‘Go to sleep, Little One,’ I said, stroking her forehead – much as I had stroked my mother’s, earlier that day.
15
Hope Boyd
Member No. 515820
Ballygowrie
Co. Down
N. Ireland
BT22 1AW
20th November, 1998
Haoua Boureima
Child Ref. NER2726651832
Vision Corps International
Tera Area Development Programme
C/O BP 11504
Niamey
Republic of Niger
West Africa
Dear Haoua,
Thank you for writing to us again. It was really nice to hear from you.
This is just a very short note from me (Hope) – Katie says she will write again soon – because we have had some very bad news and are all feeling sad here.
My great grandpapa (‘Papa’) died last week. He was just a few days away from his 100th birthday! I can’t believe that he has gone. My mum says that he is with Jesus now. I hope so. Papa was a very good man, and very clever too. He was great at making and fixing things. He was a sailor during the second war against Germany. He used to tell us about the terrible things he had seen! I will miss him.
My dad says that during the war Germany took control of France and that your country had been ruled by the French before that, so Niger kind of became part of Germany for a while! How strange to think that your country and mine were on opposite sides! Have you been to France? We went camping there a few years ago. It was fun! I so liked the swimming pool at our campsite.
The rest of my family are well. We are going to go to Spain quite soon for a holiday. Katie and I are really looking forward to that.
I hope that your family are all well.
Lots of love,
from Hope Boyd
***
True to her word, Sushie sent for me the following afternoon. Richard came to the house to fetch me. Fortunately, Adamou was working with my father and Fatima had gone to play with Amina and their other little friends, so there was no fuss.
‘Ready?’ Richard said.
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Will my mother be coming home today?’
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘You’ll need to talk to Mademoiselle Sushie about that, Haoua.’
We were halfway to the dispensaire when we met Aunt Alassane and her sister Flo at the corner near Monsieur Letouye’s shop. I did not want to stop, or talk to anyone just then – least of all Aunt Alassane – but I knew that it was necessary to do so.
‘How is your poor mother, dear?’ Flo asked me. For the first time I noticed that her face was more weathered than Aunt Alassane’s.
‘I don’t know, Mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen her yet today.’
‘Toh. You must be so worried, you poor child,’ said Aunt Alassane.
‘Excuse us, Mademoiselles,’ Richard said, politely but firmly. ‘We are on our way to see the good lady now.’
‘D’accord. Do give her our regards.’
‘Of course.’
I was glad that Richard had intervened. As we walked on, he patted me gently on the shoulder and then looked down at me and winked.
As we approached the dispensaire compound, I could see that there were several people sitting on beer crates outside a rattan screen, waiting to see Sushie or one of her colleagues.
‘If you’ll wait here just a moment please, Haoua,’ Richard said, giving my shoulder a little squeeze. He greeted the patients at the entrance to the small consultation room and then went inside.
I too nodded politely at the patients.
‘Your mother is a good woman,’ said Madame Hacheme, who was leaning against the door frame and breathing heavily. ‘God will watch over her,’ she panted. She looked like she might give birth at any moment.
Madame Dekougbonto, her neighbour, nodded in agreement. She clucked her tongue, loudly, as if to say, ‘What a shame.’
I did not want small talk. It was as if everyone else in the village knew something that I did not, and it both irked and frightened me.
I did not have to wait long before Sushie appeared at the door and beckoned me in. The dispensaire consisted of an extra room which had been added to a two room dwelling.
The house was unusual for Wadata in that one entered it through a hallway rather than directly into a room. This arrangement meant that a level of privacy, at least, could be maintained by Sushie. Living and working in the same place ensured that she got very little peace, but we never heard her complain.
Instead of leading me to the door at the end of the hall, she drew back a striped curtain and entered her living quarters. ‘Come through here first, please, Haoua,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you before we go through to your mother.’
I had been in this room before. Its dimensions and general appearance were similar to the living area of my parents’ house, but still I was intrigued by its unfamiliarity. There were only a few objects in the room that might not have been found in any other house in Wadata, and yet, as my eyes became accustomed to the muted light, the space both excited and unsettled me. The little chest of drawers that Sushie had painted the colour of newly emerging shoots, the wind-up radio standing on a plastic chair by the side of her raised bed, the framed photograph of her parents with their smooth, silvery hair and ivory white teeth, the large, orange backpack leaning against the wall and the little shelf with its array of expensive toothpaste, water purification tablets, mosquito repellent creams and other potions – all of these things had a mesmerising effect on me.
As I followed Sushie into the room, something brushed against my cheek. I clawed at the air, fearing that it might be a spider or scorpion, or a preying mantis dropping down from the rafters of the house.
Sushie turned in time to see me flinch. ‘It’s a wallet,’ she said, a great grin on her face. She reached up and unhooked the object from a nail, then shook its tassels in my face. ‘The Chief of Tahoua gave it to me last year! I was his guest of honour,’ she continued, rolling her eyes. ‘He gave me some sandals too, but they fell apart long ago.’ She handed it to me and I studied it carefully. With its pouches, heavy decoration and neck string, it was, indeed, a very beautiful thing.
