Harmattan

by Weston, Gavin

  As I stood with my back to the river, I realised that I was trembling slightly.

  Moussa had continued towards the riverbank and now called out, ‘Come on!

  Let’s find this Touareg.’

  I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and turned to follow him.

  31

  The dispute over ownership of the shoes troubled me, without a doubt, but soon it retreated into the deepest recesses of my mind. Ahead of me, Moussa was making straight for a clearing on the riverbank, to the right of where we usually washed our clothes and bedding. We heard the animal before we saw it: the strange, strangled lament of a camel at odds with its master.

  Mahamadou Alpha was the owner of two camels; at least two that I knew of.

  One of these beasts, a good-natured, white female with lashes more beautiful than those belonging to any woman, was now standing, heavy laden and hobbled and waiting patiently for its master, while it chewed at the wispy branches of a locust bean tree near the riverbank. The other, a larger, younger, brown male, which had sprawled itself on the riverbank, was obviously not about to comply so readily.

  Monsieur Mahamadou had his back to us as we approached him. I had rarely heard him speak when I had visited the Kantaos and, any time he did, it was in a most genteel manner. Now, seeing this tall, light-skinned, elegant man furiously prodding the male camel in the ribs with a short, straight stick and hearing the barrage of abuse which he hurled at the creature, I could scarcely believe that it was the same person.

  ‘You stinking bastard!’ he screamed, as the animal attempted to yank its head away from Monsieur Mahamadou’s grip. ‘Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing swine!’As if answering, the animal shook its head again and uttered another furious bellow. Monsieur Mahamadou jabbed the stick into its ribs once again but the creature’s legs remained stubbornly folded beneath its bulk.

  ‘Do you need some help there, brother?’ Moussa called out over the awful noise. Monsieur Mahamadou looked over his shoulder. ‘Just stay back there!’ he called. ‘I know how to get this son-of-a-devil on to its feet!’ He grabbed the animal’s lower lip with one hand and then, spinning the stick swiftly and skilfully in the other, he dropped a loop of cord attached to the end of the stick over the creature’s muzzle. ‘Stay well back!’ Monsieur Mahamadou advised again.

  It had not occurred to me to do anything else.

  Monsieur Mahamadou then proceeded to twist the end of the stick so that the cord tightened quickly on the camel’s rubbery flesh. The animal was indignant and roared once again. Monsieur Mahamadou brought the flat of his hand hard against the animal’s neck, at the same time pulling roughly on the corded stick so that the camel’s head was forced upwards and sideways in a most unnatural manner. At the same time, he kicked at the animal’s torso, jabbing its ribs with his sandaled foot.

  ‘Get up, you son-of-a…’

  At last the poor creature struggled to its feet, all the while moaning like something possessed by bad spirits. Monsieur Mahamadou continued to clutch the stick. He glanced over his shoulder towards us, a victorious look on his face. Yanking at the stick once more, he cuffed the creature around the ears before releasing it from the noose. This was a mistake. I had witnessed ill-tempered animals before, many times, but never anything like what happened next.

  Monsieur Mahamadou turned to face us, a great, broad smile on his face. ‘Got to show these beasts who’s boss,’ he said.

  ‘Walayi! For sure!’ Moussa said.

  But the creature was obviously far from satisfied with the outcome of the situation; it shook itself violently and then quickly deposited a huge, steaming lump of faeces in the dust.

  Now, with his back to the animal and holding on to it only with the rope attached to its nose ring, Monsieur Mahamadou did not foresee the camel’s next actions: it had been angry before; now it went berserk. Uttering another of its demonic roars, it suddenly began to buck and rear, twisting and kicking in all directions. I had never seen a camel move so fast before. Too fast for Monsieur Mahamadou, who was dragged towards the river, slithering through mud and reeds, cursing wildly all the time until he managed finally to slip the noose back over the creature’s muzzle.

  Moussa ran towards Monsieur Mahamadou. ‘How can I help?’ he called.

  Monsieur Mahamadou was panting heavily. The camel wheezed too and white froth dripping from the corners of its rough lips, its ribcage heaved and its spirit seemed broken – for now at least.

