Harmattan (40 page)

And so I became the third wife of Moussa Boureima.

All of my friends from the village filtered into our little house and sat on the floor of the outer room. From the dim bedroom I could hear and recognise their giggling and whispers. There were people there also whom I did not even like, and the voices of youthful strangers. Hordes of women scurried about busily, to and fro: many of them were unknown to me too. Finally the curtain between our two rooms was drawn back and, through the outer doorway, I could see a hired photographer in an
anasara’s
stiff suit, weaving his way through the crowd outside. The younger children – including Fatima and little Narcisse Kantao – jostled each other at the entrance to try to catch a glimpse of me, until Madame Kantao or one of the other women shooed them all away, laughing and squealing. I thought to myself,
This is
what it must be like for the animals at the zoo in Niamey!
And yet I was not fearful.

Not then. Not yet. I had had long enough to contemplate my situation and the true misery of loss. Bunchie had taught us to accept what Fate had decided for us, because nothing we could do could change that path. And now, when I thought about it, I realised that she was right all along and that people like Mademoiselle Sushie, Richard, Monsieur Boubacar and even my poor, dead brother Abdelkrim – for all their care and love and good intentions – could never have helped me. I consoled myself with the fact that at least I would be away from Alassane’s wrath and jealousy.

Outside, the music and laughter and dancing started up again. Aisha, the old midwife, brought me a cup of water, some
manioc
and beans and a little pot of dates.

‘I pray to God that this marriage will 
take
,’ she said. ‘
Inshallah
.’

From time to time other women would enter the room and shout
Barka!

Congratulations!
or offer me some words of advice.
Give to your husband,
or
Your
husband is just below God,
or
God has smiled upon you – the wife of a rich man!
But Miriam’s mother just clucked her tongue and pressed my knee.

Darkness crowded in on us. I was dizzy with tiredness and hunger. Someone – I don’t remember who – took me by the elbow and led me out of the bedroom, through the living room and into the compound. Through my wedding veil I noted the fires dotted about our yard, serving the little knots of women who had gathered to witness and participate in my betrothal. They huddled together in tight little groups while the sparks danced around and above them before fading away in the cool night air. There was not a man or boy to be seen now.

I was set down on another little stool in the middle of the compound. Aisha squatted in front of me. She took a piece of cloth and dipped it into a gourd, then, lifting the veil away, she began to wipe my face. Some of the other women shuffled forwards and, taking straw sponges and soap, began scrubbing my arms and legs until they stung. They dried me off and painted beautiful henna symbols onto my hands and feet to ward off evil spirits. Then, behind me, someone started to trill again. The throng of women took up the song, chanting and clapping and pushing towards me from all directions until a frenzied circle of leering, screeching faces – eyes stretched wide in the darkness, teeth reflecting the light from the fires – and shuddering limbs and prodding fingers closed around me so tightly that a mantle of body heat overpowered me and left me breathless and panic-stricken. For a brief moment I thought that I might pass out.

Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to force back my tears.
Marriage is a good thing in
the eyes of God,
I told myself, digging my fingernails into my thighs.

Looking back, it could not have taken long. But at the time I thought that it might never end. At last, everything went still. Aisha put her leathery hands around mine and raised me off the stool. Then a cluster of the women fussed around me like mother chickens and I was shuffled back into my father’s house.

My wedding was over.

Back inside, I sat silently, dazed, with my head stooped and covered, unaware even if I had company in the room. My ears were ringing and my body ached as if I had carried water all day. When all the guests had left and the dust finally settled outside, I was led to the entrance of our compound, where two men I had never seen before were waiting in a white pick-up. Someone opened the cab door and a hand guided me towards it. Suddenly I felt terrified. I looked up and threw back the veil from my face. I peered around, my tear-stung eyes straining through the darkness, searching for Fatima, Adamou, even for my father who had sold me.

Only Aisha, tired and bent, and Madame Kantao were there with me.

‘My sister? My brother?’ I said, my voice like a ghost of itself.

Madame Kantao’s warm eyes met mine. ‘You will see them soon, child,’ she said, stroking my face gently, as Aisha’s bony hand clutched at my arm and pulled me towards the vehicle.