‘It is very fine,’ I said.
‘Hmm. We ate couscous together with some of the other village elders. My Hausa isn’t so good, but I’m fairly sure he wanted to bed me!’
We laughed together. Then her face became serious.
‘Have a seat, Haoua,’ she said.
I did as she instructed, somehow already aware that my life was never going to be the same again.
16
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Haoua,’ Sushie said. ‘Your mother is very sick indeed. She has been for some time now.’ She paused, perhaps for me to say something in response.
Instead, my fingers continued to work the tassels on the Chief of Tahoua’s wallet, all the while my eyes remaining firmly fixed on the dust floor.
‘Haoua?’
Our eyes met for just a moment.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
I nodded. ‘Mademoiselle.’
Sushie sighed. ‘The thing is, I want her to have some more tests carried out…’
‘Tests?’ I said, my voice shaky.
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of tests?’
‘We need to see what’s going on with her blood, her immune system. Find out why she’s losing weight. Why she’s coughing, fainting, vomiting sometimes.’
‘Mother works too hard. Fatima and I can help her. We can work harder. She will be all right,’ I said. I could almost taste the panic, steadily rising within me.
‘No. It’s not just that. She needs special treatment.’
‘Medicine?’ I said, looking at her directly now.
‘Yes. Probably. Medicine that I don’t have here.’ She seemed to read the question on my face correctly. ‘I have to take your mother aw
ay, Haoua.’
‘Where will you take her?’
‘To the hospital in Niamey. She’ll get proper attention there.’
I nodded.
Sushie crossed the room and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’ she asked.
Again I nodded. My head was reeling. ‘Mother will be all right,’ I whispered.
‘God is good. God is great. We will look after our father until Mother is well again.
Adamou and Fatima and…’
Sushie gave me a little shake to interrupt me. ‘Haoua,’ she said. ‘I need to take your sister to Niamey too.’
I looked up at her, through brimming tears which now began to cascade down my cheeks. I thought of my school and of visits from other health workers and serious talks from Monsieur Boubabcar about Health Education. My lip trembled and I shook my head from side to side. For what seemed like an eternity, I could not bring myself to utter the word. Then, ‘AIDS?’ I said.
Sushie squeezed my shoulder. ‘Hopefully not. But it could be. We have to be sure.’ She took a roll of tissue paper from the shelf and tore some off, handing it to me. ‘You must be strong for your mother, Little One,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see her.’
I stood up. Sushie took my hand and made to lead me out of the room.
‘Wait,’ I said.
She turned to face me, still holding my hand. ‘Is it Fatima?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why do you need to take her too? She isn’t sick, is she?’
Sushie shook her head. ‘No. She seems very well, Haoua. But remember what you learned about HIV/AIDS in school: the virus can only be transmitted sexually, or through blood, but a pregnant mother can pass it to an unborn child.’
‘But Fatima is five,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Yes. But your mother may have been HIV positive for some time before Fatima was born.’ She gave my hand a little squeeze. ‘We just have to check.’
‘And me… and Adamou?’
‘No. Neither of you are in danger – because of your age. I have asked your father to have the tests carried out, though, but he seems unwilling to do so.’
‘AIDS is a very bad thing,’ I said, daubing my eyes. ‘It brings great shame on a family.’
There had been many other villagers who had been taken to Niamey for tests and never again set foot in Wadata, but no-one ever admitted that they had died from AIDS.
We all knew about this cursed disease. We had all watched members of our families grow thin and weak and sickly.
But Bunchie used to say that our people had lived and died in this way since the dawn of time. ‘Always working towards the next meal,’ she would tut. ‘Working ourselves to death.’ AIDS, she believed, was nothing but a label that the anasaras had given to illnesses that they themselves could neither understand nor cure. She said that they could do nothing about visitations from evil spirits from the Thin Places, whereas, with the old ways, one could seek the help of a witch doctor and know that he would try to chase them away.
‘Look,’ Sushie said, ‘we don’t know yet. We just have to wait and see. It may be something else.’ She took my face in her hands and smiled at me kindly. ‘Don’t let your mother see that you have been crying.’
But Sushie was a nurse who had seen many such cases before. Of course she knew.
With a heavy heart, I trudged behind Sushie to the treatment room. I was familiar with this room too; it was here that my grandmother had died. The combined odours of disinfectant and medicine and a faint waft of vomit hit me immediately. Memories of Bunchie’s last hours rushed at me also, but I fought them back. A metal grille, fitted over a single small window, caused the room to be bathed in a gloomy half-light. Directly beneath the window, a bowl and jug for washing hands had been placed on a small table. Opposite this stood a battered, grey filing cabinet in which drugs, syringes and medical books were kept safely locked away. Dotted about the walls, happy, smiling faces beamed down from Vision Corps International posters: children drawing water from wells, farmers tending crops, fishermen repairing nets, doctors holding babies. To the right of the doorway, a rattan screen had been placed between two single beds and on one of them lay my ailing mother, covered to the neck with a thin white sheet.
