Monsieur Nourradin had shuffled back over to his trailer and now returned, slapping a copy of Le Sahel on the table in front of us. He tapped the lesser of two headlines with a stumpy finger. ‘Read this,’ he said, as another customer sat down further along my bench.
Moussa looked even more irritated now and very uncomfortable. He pushed the paper towards me. ‘You read it, girl,’ he said. ‘I’m smoking.’
As I scanned the front page, I could not help but enjoy his discomfort. I picked up the paper and considered it carefully. Printed in French. I would struggle, but I would manage. I had seen newspapers before, but not often. Occasionally Monsieur Boubacar would have produced cuttings from Le Sahel or Le Républicain and instructed us to translate them into Djerma in class, and Mademoiselle Sushie sometimes had copies of a publication called Herald Tribune brought back from the capital, but despite recognising some English words from Katie and Hope’s letters, I was unable to read these properly.
‘ Le Sahel. Quotidien Nigerien D’information. Jeudi Avril le huitieme, 1999,’ I read aloud. Cousin Moussa flicked the stub of his cigarette into the air and shook his head.
‘Just read the article, you stupid girl!’ he said. ‘You’re not in school now!’
I ignored his comment. ‘ Mayor Tells Sorcerors to Banish Evil Spirits,’ I continued, my finger following the bold, black headline. ‘ The Mayor of Niamey has ordered qualified sorcerors to chase away evil spirits reported to be making terrifying appearances at night. Nightlife lovers in Niamey have repeatedly complained of a woman who appears from nowhere, curses and threatens them before vanishing as if she had evaporated. Courting couples and women in skimpy, Western style outfits have been particular targets for the evil spirits.
“Given the rumour, which has been circulating for at least three weeks now, of strange apparitions stalking people, notably young women, I have ordered al the elderly of Niamey to resort to the traditional sacrifices, with qualified people, to stop this,” Mayor Jules N’Dour said yesterday. “People should be reassured: if there are any evil spirits, they will be dealt with,” the mayor told radio station R and M.’
‘What rubbish!’ Moussa said.
Monsieur Nourradin was chuckling to himself again. ‘Walayi! It’s true, Monsieur. Just down there, behind the Sonara Building two nights ago, I was pedalling home with the tools of my trade and I witnessed just such an incident!’
‘Uhuh.’
‘On your children’s lives!’
‘I don’t have children!’ Moussa said, sourly, casting a look towards me.
‘Nevertheless,’ Monsieur Nourradin continued, ‘I saw a fellow in the bushes, with his jellaba up around his armpits, his great naked backside busily pumping away at some young floozy when, all of a sudden – as God is my witness – this very apparition appeared right in front of me on the road!’
‘What god is that, Monsieur Nourradin?’ Moussa said.
‘ Walayi!’ I said. ‘What happened, Monsieur?’
‘Well,’ the old man continued, with a glint in his eye, ‘she gave me a great wink and then turned, took a run at the fellow and kicked him right up his rump.
There was such a cloud of dust churned up in that young couple’s commotion that they all just seemed to evaporate!’
Moussa heaved a sigh and spat over his shoulder.
Monsieur Nourradin’s sides were shaking as he turned to attend to his latest customer, who had been tugging at his skullcap, sucking his teeth and beckoning him impatiently.
‘Can it be true?’ I said, addressing my cousin.
‘It’s nonsense. He’s a ridiculous old fool. Almost as ridiculous as that story.’
He swung his leg over the bench and stood up, pocketed his belongings and shouted over to Monsieur Nourradin. ‘The girl’s brother will settle this with you,’ he said, waving his hand over the table.
Monsieur Nourradin threw another piece of wood on to his fire and then approached my cousin. ‘Monsieur?’
‘My cousin will pay you, I say. He’ll be along shortly.’
Monsieur Nourradin looked confused. ‘It’s three hundred CFA, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know!’ Moussa snapped. ‘My cousin will be along shortly.’
Monsieur Nourradin said nothing, but looked from Moussa to his table and back again.
‘Abdelkrim Boureima will give you the three hundred, old man. All right?’
Monsieur Nourradin shook his head, his dusty brow knotting into a serious frown for the first time since I had met him. ‘You are leaving the young lady here, Monsieur?’
‘Eh bien oui! Now you have it!’ Moussa said, like he was talking to a simpleton.
I was no happier about the prospect of being abandoned than Monsieur Nourradin was of not being paid.
‘It’s three hundred,’ the old man said, firmly. He straightened his back a little, rearranged his features and held out his good hand. ‘Three… hundred… CFA, Monsieur!’ he said, firmly, like he was issuing a military command.
Moussa stared down at him for a moment, then swore and thrust his hand into a pocket. He poked at a handful of coins; pushed some into Monsieur Nourradin’s.
‘There’s two!’ he snapped, then jabbed a thumb towards me. ‘Like I say, her brother will be along shortly!’ With this, he turned on his heel and, without a further word, stormed off down the hill towards the Boulevard de la Liberte.
I was not surprised by my cousin’s lack of manners. And, indeed, I was relieved to see him leaving, due to his behaviour. Nevertheless, as the bustle of the market place continued all around me, I suddenly felt quite small and alone. Had it not been for the fact that I was already anxious about my mother, I might also have felt frightened.