  ‘Hold this for me for a moment, please,’ Monsieur Mahamadou said, nodding towards the stick and giving the noose another turn. ‘I just need to catch my breath.’

  ‘ Walayi!’ Moussa took it with little enthusiasm. ‘Please God it won’t start again, will it?’Monsieur Mahamadou puffed and shook his head. ‘He’s young. Foolish. Goes off like that every once in a while. But he should be all right now.’ He looked at me and shrugged. ‘He’d better be, or I’ll serve him to the dogs!’

  I smiled, nervously. I had met Monsieur Mahamadou on several occasions, and had always liked him, but seeing him beating this animal had unsettled me. Suddenly it struck me that I was about to set off on the first stage of a long journey with two men whom I barely knew.

  With the big male calmed, it did not take long for Monsieur Mahamadou to add my bundle and water gourd to the camel’s burden. I had not ridden a camel before and was a little apprehensive about it. Seeing the male at his worst had not made me feel any more at ease about the prospect, but Monsieur Mahamadou quickly reassured me.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘You won’t have to ride alone.’

  Moussa was tying his own bundle on to the female. He was quick to speak.

  ‘No, indeed. You can ride up in front of me.’

  I was not sure whether Monsieur Mahamadou had read my face or had another reason for not complying with cousin Moussa’s idea, but – despite the fact that I had witnessed the ill temper of both he and his camel – I was relieved when he took me by the arm. ‘No,’ he said. ‘My female has only a blanket on which to sit, whereas look at the fine three-pronged saddle we shall sit upon!’

  As if sensing that it really was now time to set off, both creatures dropped down obediently when their master bid them. Lead rope in hand, Monsieur Mahamadou guided Moussa safely onto the female before straddling the big male and leaning over to haul me up on to the beast’s back too. I was struck immediately by the powerful odour of the animal’s coarse coat. Monsieur Mahamadou tapped his stick against the camel’s neck and clicked his tongue in encouragement. Then, with a great lurch and a flurry of dust and hair, we were on our way.

  32

  The journey to the camion post was to take the best part of the day. Monsieur Mahamadou’s camels settled quickly into a steady, sure-footed stride and, perched between Monsieur Mahamadou’s thighs, high above the scorching sands I soon got used both to the unfamiliar odours of man and beast and the odd, rhythmic swaying. At times I even found myself drifting off into a light sleep, always aware of the animal’s movement and the closeness of this relative stranger, but comfortable enough, safe enough, to allow myself to doze. And, when I took the trouble to look around at the arid expanse, I realised that this was a wonderful way to see my beautiful country.

  Monsieur Mahamadou was an extremely devout man and so it was necessary for us to make frequent stops to allow him to pray. The first few times the camels were drawn to a halt and hobbled, cousin Moussa followed Monsieur Mahamadou away from me and the animals and dropped down onto his knees in prayer beside Monsieur Mahamadou. I knew I was expected to stay away from the men during these interruptions in our journey, and that if I wanted to pray I would have to do so while making myself useful. And so, while I repeated lines from the Koran and asked God to protect my mother, I busied myself unwrapping tea, mint leaves and plastic tumblers from our bundles and scrambling around for anything flammable that could be added to the small supply of firewood that we had brought with us.

  I soon r
ealised that Moussa was frustrated by the constant stopping and starting; after a while, he stopped going through the motions and, instead, sat silently a few metres away from the animals – smoking and spitting and watching me.

  I wished that he would join Monsieur Mahamadou. I was torn between the desire to keep my back to him and the necessity to show him the respect due to an elder. As I went about my business, it seemed like I could feel his eyes boring into me. On one occasion I was distracted from preparing our refreshment by the sound of splashing. I looked up to see Moussa urinating, not far from where I was kneeling. He had been squatting, in the acceptable fashion, with his jel aba and thighs affording him some privacy, but when he caught my eye, he stood up, quickly, and shook himself towards me. I looked away and immediately made myself busy. I pretended not to have noticed, but Moussa’s cackle made me shiver. I was sure that Monsieur Mahamadou would not have approved of this behaviour, but, of course, I did not mention the incident to him.

  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 t
he 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.

  33

  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.