Then it was gone. All of it. Everything. The remnants of my family, my friends, my home, my village. All disappearing into the darkness as I peered through the rear window, squeezed between these silent, sweating strangers.

Ahead of me lay Niamey once again. Behind me, my hacked-off life: fading, fragmenting, like a recent dream.

Niamey

January 2000

The pain in my back and chest eases, or perhaps I grow accustomed to it. Not so the ringing in my ears and the pressure around my forehead and tear-stained temples – now dry and salty and tightened like the skin of a
tendi
. For a moment I think that I can actually hear the pounding in my head but then I realise that the sound is coming from outside. I wrap the few remaining fragments of my pictures and photographs up in my bundle and tie it back onto my waist. I stand unsteadily, one hand gripping the arm of Moussa’s chair, my legs quivering, my head swimming in the stagnant air.

I peer directly, defiantly, into the warm shaft of sunlight that streams through the small, deep-cut window. The hot, blinding light is almost painful, but I resist the urge to shield my eyes. From the midst of this dazzling core, a lost dragonfly emerges and flits towards me. I blink at last, squeezing tiny droplets from the corners of my eyes. I turn my head towards the door as the insect sails majestically into the dark hall way, its blue metallic flank glinting momentarily in the light. I am reminded of the military helicopters that roared overhead the day Abdelkrim and I went in search of Archie Cargo. The day my world fell apart.

Abdelkrim. And Mother. Both gone. There is a darkness, a resolve, a hatred even in my soul which both frightens and strengthens me.

I steady myself, then take a step, pushing off against the chair. I wince, but continue towards the door. I step out of the unfinished room, limp down the hallway, my feet scudding through the dust, past the second bedroom and out into the bright kitchen with its solid, concrete floor. There is no one in the room. Outside, the thud, thud, thud continues. I lift the lid from a large plastic jug on the table and pour myself some water. My hand shakes as I lift the cup to my mouth and the liquid cascades down my chin and leaves a damp patch on my pale green
pagne
. I had liked this garment. Moussa had handed it to me without a word when I had first arrived at his house and, although I had searched his face for warmth and found none, I had accepted it graciously and worn it gladly. A present from my husband. How could I not accept it? Fate had already decreed it, just as Bunchie had always said. Besides, most of my own clothes had been taken from me – thrown away probably. I was lucky to have been able to hold on to my bundle. Now I look down and notice that there is a large rent down one side where Doodi grabbed at me as I tried to flee her latest punishment. Not the first beating I have endured since coming here three months ago. And certainly not the last.

Later. I will repair it later. There are other garments to see to also. A pile of laundry to smooth, another to scrub, food to prepare, animals to tend to, as well as all my other duties.

I step out on to the veranda and then descend the steps to the yard, the afternoon sun hitting me immediately like a blast from a bread oven. A few metres to my left, Yola is pounding millet vigorously, rhythmically, humming as she works. She looks up and stops when she realises I am watching her.

‘Haoua,’ she whispers. ‘Why did you not just get on with cleaning Moussa’s room and look at your pictures later?’ Droplets of sweat cling to her brow, like jewels.I say nothing.

‘Are you all right, child?’ Her eyes show concern – and nervousness. They flit about, like the dragonfly inside, before it determined its true path.

‘I am all right.’

‘Toh
.’ She goes back to her work.

I wave my hand to attract her attention again. ‘Where is she?’ I say.

Yola rests the pestle on the mortar and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Doodi,’ I say. ‘Where is she?’

Yola puts her finger to her plump lips to hush me. ‘She is resting,’ she hisses, urgently. ‘Be sure you don’t look for more trouble!’ She points towards the house.

I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see her coming at me again. A sharp pain at the base of my neck surprises me and I flinch.

Yola takes a step towards me, but I wave her away.

I take a deep breath. ‘Why does she hate me so, Madame Yola?’

She shrugs. ‘I have endured her cruelty for two years. You will learn to avoid her wrath – and she will become more tolerant of you.’

‘How can I do that?’ I say, indignantly, kicking a sandal off and ploughing my toes through hot sand. ‘What did I do wrong except stop for a moment to look at my treasures and ask if I could watch television at our neighbours’ house this evening? I have worked hard all day. I would have finished the room as she had bid me.’ Yola nods. ‘I know it.’

