The Water Thief

by Claire Hajaj

  Mister is looking at them. He smiles when they fight. Like Baba used to smile at me and Bako. ‘They are just boys,’ he would say to Mama. ‘They have to fight if they are to grow.’

  Mister sees me looking. He says: ‘Boss, do you want Akim’s smoke? It’s yours. Take it if you like.’

  I want to smoke. I want to. My head hurts without the smoke. My bones are like stones in the ground. But Akim is staring at me, waiting for my answer. His mouth is open. Inside he is pink and white. I can see all the way down his throat.

  I say to Mister: ‘Akim can smoke.’

  Akim thinks I laugh at him. He makes a face and turns away from me. Buffalo helps him to light the smoke. ‘Fuck,’ he says, when the light burns his fingers. Fuck. He likes that word.

  The smoke is lit now. But I cannot smell it. I sit and put my head onto my knees. I can smell Nagode. Not how she is now. Now she smells like Bako. But before she smelled like milk. She and Adeya, they have the same smell. Adeya milks the goats and she brings the milk to Mama. Mama drinks the milk and gives her milk to Nagode. They all smell like milk. Sometimes if I close my eyes, I cannot tell which one of them is near me.

  Mister touches me on my head. ‘JoJo,’ he says. His voice is quiet.

  I do not answer. I am thinking of Nicholas and Mama. ‘I love her,’ he said. Like this tells me the answer to everything – like we are one of his quadratic equations, and he is x and Mama is y and if you make all the calculations in the right way then everything becomes clear.

  ‘Do not be sad, JoJo.’ Mister is talking now. His eyes are white. They see everything.

  He says: ‘You need to keep the fires hot, JoJo. The fires are your strength. You cannot put water on a fire.’ He touches my cheek with one finger. Gentle. Like Mama’s hand.

  ‘I want to walk,’ I tell him.

  He looks at me for a moment. Then he nods. He says: ‘Walk, it’s OK.’

  I turn to leave. Akim and Ibrahim are sharing their smoke. Mister, he says: ‘Wait.’ He comes to me and puts something in my hand.

  It is a watch. It is not heavy like Danjuma’s watch or like the governor’s. It has a small face and electric numbers that flash: on, off, on, off. The strap has a picture of a laughing mouse in red pants. Mickey Mouse. I know him from the comics we used to read before. Bako and me.

  ‘You can read this?’ Mister is asking me.

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Before it says three here, you must be back. Can you remember?’

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. I feel it there, heavy. It pushes me down.

  I look at his eyes. I am thinking: when will my eyes look like this? When will I have no fear?

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I can remember.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘We have work to do, you and me.’

  Outside Tuesday’s shop there is nothing. There is no noise, nothing from the generators or the lights. The only sound comes from the sky. It speaks and we listen.

  The mosque has no light any more. Imam Abdi, he sleeps at Juma’s house. I cannot go to my house. Nicholas is there, with Mama and Nagode. If I go back, they will tell me she is dead. Then Mama will go with Nicholas. And Baba will be broken, like his clock.

  My feet want to move. They take me south, towards the school. Towards the capital. But now I will never go there. They will go and I will stay. I will stay with Mister, and I will have his eyes one day, and boys will come to me and I will teach them things. Not like Nicholas, with his books and his equations. I will teach them about the spirits and the fires.

  I come to the wall of the yard. A long time ago, I climbed here, to throw my shoe. Right here is where I put my foot. You can see, there is a mark. A hole where the wall has crumbled. When other children come to play here, they will not know my foot made this hole. But I will still be here.

  ‘JoJo.’

  I jump. Did the spirits follow me here? I turn and say: ‘Who is that?’

  Adeya comes down the path from the village. Her abaya falls all the way down from her head, like water. Her dress is weeping onto the sand.

  ‘Eh, JoJo. What are you doing here?’

  I do not want to tell her. ‘Go away, Adeya,’ is all I say. I turn back to the wall. I must not see her. She must not see me.

  She says: ‘I cannot sleep.’

  Then she comes to stand by me, to look with me over the wall. She keeps her hands inside her abaya. She is always hiding her hands now. First her body and now her hands. One day she will hide her face, too. Then Adeya will become a spirit, like the rest.

