Harmattan (22 page)

Monsieur Mahamadou kept himself to himself. Although, when we were astride his camel, he would occasionally point out an abandoned vehicle or an animal’s skeleton, I got the feeling that he barely noticed Moussa and me and that he was certainly not prepared to change his habits for us in any way. He seldom spoke to me and said less still to Moussa, and with each stop the tension between the two men seemed to grow. As the sun became less intense and the soft sand cooled, our progress was made easier and our camels seemed to settle into a swifter pace. The prayer stops became less frequent and, with the fall of darkness and a slow half moon in the sky, I soon lost track of any real sense of time. Certainly it must have been well after midnight when, at last, we glimpsed the flickering oil lamps dotted around Monsieur Youssef ’s shed at the
camion
post. Relief washed over all of us, I think; it had been a relatively straightforward journey, but I, for one, was exhausted.

Unlike the last time I had come here, with Sushie to see off my brother Abdelkrim, there was no sign of life apart from the lamps and certainly no welcoming smell of cooking. We dismounted and, while Monsieur Mahamadou and Moussa untied our bundles, I stretched and drank some water before walking a few paces into the darkness to find somewhere to relieve myself.

When I returned to the
camion
post I was both surprised and concerned to find that Monsieur Mahamadou and his camels had gone, their tracks trailing off northwards into the cool blackness of the night.

‘I thought he would rest here for a while,’ I said to cousin Moussa, who was sitting cross-legged on his blanket under the canopy, the glow of his cigarette like a single, eerie, misplaced eye against his silhouette.

‘We’re only a short distance from Djamaro,’ Moussa replied. ‘He said he wanted to get there before sunrise.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Anyway… good riddance to your Monsieur Mahamadou Alpha! He tried to charge me twelve hundred CFA!’ He flicked his cigarette and blew a great cloud of blue smoke in my direction.

‘Twelve hundred CFA for a little camel ride? The man’s a crook!’

‘
Toh
.’ I picked up my bundle and looked around. I wanted to speak up for Monsieur Mahamadou, to protest that he seemed like a fair man to me, but decided that it was probably wiser to stay quiet.

That was it then. There was no other sign of life. Monsieur Youssef had obviously retired for the night. I would have to rest here until morning, alone with Moussa. I set the bundle down again hesitantly and unrolled my blanket. I looked at Moussa and shivered.

‘Cold, girlie?’ he said.

‘No, Monsieur!’ I said, quickly. I leaned forward to drag my bundle over for a pillow, then gasped and pulled back as something small, dark and shiny scuttled towards my blanket.

Moussa was beside me in a flash. ‘Scorpion!’ he said, his lips curled back and the faint moonlight dancing across his broken yellow teeth. Kneeling now, he took a small, straight knife from his belt and put his face close to the cool sand. I assumed that he meant to kill the creature swiftly with the knife and, even though my grandmother had taught me to respect all forms of life and I would happily have let the beast go on its way, I was not about to argue with Moussa. Instead, he used the flat of the blade to pin the insect down and, before I knew what was happening, his cigarette was searing into the tormented creature’s thrashing abdomen. At last it was over. The scorpion lay still and Moussa stood towering above it, grinning cruelly.

I could not share his pleasure. ‘I don’t think it would have harmed us, Monsieur…’ I said, warily.

He tutted, spat towards the dead insect and then pushed sand over it with the side of his foot. ‘You’ll sleep safer now,’ he said, then bent down and dragged my blanket closer to his own.

I felt uncomfortable but did not say so.

‘Don’t stand there gawping, girl!’ he said. ‘Bring your bundle over here and get settled. It’s late and we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

I picked up my bundle and moved towards him. Before I could set it down again, Moussa had snatched it from me. He untied it hastily and withdrew Katie and Hope’s shoes, still in their box, which was now a little battered. ‘I’ll take care of these, girlie,’ he said.

I nodded. As I sank to my knees he put his face close to mine and leered, his hot breath once again wafting over my face. I quickly scrambled on to my blanket and lay with my back to him, my knees pulled up tight to my chest.

‘Let me know if you get cold,’ Moussa said, poking a finger into my ribs.

I prayed that morning would come quickly.

To my relief, Moussa quickly slipped into a heavy slumber. I lay awake for a very long time, thinking about my mother and marvelling at the open sky beyond the canopy, the peacefulness of the night spoiled only by my travelling companion’s deep snores. I turned my head to look at Moussa: he lay with his face towards me, a thin trickle of drool spilling from the corner of his crumpled mouth. He did not stir as I shuffled my blanket further away from him.

