My father looked agitated. ‘Your mother can only read the few words that you taught her, child. It is pointless to waste your time on such things – especially when there is so much to do here!’
It was true. The toil was never-ending. And yet he seemed to spend more and more time playing Tiddas and dominoes with his friends and less time helping us.
‘This will not take long, Father. I’m just letting her know that we are all fine.
Someone will read it out to her in the hospital – one of the doctors, perhaps.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it. If you’d ever seen these big hospitals you’d know that the doctors and nurses have no time for such things. They are very busy places.’
‘You have seen them, Father?’
‘I have seen them,’ he said, looking to the ground. ‘And I have no desire to see them again.’
I took a deep breath. There would never be a better moment. ‘Father,’ I said, gently, reaching out and touching his sleeve, ‘Mother needs you.’
He said nothing, but closed his eyes tightly.
‘You could take my letter to her…’
He opened his eyes again. They were glazed with what I thought for a moment might be tears. He kneaded them with the tips of his fingers. ‘This dust gets everywhere!’ he said. Then, pursing his lips, he nodded. ‘I will go to her. As it happens, I have to discuss some important matters with your mother – and I have other business to attend to in Niamey.’
I was elated. I hugged him tightly around his middle, my tears soaking into his jel aba. ‘Thank you, Father, thank you!’
He patted my back and then, taking my shoulders in his hands, he moved me gently back so that he could see my face. There was, somehow, a distant look in his eyes, but he was smiling. ‘Finish your letter, Little One,’ he said. ‘But, Haoua…’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Don’t write down any of that business about your teacher, please. We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?’
‘No, Father.’
23
Haoua Boureima
Wadata
Tera Area
Republic of Niger
14th February, 1999
Azara Boureima
Salle Quatre
National Hospital of Niamey
Republic of Niger
Dear Mother,
This is your daughter Haoua writing. I am so pleased to know that Father is seeing you. He has been very busy but Adamou and Fatima and I have been helping with the work here as much as we can. Fatima has told me all about your hospital and the doctors and nurses there and I hope that one of them will read my letter out to you.
While Fatima was away, Adamou and I fixed the floor for you and then we slept outside. Father says we did a fine job. We are looking after your crops too, so do not worry. Our animals are fine also.
Mademoiselle Sushie gave me the little radio which Abdelkrim bought for me and I listen to it at night and hear about things happening where you are.
And I hear about things happening in other countries too and I love it. My friends in Ireland are going to send me some proper shoes! I am so happy.
Monsieur Boubacar and Monsieur Houeto are very well, and so is Miriam and all of her family. They all pray for you, Mother, and so do I. May God bless you.
Affectionately your daughter,
Haoua
***
My father was away for ten whole days and when he returned to Wadata he did not do so alone.
Fatima, Miriam and myself were carrying water back from the river when we spied the two figures walking towards the village from the north.
‘It’s him! It’s Father!’ Fatima shouted.
Keen to hear news of our mother, we set our pails and jars down and hurried to meet him.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I called to Miriam, as the dust flew from my heels.
‘Toh. Are you going to watch television?’ she called after me.
‘Yes.’
‘Toh.’
Fatima was ahead of me, but she stopped short, a few metres before the two men. I stopped beside her and put my hand on her shoulder.
‘Father,’ I said.
‘My daughters.’
‘How is Mother?’ Fatima said.
Father stepped forward and put his bundle on the ground. Then he stroked our heads and said, ‘Have you forgotten your manners?’ He turned to indicate his companion – a short, stocky man with yellow eyes. ‘This is my cousin Moussa.’
‘Mademoiselles, ça va? Mate ni go?’ Moussa said, smiling through broken teeth. ‘Iri ma wichira bani,’ we said together.
‘My daughters – Haoua and Fatima,’ Father said, placing his hand on our shoulders as he said our names.
‘Very beautiful. Very beautiful young ladies,’ Moussa said, smiling his strange smile again and fixing his gaze on me. ‘You’ve grown into a fine young woman.’
I could not recall ever seeing this man before.
‘You were about this little one’s age when I saw you last,’ he said, pointing at Fatima. I felt awkward and shy and, somehow, unsettled. Perhaps it was Moussa’s teeth or his sickly, darting eyes. I don’t know.
Father was standing behind us now, so I turned to face him. ‘You saw Mother, Father?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will Mother come home?’ Fatima demanded.
He did not answer. Instead, he turned and walked towards the village.
Moussa picked up my father’s bundle and walked towards us. ‘Your poor father is very anxious about your mother, girls. She is a very sick woman. You must look after your father.’ He handed Father’s bundle to Fatima and his own to me. Then he followed Father.
‘But, Monsieur,’ I called. ‘My sister and I are carrying water to the house.’
‘Oui, oui!’ he shouted. ‘You can come back for it.’
‘Walayi!’ I said, and both Fatima and I sucked our teeth in disgust.