  ‘I came from your mother’s house,’ she said. ‘My mother watches Nagode while she rests. But your baba would not let me inside.’

  ‘Does Nagode live?’ These words come without me thinking. I can feel Adeya close by. She is smaller than I am. I could carry her easily, now that I am growing strong.

  ‘She lives.’ Adeya speaks quickly. ‘She still lives, JoJo.’

  I want to cry. But Mister says we must not put water on the fires inside. Instead I say: ‘You must go from here, Adeya. It is a bad night.’

  Adeya, she nods her head. Her foot, it makes circles on the ground. All lines from the middle of the circle to the edge will be the same length.

  ‘Will you not come too?’ she says. Her voice is quiet. ‘Come back with me. Hanan, she will stay at your house until dawn. You can sleep in our house, JoJo.’

  I cannot, I tell her. I have work to do.

  ‘Work with those boys? They are the bad ones, JoJo.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ I tell her. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Adeya’s face is round, like Nagode’s. She is made of circles. But when she is cross, she gets lines that are straight and deep. She makes those lines now, and she folds her arms.

  She says: ‘Don’t you speak to me like some big shot. I know you, JoJo. These boys, they are playing with you.’

  Adeya, her hand comes out from her dress and touches my arm. Her scars are pink, like the flowers on Mama’s scarf.

  I am trying to think of Mister and Nicholas and his money, and Juma on his motorbike. But inside my mind I can only see Adeya, with her hands out to me, open.

  ‘Come with me, JoJo.’ She is saying it, over and over. Her voice hurts my head. She is bringing the water up from inside, she is trying to stop the fires. ‘Come with me, JoJo. It is not good to be outside tonight.’

  I grab her by the shoulders. I see it then – the fear. She looks into my eyes and she sees white, only white.

  I scream: ‘Get away from me! Get away!’ I push her. And she falls.

  The air goes out of her. Her hands, they go to where the bag is connected to her insides. She pulls herself around the bag. She makes a circle on the ground.

  I stand above her. And now the sky and I are shouting. We are shouting together. ‘See! See!’ I shout. But I feel like this is not me. This is not my voice. I stop, and there is no sound. Just Adeya. She is crying.

  I turn and I run. I run away from her – but there is nowhere to run, except back. Back to Tuesday’s looted shop and to Mister, who waits there for me.

  The wind follows me. It sends things to trip me. There are branches that cut my legs. There are wires that twine around my feet. The place where Jalloh keeps his hens, it is turned over on its side. And it rattles, like a sick person.

  Now Mickey Mouse says three. And when I come in, Mister, he stands up.

  ‘Are you ready, JoJo?’ he asks. The other boys, they say nothing. They are not the ones chosen.

  I am not ready. No, never.

  But then I remember how I pushed Adeya on the ground. And I say, ‘Yes. Yes, I am ready.’

  Mister takes me to his workshop. There is Tuesday’s bike, waiting. It shines, silver and black. Reflected in the chrome I look big, like Danjuma.

  He climbs on and starts the engine. The bike makes a noise like the goats, when Jalloh turns them upside down.

  Mister says: ‘Get up behind me, JoJo.’ So I climb on. I put my hands on his
shoulders. Between us is something stiff and sharp. I take my cap, the governor’s cap, off my head. I tuck it into my jeans, so I cannot feel the knife. ‘Be careful,’ Mister tells me. ‘And hold tight.’

  We ride west – out into the desert, until we see the lake. I see Binza’s place. The red curtain goes in and out, like a tongue.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I shout into Mister’s ear.

  ‘We cannot take the road,’ he calls back. ‘So we must find a way without roads.’

  The way without roads is long. We go around the lake, over stones until my bones feel like they will break. When it hurts too much to stay silent, I cry out. And Mister, he laughs.

  ‘Eh, JoJo, it hurts, eh? Don’t be ashamed. We are making you again. We will make you strong.’

  ‘Why not take Akim?’ I ask Mister as we go.

  ‘That one? He is nothing,’ Mister says. ‘He never felt the fire like you and me.’ Mister points east. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘The road to the Town.’ And there it is, with no cars and no soldiers. We left them behind. Now there is nothing to stop us.