‘Hey, Azara,’ Sushie said, cheerily. ‘Look who’s here to see you.’
My mother was awake and looking just a little stronger than when I had last seen her. She smiled and held out a feeble hand to take mine.
‘How do you feel, Mother?’
‘I will be on my feet again in no time, child,’ she said. ‘Are your brother and sister all right? Have you been seeing to my crops? And our animals?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said. ‘Your crops are fine. The animals are fine. And we are all fine. Fatima is at Amina’s house and Adamou is working with Father. You must not worry about anything.’
‘That’s right, Azara,’ Sushie said, stooping down to remove a basin at the bedside. ‘You must concentrate on getting strong again.’ She draped a cloth over the basin and stood up.
My mother looked Sushie in the eye. ‘Uhuh, Mademoiselle. That is true. There is a great deal of work to be done. Salim will never cope alone.’
‘Really, Mother,’ I said. ‘Everything is fine at home. We will manage perfectly well until you are well enough to return.’
Sushie moved towards the door, but my mother coughed and gestured for her to remain in the room. The thin, clear tube running from a metal stand to the back of her hand swayed as she covered her mouth.
I held a plastic beaker to her lips, to allow her to sip some water.
‘And when can I return to my home, Mademoiselle?’ she said, when she had regained her composure.
Sushie paused by the door, the basin still in her hands.
I caught her eye and realised only then that she had not yet broken the news to my mother.
Setting the basin on top of the filing cabinet, Sushie crossed the room again.
She propped herself against the edge of my mother’s sick-bed and put an arm around me. ‘Azara… I’ve just been telling Haoua that we will need you to go for some tests.’
She paused.
My mother continued to fix her gaze, silently.
‘To see what’s making you so weary, so sick… you understand?’
‘Uhuh.’
Sushie continued. ‘The thing is… I don’t have the facilities here, Azara. Or enough beds. Wadata is full of pregnant women. There are cases of malaria, dysentery and even one of what may turn out to be river blindness. Who knows what this little room will be needed for next. We’ll need to shift you – when you’ve regained your strength a little.’
‘Shift me?’ my mother said, suspicion in her voice.
Sushie nodded.
I stroked my mother’s hand. ‘It will be all right.’
She looked at me, then squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. ‘No.’
‘You will get proper treatment in Niamey,’ Sushie said, still trying to sound cheery, but failing.
My mother opened her eyes. ‘I always knew this day would come,’ she hissed, her face suddenly veiled in anger. ‘I knew that my husband would bring this shame to our door!’
17
The thought of being without my mother filled me with dread. I had pleaded with her – and Sushie – to let me accompany them to Niamey but my pleas fell on deaf ears.
‘But I can help to keep Fatima occupied,’ I argued. ‘She will be less frightened if I am with her.’
‘I have other business to attend to,’ Sushie said, as she helped my mother tie some of her belongings into a bundle for the long journey. ‘I don’t even know when I’ll be coming back to Wadata. And your father will need you here, for sure. I’m going to try to find Abdelkrim too. I’m sure he will help if he can.’ She looked towards my mother who was wheezing heavily. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Azara?’
‘That is right. You will be the woman of the house while I am gone, Li
ttle One.’
Mother’s tired face smiled sadly. ‘Adamou is just a boy. And your father…’ Her words trailed off and were replaced by a series of violent coughs.
With both Mother and Fatima gone there was indeed a great deal more work to be shared out at home. I thought of what my grandmother had said about ‘always working towards the next meal’ and never before did her statement seem more true.
For the first few days we seemed, somehow, to manage quite well. I got up earlier, went to bed later, yet still managed to continue with my school work. My mother had been right about Adamou though: he needed to be reminded to carry out his chores constantly. At first my father encouraged and praised my brother.
Occasionally he would even comment on the meal I had prepared. But after a week or so had passed, he appeared to lose interest and spent less and less time in and around our compound.
I had just finished clearing away our utensils one morning and was about to get myself ready for school when I heard a voice at the door.
‘Hey there!’ It was a woman’s voice, shrill and impatient and only vaguely familiar to me.
I went to the door to find Aunt Alassane standing there, dressed in a flamboyant green and yellow pagne and blue sunglasses.
‘Listen… girl…’
‘It’s Haoua,’ I said.
‘That’s right. Haoua…’ She nodded vigorously in such a way that I knew my name was of little concern to her at that particular time. ‘Anyway. Your father sent me over to tell you that you must help your brother tend to the livestock and crops today. He’s busy.’
I was a little confused. I had not seen my father that morning but had presumed that he had come in late the previous evening and had left his bed before either Adamou or I had risen. He had been doing this increasingly, even before my mother had been taken to Niamey.
‘I have school,’ I said.
‘You’ll have to miss it,’ Alassane said, turning to spit out some kola nut juice.
Harmattan Page 10