It had been bad enough having to deal with Aunt Alassane’s unannounced visits and her bullying ways while my father had been in Niamey, but with Moussa staying in our home things quickly became worse. It was like having to look after a very young child. He did nothing to help around the compound and fully expected to be waited on throughout the day, no matter how busy anyone else might be. To make matters even worse, none of us had any idea how long he planned to stay in Wadata – nor did we dare raise the matter with our father, who seemed to become more like his selfish cousin each day. We knew our place and what was expected of us, and so had no choice but continue to work the ground, carry water, tend the crops and our animals, wash clothes, cook and clean.
I was missing school badly. I missed the classroom and my lessons with Monsieur Boubacar, but I also missed my friends. Few of them visited our compound any more and only Miriam kept me informed about what my classmates were doing in school. In the evenings, as we walked to the river to draw water or wash clothing, she would tell me what she had learned that day, or try to remember the story which Monsieur Boubacar had read to the class. In this way I tried to keep up.
At the river, Souley and her cronies would taunt me and throw handfuls of black mud to try to dirty my clothes, but most of the time I was too tired to care or to fight back.
Most evenings I was too exhausted to think about television at Monsieur Letouye’s compound – or, when I did, Moussa or my father would suddenly demand some more tea or an article of clothing repaired, and before I knew it, it would be too late. Worst of all, Moussa had borrowed my radio and Father had told me that I must remain silent about the matter when I had complained to him.
We had been told that Moussa was an important businessman in the city, but I had quickly grown to dislike him, and Adamou and Fatima were not happy with our situation either.
‘That man is a bastard!’ Adamou declared one night, as we tried to sleep, while, outside, the sound of Moussa’s high-pitched laughter and filthy jokes echoed around our compound.
Most
nights, he and my father would disappear into the darkness and would not return again until the following morning. It was only too apparent that they made regular visits to the Big House, but the three of us had grown to prefer to be without Father rather than with both he and Moussa.
‘They’ll hear you!’ I whispered to Adamou, as Fatima tossed and turned and groaned again in the darkness of the room.
‘I don’t care. I’ve had enough of him. What’s he doing here anyway?’
‘He thinks he’s helping Father.’
‘Huh!’
The laughter outside subsided and there was silence for a brief while. Then I heard Moussa’s voice again.
‘Your children have respect for you, Salim. That is good.’
My father grunted. ‘You think so?’
‘The boy is strong-minded, though – like his brother,’ Moussa continued.
‘Yes. But not so hot-headed, I think.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Let’s hope so, anyway,’ my father said.
‘Indeed.’
Suddenly, my brother kicked furiously at his bedding and sat upright.
‘Walayi!’ he said, the word hissing through his teeth like the whisper of an angry snake, ‘One of these days I’ll show him who’s hot-headed!’
A short while later, we heard the sound of women’s voices, shrieking and singing, followed by the clinking of bottles.
‘Saaaliiiiim!’ one of the voices called out from the compound entrance.
I recognised it as Aunt Alassane’s immediately.
‘What are you two lovely creatures doing dropping by at this unearthly hour?’
Moussa said, loudly.
‘My sister and I came to see the cloth that your good-for-nothing cousin has been promising to show me,’ Alassane replied.
I could tell that she had been drinking.
‘And we brought cold beers,’ the second woman said, chinking bottles together.
‘Mind who you’re calling good-for-nothing!’ my father said. ‘Didn’t I fix your roof? And that’s not all I’m good for!’
More laughter.
‘Well,’ Alassane said, ‘where is this wonderful cloth then? Every night you promise to show it to us, and every night you appear at my house empty-handed.
What’s wrong? Is it so cheap that you’re afraid to let us see?’
‘Yes,’ her sister leered, ‘show us what you’ve got, Monsieur Boureima!’
Adamou sat up again. ‘Which one is that?’ he whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Hamidou? No, Flo, perhaps. Who cares? They’re all witches.’
‘They’ve brought alcohol here!’
‘Father won’t touch it. Moussa’s already consumed a lot of sorghum beer, but Father declined.’
‘Yes, but now he’ll tolerate it in his home.’
‘Because of them,’ I replied. ‘It’s their fault.’
‘It’s not what he taught us.’
‘No.’
‘It’s not our way!’
‘No.’
‘And it’s not what Mother would want. None of this is!’
‘No.’
‘Father’s a hypocrite!’ he said, slapping the ground, hard.
‘Be quiet, Adamou,’ I said. ‘Even if you don’t get us into trouble, you’ll wake Fatima again!’
He kicked at his blanket and then lay back down.
‘You know, Adamou,’ I whispered, some time later, ‘Abdelkrim drinks alcohol sometimes. I saw the bottle.’
But Adamou did not say anything.
The laughter continued outside.
‘Where’s the lovely Flo?’ Moussa called out.
‘She’s busy.’
‘Busy, eh?’
They cackled like hens.
Alassane and Hamidou began a tuneless chant. ‘Get the cloth! Get the cloth!’
‘Get the damn cloth, Salim,’ Moussa said.
‘Yes, Salim. Monsieur Moussa wants to see this wonderful cloth too, of course!’ Alassane said.
