyes. ‘Akim did it,’ he’d claimed. ‘It was an accident.’ Nick’s planned reassurances had withered inside him, noticing how narrow JoJo’s face had grown, how sharp – as if all his possibilities were converging in a single direction. He’d offered to help fix it, but the boy had shaken his head. ‘I am busy today,’ he’d replied, already halfway out of the door.
One day, Nick thought, I’ll be able to explain everything, and you’ll understand. The well was for JoJo, too – a more substantial gift than empty promises about his future, which no earthly power could fulfill.
Nick waved him over. The boy made no move at first. But then his albino friend nudged him. So he came, in a slow saunter. The others followed. Only the older boy was smiling, pale eyes alight like a wild animal’s.
‘Hey.’ Nick put his hand on JoJo’s shoulder as they reached him. The boy tilted his head to look at it. ‘Do you know what that man’s doing there?’
He pointed over to where the engineers had finished fitting the sleek new drill hammer to the cable. The mouth of the hole was open; JoJo’s eyes followed the drill as it vanished inside.
‘It will break the rocks,’ the albino said. ‘You need to force them away.’
‘That’s right.’ Nick turned to look at the strange boy – or man? He seemed almost ageless – those disturbing eyes, the smooth skin. But that wounded pink flesh was so vulnerable – like a baby’s just emerged from the womb.
‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked JoJo.
JoJo looked up at Nick. His every gesture seemed unnaturally slow, his eyes empty of expression. Nick stifled the urge to feel his forehead, as Dr Ahmed had done on that very first evening.
Eventually JoJo spoke. ‘He’s called Mister. He works with Juma.’
Nick extended his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mister. We haven’t met before, have we?’
Mister’s grasp was warm. He met Nick’s eyes with composure.
‘No, you did not see me, boss,’ he said. His English was fluid, although heavily accented. He pointed towards the rig operator. ‘I know this work. Once I worked with the same.’
‘With drilling?’
‘Yes, boss.’
Nick looked back at JoJo’s group of friends. They were lined up, like a scout group. Mister put his hand on JoJo’s other shoulder, a gesture that matched Nick’s. ‘Will you let us start the drilling, boss? I can do it, easy.’
Nick shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
Mister was not discouraged. ‘Ask him.’ He jerked his head towards the rig operator, who was looking their way. ‘He knows me. He will let us.’
Nick hesitated, then met JoJo’s eyes. Fine.
He walked over to the operator. ‘Can these boys help you?’ he asked. The man shrugged.
‘OK,’ he said.
Nick called back to JoJo, ‘You can come.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of Danjuma’s men pulling a loudspeaker out of the car. Another was setting a small podium down in the dirt.
JoJo came with Mister, climbing up the rig’s side. Eric kept the crowd well back. Danjuma himself had stepped up onto his makeshift podium, flanked by Mr Kamil and Imam Abdi.
Mister turned to Nick. ‘Thank you for this, boss.’ The boy’s hair was gilded by the brutal sun; he resembled some ancient magician or god. ‘The next time, I will help you. If you find more rocks in your way.’
The operator called out to Eric, who gave the thumbs up. Silence rolled outwards from him; the air stilled like an in-drawn breath.
And then JoJo’s hands moved, guided but assured. He gripped the ignition lever, pushing with all the force in his young body.
The noise was as powerful as a blast, a roar of tortured rock racing through them in a pressure wave. Above it, Nick heard the clamour of the loudspeaker – Danjuma’s voice booming above chaos.
He knew he should be listening, but a part of him was still mesmerised by the hammer’s fury, the sense of powerful forces set in motion. Small details commanded his attention: the black smoke drifting from the generator towards Binza’s shack, JoJo’s hand resting on the rig level and Mister leaning in behind him. They looked back towards him, and the light in their eyes reflected the engine’s shimmering heat.
After the drilling, we meet behind Tuesday’s shop. Mister told me: ‘I know all of Tuesday’s secrets. I know the women he goes with. I know the things he brings here. So Tuesday will never speak of what we do. He knows if I tell, they will kill him.’
Tuesday gives things to Mister, to keep him happy. One of
the things is the bang powder. It is white, like flour for bread. Akim calls it bang powder because it makes you run like a bullet. Mister puts it into cigarettes for us to smoke. The first time I said to him: ‘I don’t smoke. It’s bad for your health.’ Because this is what Baba always told me. He said: ‘For God’s sake don’t take up this habit, Yahya, or it will kill you as sure as the sun rises.’