‘Doctor Kwao-Sarbah gave me a ride in his car yesterday when I was returning from the market. He said that I should ask Moussa if I could watch television with his daughter Candice again this evening. They are having many guests and neighbours to celebrate
Eid al-Adha
. He said that we are all welcome.’

Yola nods again. ‘Yes. Doctor Kwao-Sarbah’s generosity is legendary in Yantala.’

‘So I asked Madame Doodi…’

Yola lowers her head. Then she raises her nervous, reddened eyes again and whispers. ‘It is an
excuse
, Haoua. She is jealous of you – and me. You must be quiet and careful and patient. She cannot beat me now. I am with child. Moussa will not permit it. He wants many children, but their marriage did not
take
. Doodi is barren, dried up, wizened. She has failed to give her husband children. But even so, he will not lay a hand on her.’ She allows herself a little grin. ‘I think that even Moussa is frightened of Doodi!’

My cheeks sting a little as I too smile, and the ringing in my ears rises a pitch. ‘I think she is a witch!’ I say. ‘I hate her – and I hate him too!’

Yola at empts to wave my words away. ‘
Walayi!
Keep your voice down, child! Do you want another beating so soon?’

‘It’s true!’ I say. ‘May God have mercy on me, but it’s true. Why does he beat me also? He promised my father that he would take good care of me. Be a good husband. These promises he breaks. What have I done to deserve these things, Madame Yola?’

She spills her hand towards me and shrugs. I know these are questions that she cannot answer.

Before me, Yola’s image bends and wavers as my eyes fill with tears. I blink them back, angrily, my face flush with heat and fury. ‘He hurts me at night time also,’ I say, without looking up.

‘I know it.’ She is staring at the ground again. ‘It is the way of things,’ she says, her voice barely audible. ‘We held the
Marcanda
for you. We invited all the married women in Yantala. Doodi and I exchanged insults.’ When she looks up her eyes are glazed and, I think, filled with memories, wishes, regrets.

I stare at the bump in her belly. ‘Did he rape you too?’

She sighs and reaches again for the pestle. ‘I am his wife. And so are you, Haoua. It is the way of things.’

I know that there is more work to be done. Always there is more work to be done. But I turn away from Yola and limp to the farthest corner of the compound where, listing behind the latrine, the Whistling Mgunga tree stands.

‘Haoua! Haoua!’ Yola calls, but I do not answer her.

I lean against the trunk and run my fingers over its scaly bark, its dappled shadow still in the breathless air as if painted on to the dust, the wall, the side of the latrine house. Its heady scent a welcome relief from the stink of human faeces. I find my footing, as I have many times since coming to this house and, despite my aching limbs, manage to pull myself up the great tree, high above the stench and the raging knots of gorged flies. Here, lodged into the v-shape formed by two great boughs, I can feel safe, calm – at least for a little while. This is where I go to think. Not when Moussa is around, or if Doodi is awake, of course. But when the time is right.

I settle into my place, my buttocks wedged uncomfortably between the branches. One long, thick bough stretches above the roof of the little house which Moussa has had built for Yola. Carefully avoiding the jagged thorns, I reach out, to stroke the small white and yellow flowers, their honeyed perfume enveloping me, making my head dizzy. I shuffle to make myself more comfortable and feel my
pagne
stick to the gummy sap at my back. From here I can look out over both Moussa’s compound and Doctor Kwao-Sarbah’s. Across the rooftops I can see the glittering dome of the Mosque du Gao. In the mornings, when I wake up in my little storehouse, I can hear the call of the
Imam’s
devotions. Soon after I arrived in Niamey Yola helped me clear the garbage from this building where Moussa had left me amongst the oilcans and bicycle parts and plastic bags the night before I learned about the death of my mother. We swept the floor and stacked Moussa’s tools and clutter on a bench at one end of the little structure. I found a place to keep my thin bedroll and an empty Solani container in which to keep my few belongings: my beads, a bracelet given to me by Madame Kantao, my plastic comb. My treasures I used to keep with me at my hip, safely bundled together. My letters, postcards, photographs. My life.