‘I’m getting it! I’m getting it!’ I heard my father say. ‘I told you I’d get it and I’m getting it!’ He made a curious noise – like a wild animal yawning – and then added, ‘You won’t be able to see it properly in the firelight anyway!’ Then the faint light of a kerosene lantern swept across the curtain which divided our two rooms, and I heard him enter the living room. ‘Where is it? Where did I leave it?’ he muttered, as he rummaged around noisily.
I knew what he was looking for. He had returned from Niamey with a large bolt of fabric, more beautiful even than anything I had ever seen Monsieur Letouye display at his shop. He had left it in the corner of the room in a big, black, plastic sack and, when he was out one day, I had sneaked a look inside. The fabric had a fine pattern of pink and white flowers, with pretty wisps of green foliage trailing across the entire design. There was enough material in the bag to dress a whole family – in both pagnes and head wraps.
It must have been very expensive. I could not imagine how Father had paid for it.
I knew what it was for and it filled my heart with dread.
As the light disappeared from view, Adamou sat upright again. ‘So,’ he said, ‘it is true. He is going to marry that witch!'
I lay awake for hours that night, listening to the jokes and laughter of my father and his friends and worrying about my poor mother. I tried not to picture her lying frail and ill and lonely in a hospital in the city. Instead, I recalled memories of her singing as she toiled, smiling as she watched television at Monsieur Letouye’s, dancing at the end of Ramadan. It was not easy. The images in my head altered themselves – like in a dream – and each time I saw my mother looking well and strong, my mind took her face and twisted it, and left it with an expression of pain and weariness. Perhaps, at times, I was dreaming, but in order to dream one must sleep, and if this was sleep, then it was a sleep which offered no rest.
I tried to imagine what the shoes that Katie and Hope had promised to send me would be like, but I could not concentrate on such things. And it was then that I cried.
Gasping great lungfuls of air, in an attempt to stifle my sobs, I shook uncontrollably.
In truth I wanted to scream at my father. There were other Wadata women whose husbands had taken more than one wife, but none of those women were lying in a hospital in Niamey, and none of them were my mother. I was angry with my father, and had he not been outside that night, I think I might have walked into the desert and howled at the sky.
Instead, I lay there praying that God would save my mother and bring her back to Wadata, and tried to ignore the demons inside my head that told me this was never going to happen.
Perhaps I was angry with God too.
Sleep was finally beginning to embrace me when an angry exchange of words outside jolted me to my senses. Aunt Alassane’s voice was loudest of all.
‘No, Salim! You cannot!’ she screeched.
‘Oh, take it easy on my cousin, woman!’ Moussa said. ‘Not five minutes ago you were all over him!’
‘You keep out of it, little fellow! Don’t tell me what to do! You’re nothing but a leech, anyway!’
‘Alassane!’ my father said. ‘Moussa is my guest. All I said is that you should stay here with us…’
‘And why would I want to stay in your filthy little hut when I have a perfectly good house of my own?’
‘With a perfectly good roof…’ Moussa added.
‘And no brats!’ Hamidou said.
There was the sound of a bottle breaking.
‘You pig!’
‘I’ve had enough of you people!’ Moussa said. ‘If I’d wanted trouble with women I could have stayed at home!’
‘Well,’ Alassane said, ‘why don’t you slither off back to the city – like the little snake that you are?’
‘Calm down,’ my father said. ‘You’re all drunk!’ He spat, loudly, and then continued, ‘As I said, we’ll come back with you then.’
I heard Alassan
e suck her teeth. ‘And – as I said – you can’t!’
‘Walayi! You’re so argumentative tonight! Why don’t you just sit down again and relax?’‘No, Salim. I mean it. You’ve got litle enough to offer me–and I’m not the kind of lady who’s used to very little…’
‘Lady?’
‘Shut your face, Moussa!’ Hamidou said.
More breaking glass. Then Alassane‘s voice again. ‘Sort it out or I’m not interested, Salim. I mean it!’
There was a flurry of activity, followed by the sound of muffled voices. Then, finally, silence.
24
We all needed new clothing, really, but I knew that that was not about to happen – especially when Father had just spent everything he had on cloth for his betrothal.
Sometimes Sushie or Richard brought bundles of garments back from the aid agency depot for distribution from the dispensaire but, as Sushie had said, with things as they were in the capital, there were fewer trips being made now. So, when it was quiet one afternoon (Father, Moussa and Adamou had gone off to pray and Fatima was playing with Narcisse and Amina) I sat down on my mat and began to repair Father’s frayed pants and a torn Mickey Mouse tee shirt, which had first been worn by Adamou and then by me. The garment was thin and faded but the tear under the arm was small. I decided that Fatima might as well get some wear out of it.
I had not seen a great deal of Sushie for quite some time. My father had forbidden her to come to our compound ever since he had quarrelled with her, so I only saw her occasionally at the market and sometimes waved at her vehicle, as I made my way back from the river and she made her way to Goteye. I rarely got to speak to her.
This arrangement suited me, in one respect: each time I caught a glimpse of her I feared that she might be the bearer of bad news – if not about my mother, then possibly concerning my undoubtedly precarious place on the VCI sponsorship programme.
These thoughts were racing through my mind as I stitched when I suddenly realised that someone was addressing me.
‘Anyone in there?’ It was her.
Harmattan Page 13