  ‘We will come into the Town this way,’ Mister says. ‘They will never see us. Near the Town there are other roads – small and not watched.’

  ‘Why did no one come this way before?’ I ask him. I can see him smile.

  ‘They came, boss. Many times, to bring our smokes and fuel.’ Mister lifts his packet of cigarettes, holding them tight against the wind.

  He says: ‘And now it is your turn. To become a real soldier. And it is my turn to pay my blood debt.’

  I ask him: ‘Which debt?’ But I already know.

  ‘To my father,’ he says. The back of his head is white in the dark around us.

  The road is silent. Now we go more slowly, and the way is smooth. My ears, they are singing from the wind. I take my cap out of my jeans and put it back on my head.

  Soon we reach the quiet roads, turning and turning through houses. The houses are close together and made of fine stone. They are tall with high windows and bars to guard them from strangers.

  I can smell flowers in these gardens. Something sweet still grows here. There are dates on the road. And red flowers on the walls, with yellow mouths. Laughing lilies, I remember. Mama, she loves these ones. But they only grow for us when the rains come.

  At last, we stop. Mister, he tells me to get off. He pulls the bike against the wall. There are lights here, bright lights. The bike makes a shadow, big and black.

  Mister says: ‘We wait.’ So I watch the sky. The storm has passed away south. Above there is quiet, and a moon. Yellow, like a husk of corn. Like Nagode’s milk.

  My body is still shaking, and I am so tired. I stand against the wall. In my head I fly to the moon. The moon is a lake. The water is white and sweet to drink.

  Then Mister, he pinches my arm. I am awake, straight away. A man is coming to us. A soldier – one of the governor’s men. I want to cry out, but Mister, he hushes me.

  The soldier comes to stand in front of us. He looks at me. His eyes are black inside yellow, like the well inside the land.

  He asks Mister: ‘Who is he?

  ‘My man,’ says Mister. ‘Is it done?’

  The man says nothing. Then he turns his head to look down the street.

  ‘Go inside,’ he says. ‘The house is the first one.’

  The first house is the one with the laughing lilies. I want to pick one as we open the gate. I would have given it to Mama. But that was before.

  I whisper to Mister: ‘Someone will see us.’ Rich men, they always have someone guarding.

  Mister, he smiles. ‘Not tonight,’ he whispers back. ‘Tonight they will all be blind.’

  And then I understand the secret. The money Nicholas gave Mister has paid the governor’s soldiers tonight. It has paid them all to be blind.

  The garden is quiet and green, too green. Aloe and date palms. A path points to the front door. A man stands there, watching. Mister puts his hand behind his back. He looks at the man. I hear my heart, like the engine. Then the man opens the door and stands aside.

  The doorway is a black mouth. It swallows us. Inside is a carpet. So soft. I can smell dinner. Rice and meat. There is one candle and a big glass light with many colours. It sends shadows onto Mister’s face. It makes him look like a painting.

  Behind one door, a woman is making noises. Ah ah ah, she says. Like a song with no words.

  Mister puts his hand on the door. I want to pray. Do not open it. Please. Do not. I am not ready.

  But Mister, he pushes it open.

  I can see over his shoulder. I can see the bed and the woman on her back.

  She is fat, like Tuesday’s ladies. Her skin shines like someone has polished her. Ah, ah. She is singing. Above her is someone’s back. It is shiny too, like Baba’s wax. It moves with her singing. Her eyes are closed and she puts her hand up over her head. Her palms are pink. Her fingers are full of rings and the nails are purple like dung beetles.

  But the cold air comes with us and her eyes – they open. She sees us and her mouth makes a shape. O. The shape is a circle like her eyes. She is not beautiful now. She is one of Jalloh’s goats, meat and bone.

  The governor turns around and he sees us. His chest is thick with hair, black hair that goes all the way down to his legs. His body is wet.

  He sees Mister. His eyes go wide, like a goat’s. Mister, he smiles. He says: ‘Yes, Baba. It’s me.’

  Then the governor sees me. His eyes stay on me. And then I know. He sees his cap. The one he gave me, sitting on my head.

  He makes a deep sound, like Buffalo’s lion. And he comes towards us, comes from the woman, with his hands out. I do not move. I hope he takes me. I pray that he kills me and puts me in the garden to sleep.