Mister, he put the bang cigarette down on the barrel. He had made one cigarette for each one of us. I was drinking cola. I remember it tasted sweet.
Mister said to me: ‘Your baba is right, JoJo. This one will kill you. It will put a fire in your chest and in your heart. It will burn the weakness from you. And you may die, too, it’s true.’
Then he told us about a country where they take the bravest boys, the best ones, and make them into fighters. These boys dressed only in white, he said, like the bodies of the dead, to show they were not afraid to die. He said: ‘This way they were more powerful than other men. They had power like the spirits have.’
He makes me think of Bako – of the thirsty spirits at the lake, drinking with Binza. Or of the sounds Nicholas and Mama made in the kitchen together. And I thought: I want to feel this power. So I took the bang cigarette. We smoked them, and I felt the fire inside me. But later I was sick and so tired. My skin felt like ants bit me and I could not scratch them off.
Every day we smoke like this. Most days I do not go to school. Mister, he trains us. We have to climb walls into houses and not be seen. We have to take things from the market, like cassettes or shoes. We have to fight each other, to test our strength. Because I am the newest one, I watch. But when the smoke is in me, I want to fight. Mister made Akim fight Juma. He gave Akim the smoke and he gave Juma none. Akim beat him, and Juma was shamed to be beaten by his small brother. But Mister, he laughed. He said, ‘We are all brothers here.’
Today behind Tuesday’s shop, I ask Mister to let me smoke. ‘Later,’ he says. ‘We have to wait for our guest.’
My head, it aches. It aches all the time. Sometimes I think I see Baba looking at me. If I told him my secret, would he kill Nicholas? If I was a man, I would take the knife myself. When I smoke, I feel like I could do it. In my head sometimes I fight him. But sometimes I ask him to take me with him when they go. And we run and we run and we do not come back.
Then Mister stands up. He says: ‘Quiet, all of you.’
And a man comes in.
Danjuma carries a big bag on his shoulder. He is not so big as the governor. But he is young. He looks around us and says: ‘A salaam ou aleikum. It is my honour to meet our soldiers.’
‘We are not soldiers,’ Akim says. ‘We don’t take orders from the Town.’
Danjuma laughs and Mister, too. Mister says to Danjuma: ‘My men are still learning many things, boss.’
Danjuma nods his head, with a big smile. He says: ‘You are soldiers, eh? Your uniform is inside you, hidden.’
Mister, he says: ‘My men are ready for you, Danjuma.’ And Danjuma, he looks at us. He asks us: ‘Do you know what is coming?’
Juma and Akim and the other boys, they say nothing. But I have been listening. I know what Danjuma wants. So I say: ‘The elections are coming.’
He looks at me. His eyes, they are thirsty, like the spirits. He says: ‘What do you wear on your head?’
I put my hand to my head. There is the governor’s cap. I take it off and look at it. I can see the letters, big and red. And the bear’s mouth is red, too.
Danjuma asks me: ‘Who gave that to you?’
I do not fear Danjuma. I say: ‘The governor.’
He asks: ‘And what do you think of the governor?’
I try to remember him, his voice, his watch. He smiled like a man who is never afraid.
I say to Danjuma: ‘He has power and we are weak.’
Danjuma says: ‘You are a wise fellow. But soon we will not be weak. With help from you, if it’s God’s will.’
He lifts up the bag and puts it on the barrel. He says to Mister: ‘Open it.’
Mister reaches his hand inside. What comes out is black against his white skin, long and black. It is a gun. There are others inside. Some are long and thin. Some are small and fat.
Mister, he takes one of the small ones. He puts it in his belt, beside the knife. The other Boys, they come round the bag. They all want one. But Mister says: ‘Wait.’ He looks to Danjuma.
‘You will not wait long,’ Danjuma says. ‘But we need more money for his private guard. His two captains are the key. They can bring their loyal men. But they ask a high price to join us. If you can find some means for them, then tell me. Maybe this well-builder. He pays his workers in dollars, American dollars. Where does he keep those dollars?’
Mister says: ‘I will find out, boss.’ Danjuma is not afraid of Mister. I do not know which one should fear the other.
Then Danjuma looks at me. I have not come to the bag. I am thinking about the drill today. I felt so strong, like the power came from my hands. But we only broke stone. I look at the gun in Mister’s belt. I think: how does it feel to break a man? To send a bullet into him and break him?
Danjuma, he asks me: ‘What about you, soldier?’
I do not know how to answer him. I look at the cap in my hands. Danjuma leans over and takes it. He puts it back on my head. He says: ‘Maybe you will give this back to the governor. Maybe very soon.’