The sound of unfamiliar voices woke me. I opened my eyes and felt both a not-yet-angry sun and a light wind caressing my face. For a moment I was concerned that I had slept through the
camion’s
arrival and departure, but Moussa’s belongings lay nearby, his blanket covered in fine sand.

A group of men were standing near the entrance to Monsieur Youssef ’s shed – chatting, spitting, cleaning their teeth with chew sticks. I recognised a few of them as being from Goteye. Moussa was amongst them. He glanced towards me and pointed, then said something under his breath to his companions. The men looked over their shoulders and laughed. There was no time for annoyance. Suddenly I realised that someone was addressing me.

‘Hello again, little Mademoiselle.
Mate ni kani?
Did you sleep well?’

I looked up and was pleased to see Monsieur Youssef beaming down at me, his face warmer than the morning sun.

‘I hear you’re off to the capital?’

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘My mother is poorly and I am going to visit her in hospital.’

Monsieur Youssef scratched his head. ‘Yes.’ He nodded towards the building.

‘Yes, I heard that from your cousin. May God watch over her – and you also, little sister.’‘Thank you, Monsieur. God is great. And may He watch over you too.’

Monsieur Youssef nodded. ‘
Inshallah.
Well now… you’d better get up, Mademoiselle. The
camion
will be arriving very soon.’

After a brief prayer, I bundled my things together and breakfasted hastily on dried dates and a thin millet gruel. There were more folk gathered at the
camion
post than the last time I had been there with Abdelkrim and Sushie, but around mid morning when the truck finally arrived, it carried only a few passengers and was not heavily laden. We climbed aboard and tried to make ourselves comfortable. I pushed my way through bundles of clothing, past tools, plastic buckets, basins, fuel canisters and sacks containing goat meat and freshly slaughtered
moutons
, some with legs protruding through tears in the jute, and scrambled onto a pile of tyres, wedging myself into a corner at the rear of the vehicle, my back to the tailgate. Moussa lay down on some sacking next to two women whose faces were covered. At the other end of the truck, the Goteye men also covered their faces with their
cheches
. A few of them wore sunglasses: I could not see their eyes but felt sure that they were observing me. With the first lurch of the vehicle, my head was thrown back and bashed off the tailgate. It was the first of many discomforts that day, made worse by the fact that my water supply was running low.

Our driver was, perhaps, not so devout a man as Monsieur Mahamadou; nevertheless he stopped to pray several times. It was only then that I managed to doze for a short while, declining tea from the women despite my intense thirst. When the praying had finished, we would clamber back onto the
camion
and try, once more, to find the least painful position amongst the cargo.

Darkness had settled upon us once again by the time we approached the ferry embarkation point at Bac Farie. There was a great deal of commotion as the truck lumbered up the gangway but I was too exhausted to pay much attention to what was happening on the deck below. I began to think that our journey would never end. I thought of asking cousin Moussa how much longer we would have to endure such hardship, but we had barely exchanged words all day and, somehow, I felt more at ease with things that way.

At last, the rugged piste led us onto a smooth bitumen strip and the going was made considerably easier, but by the time the vehicle trundled into Niamey I was worn out and my body ached all over. Even so, as I stood peering out over the tailgate and my gaze followed colonies of bats flitting between majestic date palms, tamarind and mahogany trees and the tall electric lights and fine buildings either side of the highway, I felt relieved – excited even – but most of all happy that I was soon to be with my mother again.

I barely remember the short taxi ride to Moussa’s house, which was unlike any I had ever visited before. It was big – bigger even than Alassane’s – with straight walls and windows with metal grilles and mesh to keep the mosquitoes out. The house was set within a gated compound which, though smaller than my father’s, contained several other buildings. Moussa led me into one of these – a store house, strewn with old bicycle frames and dismantled parts – and indicated that I should make my bed up on the hard, dirt floor. He then disappeared into the house, without introduction to his family or any offer of refreshment. My water gourd was empty and my throat was dry, but I was so tired that all I really wanted to do was sleep.

The following morning I opened my eyes to find a young woman standing over me. I sat up with a jolt, unsure of where I was at first.

‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle,’ I said.

‘You are Haoua Boureima,’ the woman said. It was not a question.

‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’

‘
Je m’appelle Yola
,’ she said. ‘And it is
Madame
; I am Moussa’s wife.’ She spoke French in a strange, thick accent, quite different to any that I had heard before. The light filtering in from the doorway behind her seemed to glow around her darkened form, and although I could not yet clearly see her face, I was certain that it was handsome.

‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ I said. ‘I did not know.’ I stood up and brushed myself down. My clothing was caked with dust and I felt filthy.

Yola looked me up and down. ‘You are to wash and then come into the house.’

‘Yes, Madame.’ I followed her out into the compound, squinting as the sunlight hit my face and suddenly aware of the noise of heavy traffic and the thick scent of unfamiliar blooms in the air. I stopped and Yola turned to address me.

‘Why are you standing there, girl?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ I said, realising that it hurt my throat to speak. ‘I am so very dirty. Where is the river, please?’

Madame Yola laughed loudly and jabbed her thumb behind her shoulder. ‘The river is two miles in that direction,’ she said, ‘but you can wash yourself here.’ She led me across the compound to the gable end of the main building. A thin pipe emerged from the ground and was fastened to the wall with metal clips. At the top of the pipe a small, round wheel was attached. ‘Here,’ she said, tapping the wheel.

I looked at her, but said nothing. Unfamiliar sounds and smells came at me from all directions.

‘You haven’t seen a faucet before?’

‘Madame?’

She stepped forward and turned the wheel. A bright cascade of clear water gushed from the pipe.

It was my turn to laugh now. At school, Monsieur Boubacar had told us about such things but I had never seen anything so wonderful. I bent down and gulped the water greedily, while Madame Yola fetched a plastic pail. When I had drunk my fill, Yola allowed the pail to half fill before turning the wheel in a clock-wise direction.

‘If you want to use the latrine, it is over there,’ she said. ‘Wash yourself and then come inside.’ With that she disappeared into the house.

Alone, I stood gawping down at the water, shards of morning sunshine reflected on its slowly settling surface, my head dizzy with thoughts and tiredness, until a movement to the right caught my eye. A plastic-green chameleon moved, lazily, a short distance along a low wall at the back of the compound, before stopping as if to observe me. I scooped water up in my hands and scrubbed my face and neck vigorously, then removed my head wrap and rinsed it well, before reaching underneath my
pagne
to daub at the sweat on my body as best I could. When I had finished washing, I approached the entrance of the house and lingered for a moment, trying to decide whether I should call out or knock, and listening to the sounds of utensils banging. The smell of cooking wafted around me and suddenly I realised that I was hungry.

‘Madame?’ I called.

‘Come in, girl.’

I pushed the half open door and entered the house. Yola was bent over a stove, ladling out portions of
boule
from a large pot. A metal chimney fixed to the wall disappeared upwards through the ceiling and drew wood smoke away from the room.

Yola pointed to a long, narrow wooden table at the other side of the room, around which stood four plastic chairs. A copy of
Le Sahel
lay spread open on the table, the headline
TEACHERS CALL THREE-DAY STRIKE
in large, black letters across two pages.

I sat down and fidgeted nervously, and was wondering if I ought to offer to help when I heard the sound of muffled laughter coming from beyond another doorway opposite the entrance. Yola turned and looked at me without speaking, agitation clearly visible on her face. For a moment I thought that I had offended her in some way, but then she moved a few paces towards the door. ‘Madame!

Monsieur!’ she called out abruptly.

‘What is it?’ Moussa’s voice answered gruffly.

‘The food is ready.’

More commotion from what I guessed was a bedroom. Although Yola had her back to me, I could tell that her irritation was growing. She continued to clatter her utensils and I sat quietly, nervously, taking in the room. It was an airy room with two other wooden doors leading off it in addition to that of the entrance. Despite the fact that it was somewhat untidy, I decided that I liked this room. The walls had been painted bright blue and although patches of the paint were peeling badly, it was still a cheery space I thought. Beside an array of pots, buckets and cardboard boxes, a battered metal sign with the word
Dunlop
leaned against the wall. A shaft of morning sunshine cut through a small, square window, framing my dusty feet and plastic sandals in golden light. Behind me and to my right, their backs facing outwards like a little herd of petrified
moutons
, a further assortment of plastic chairs had been pushed, haphazardly, into the corner. To the left of the chimney hung a portrait of President Mainassara, smaller than the one in my father’s house, but presented in a smart black frame. Below it, hanging from a nail, was a small Agadez Cross similar to the one which Abdelkrim had presented to my mother.