  Mister takes out his knife as he passes, steps behind him and cuts his neck.

  The governor does not know what Mister has done. He reaches me, and takes my shoulders. He looks into my face and his mouth is moving. There are no sounds coming from him any more. The sounds come from the woman. She screams and screams.

  I can hear her, but I cannot look anywhere else. He is still holding me. He still wants to tell me something. He is a spirit now. He speaks the tongue of the dead.

  The governor falls. Mister comes to us. He pulls the governor’s hands off me. He kicks him in the stomach again and again. He shouts: ‘Here’s my stick, Baba. How do you like it? Now it is your turn.’

  The governor falls on his back. No one is here except the woman. She crawls on the bed. She cries like Nagode, like Adeya. Like Mama, the day I told her what I saw.

  Then Mister, he gives me the knife. It is cold in my hand. I kneel beside the governor. Blood is coming from his neck. He bleeds like Baba’s clock – tock, tock. But the clock is nearly broken.

  Mister says: ‘Now, JoJo.’

  I am dreaming. Just like when I was swimming on the moon. I still dream now. And soon we will wake. And go to school. The rains will come. The flowers will grow back on Nagode’s sleeping tree.

  Mister puts my hand with the knife over the black hair on the chest. I feel him pushing it down. It is like cutting cement when it is still wet. We made cement for the castle. It must dry before you can shape it. But not too hard, Nicholas told me. Soft but firm, like Nagode’s skin.

  I let go of the knife. It stays there, standing straight up. The woman, she makes no more sounds. Mister takes my cap from my head. He hangs it on the knife. I can see the bear. Its mouth is open and nothing comes out.

  Our hands are wet and red. Mister’s hands open and close, like he is holding something tight. His face is the fire, but there is water on it, too. He kicks the man again with his foot. Nothing. He is meat now. His spirit has gone.

  ‘Come,’ Mister says to me.

  The garden smells so sweet. And the moon is still bright. I hear men, coming closer, their steps heavy on the road. They are not spirits; they are real. They call us and Mister answers them, his hand on my back. I look up and s
ee a face, smiling at us. His mouth speaks my name; he has white teeth and he holds a hand out to me. Danjuma.

  I go on my knees in the road. I vomit until there is nothing left inside me. I vomit until I am empty. As empty as my hands.

  The Fires

  The sun stabbed at Nick through the high window. He flinched, feeling hard floor beneath him. His arm connected with something cool and smooth beside him – the whisky bottle, which toppled over with a hollow clink.

  His eyes were made of glue and wire, the bed a hazy shadow, dead insects crumpled underneath. Somewhere a voice was shouting, a distant, dream-like sound.

  He forced his eyes open, head pounding. The empty bottle was a sickening yellow, making his stomach heave. He’d drunk his way to its bottom, dreaming of dawn coming gently and someone’s arms around him.

  The hum outside was growing. He staggered to his feet. Vomit coated the floor, and he stank of spirits. A bucket of brown water sat in the bathroom corner – blood temperature, thick with dirt. He rinsed his T-shirt and his face. Yesterday’s chills felt remote, a distant tremor. He could still feel the imprint of J.P.’s money, itching against his skin.

  Footsteps came, pounding up the porch steps. His door rattled. ‘Mr Nicholas!’ The voice was muffled, but familiar. ‘Mr Nicholas, come and see!’

  Nick opened the door slowly, gritting his teeth against the daylight. There was Tuesday, wild-eyed, one gold tooth showing in a hysterical grin. He reached out and grabbed Nick’s forearms. ‘Come!’ he repeated. ‘Come now!’

  People were thronging outside Dr Ahmed’s house; there was a strange aura of celebration. Hope touched his heart. Nagode must be better.

  ‘Nicholas!’ Now it was Mr Kamil, waving from the garden gate. ‘They are gone. Gone. Go and look.’

  Gone? Nick’s mind tried to grope through the fog of alcohol and confusion. But then Dr Ahmed’s front door opened. The doctor stepped out, red-eyed from sleeplessness. ‘Nagode is resting,’ he told Nick. ‘The crisis passed in the night. She will recover.’