Margaret served a family meal that night to celebrate the well’s renewed progress. Nick sat on the porch while she prepared, watching the sun’s slow fall. The sky was pregnant with dust, dark seeds scattered across a garden blooming with violet, orange and pink.
This was Nick’s favourite time of the day. The soft bray of goats floated over the flap of Miss Amina’s fan and the early flutter of moths. He heard Margaret singing, the melody familiar as a hymn. A trick of the moving air lifted her voice from the window, an envoy heading into the night.
Quiet bliss filled his body as he listened, a peace so deep it was almost sleep. Margaret’s voice, the distant desert birds, the mosque incantation as the first generators lit with their deep hum – they wove through him and each other, merging and falling apart, until it seemed the desert itself was singing.
Dr Ahmed appeared, a long shadow in the doorway. ‘Dinner is served.’ The electric light drew tired lines on his face. ‘Margaret has made us a good supper.’
Their little table was set with red yams, heavy green spinach and pieces of flat bread, surrounded by a bowl of buttermilk and some sweet dates. Each bowl looked half-full – scant rations for four hungry mouths.
Dr Ahmed would have given Nick the biggest portion, but he held back – blaming a sore stomach. An old can of Fanta was waiting for him in the office. There was no meat at the table these days. Nick suspected that all of Dr Ahmed’s spare money was going elsewhere – paying for Miss Amina’s medicine and extra water for Hanan.
JoJo sat silently at one end of the table, Dr Ahmed at the other. Nick and Margaret faced each other across its centre. Nagode sat on her mother’s knee, seizing pieces of buttermilk-dipped bread with eager fingers and mashing them into her mouth. She held one piece up to her mother; Margaret bent to take it in her mouth, gently biting Nagode’s fingers and causing the little girl to crow with glee.
Dr Ahmed laughed with her. ‘She will make you fat, Margaret,’ he said. Nagode’s black eyes turned to fix on her father’s plate. To Nick, her skin seemed the same the rich walnut as the grandfather clock.
‘Eh, daughter!’ Dr Ahmed made a big show of guarding his food with his hands. ‘Eat your own. Don’t be stealing mine. This is not a good start.’
‘She’s learning one of the basic lessons of life,’ Nick said. ‘Always try for as much as you can get.’
Dr Ahmed nodded, looking rueful. ‘These lessons are not set in stone, though. They are not God’s holy Commandments.’ He glanced at his wife, with the half-smile that usually accompanied any acknowledgement of her birth faith. Warmth soften
ed Margaret’s face at the small kindness. She reached across the table, touching his hand with hers.
‘No, indeed they are not,’ she said to him.
Nick felt a twist of jealousy. She’s his wife, he reminded himself. And she’ll be his wife as long as I stay here, unless I can set her free somehow. He knew absolutely that Margaret loved him. She had told him – if not with her words then with her eyes and hands and body. Their relationship was a private church in which he could unbutton her dress under the dim light of his locked office, feel her heart beating through her palms and breasts, and still feel pure.
Looking for a change of subject, he turned to JoJo. ‘Did you enjoy the drilling today? It’s more powerful than you think it’s going to be.’
JoJo’s eyes were on his parents’ joined hands. Nick saw him look at his mother, his expression blank – almost cold. Then he nodded. ‘It was good. I liked it.’
‘Who is your friend? A new one, or just someone I never met before?’
JoJo bent over his plate, eyes fixed on the wall. ‘He is a new friend.’
‘How did you meet him?’
JoJo looked at Nick, a slow, considering gaze. To Nick’s surprise, he didn’t answer. Dr Ahmed cleared his throat and said, ‘Yahya, rudeness is not allowed at this table.’
‘It’s OK.’ Despite his resolution at the drill site, Nick found he didn’t want a confrontation with JoJo. ‘It’s not my business.’ JoJo gave a thin smile.
‘Who are these new friends, JoJo?’ Now Dr Ahmed was using his most unhelpful, authoritarian tone. Nick willed him to let it drop, but the old man continued, oblivious. ‘This club with Akim is taking too much of your time. Who joins you there?’
‘Don’t worry about it, Baba,’ JoJo replied, voice calm.
Dr Ahmed shook his head. ‘That is the answer of a boy, not a man. You are thirteen this month.’ He turned to address Nick. ‘In cultures like this one, children must become adults very young. Resources are scarce and life depends on our wise use of them. Children must learn judgement and reason quickly. The great religions came from the desert – this is no coincidence. The Jews were first. They mark the thirteenth year with a special ceremony.’