Monsieur Nourradin cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, through the crowd, ‘Thank you, Monsieur. And don’t worry about the girl’s tea: it’s on the house…’
He turned to face me and shrugged, the warmth returning to his face as suddenly as it had disappeared. ‘He puts on a good act, but I think he’s not such a nice fellow, that one,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Thank you for the tea, Monsieur. You are very kind.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘And you may wait here as long as you need to. I’m quite sure your brother will be here in no time.’
It can’t have been very long before Abdelkrim did indeed turn up, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I was so overjoyed to see him that I wept.
I spied him as he pulled up on a little grey motorcycle on the road below, and, almost forgetting my own manners, had taken off down the hill to greet him before turning to address Monsieur Nourradin. ‘My brother is here, Monsieur!’ I called, pointing to the road. ‘I will come back.’
Monsieur Nourradin nodded.
Abdelkrim had dismounted and was making the motorcycle secure in the middle of a jumble of bicycles by the time I reached him. He pocketed his sunglasses, stood up and brushed the dust off his smart uniform, then rolled up his beret and pushed it under one of his epaulettes. ‘Abdel! Abdel!’ I called, as I stumbled down the hill. A great smile broke across his handsome face and he bent down and opened his arms to catch me as I threw myself at him.
‘Hey, Little One!’ he said, lifting me off my feet for a moment. ‘ Foyaney.
Look at you!’
‘You have a motorcycle!’ I said, running my hand over the cushioned saddle of the dusty grey machine. ‘Fatima said she’d ridden on it with you!’
‘It’s Bouleb’s. Recently I’ve had to borrow it often. It’s meant that I can travel between the barracks and the hospital a lot more easily. Bouleb has been very good to me.’ ‘How is Mother?’ I asked, without further ado.
‘You’ll see her soon,’ Abdelkrim said, then quickly steered the conversation towards the topic of our cousin.
I told him all about my morning with Jacob and Moussa and then, taking my brother by the hand, began leading him back up to Monsieur Nourradin’s tea table.
Abdelkrim was muttering a
s we trudged up the hill. ‘Leaving you here alone!’ he said. ‘That Moussa is a no-good swine!’
‘Monsieur Nourradin was very nice to me,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, Abdel.’ Monsieur Nourradin was rinsing out some glasses in a pail of greasy grey water as we approached his pitch. When he saw us coming he stood to attention and saluted Abdelkrim.
‘This is my brother Abdelkrim, Monsieur,’ I said. ‘Abdelkrim, this is Monsieur Nourradin.’
‘An honour, young sir,’ he said. ‘I served four years as a sergeant under Général Navarre.’
‘At ease, Monsieur,’ my brother said, giving him a half-hearted salute. ‘Not only do you outrank me, but you served a different master.’
For a moment I was concerned that Monsieur Nourradin might think rudeness a trait of my family, but when I looked up I saw that both men were smiling, as if this was not, in fact, their first introduction.
‘Indeed, young sir,’ Monsieur Nourradin said with a nod, his lips puckered into a thoughtful twist. ‘You serve that buffoon, Mainassara, who’s going to cause our nation to boil over with despair!’
‘A Nigerien buffoon, at least – whereas you served a bunch of imperialist bastards who raped and pillaged their way to power!’ Abdelkrim said.
There was a brief silence, then both men laughed as if, having mentioned their differences, they had resolved them.
Monsieur Nourradin picked up some glasses and began shuffling towards his kettle. ‘You’ll have some tea?’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Thank you, but no, Monsieur.’
‘Don’t worry about the cost, young sir,’ Monsieur Nourradin said, winking at me. ‘It’s no secret that our great leader, in his infinite wisdom, has frozen salaries all over the country.’ He tapped the newspaper that I had read from earlier and was still lying on the table. Monsieur Tandja’s MNSD Party Calls for Restoration of Electoral Commission, the principal headline announced. ‘Your president can’t be sleeping soundly these nights! I hear there’s been another mutiny in Diffa!’
Abdelkrim shrugged. ‘We’ll have to discuss the matter another time I’m afraid, my friend. We must go. Thank you for taking care of my sister, Monsieur.’ He saluted again and turned towards me, his face suddenly serious. ‘We have to get going, Haoua.’ His voice sounded shaky. ‘I was with Mother last night when Moussa phoned the hospital, and I promised her that I would bring you to her as soon as I could.’‘She is all right, then?’
‘She is far from all right, Little One,’ he said, taking my hand as we began to descend towards the road.
‘God go with you!’ Monsieur Nourradin called, holding a ragged cloth up in his ragged hand.
‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I called back through the throng. ‘ Au revoir. Merci.
Kala a tonton.’ My head was reeling by the time we reached Sergeant Bouleb’s motorcycle.
35
I had never ridden on a motorcycle before, but as we sped away from the Grand Marché, I clung tightly to my brother’s waist and gave little thought to the blur of bitumen below us. With my eyes squeezed tight and my cheek pressed against Abdelkrim’s back, I pictured my mother’s face and prayed that she would grow strong again. I took comfort from the closeness of my brother and, by the time the motorcycle came to a halt, I was in a state somewhere between trance and sleep.
‘Are we at the hospital?’ I called, over the dying revs of the machine.
‘No.’
‘Then why have we stopped?’
Abdelkrim pointed towards the river. ‘Another student protest,’ he said. ‘They are blocking the bridge again. That’s the second time this week!’
‘Why are they blocking the bridge?’ I said.
‘Like many of us, they are angry that they have not been paid their allowances.’
‘Won’t they let us through if we tell them we’re on our way to the hospital?’
He sighed. ‘I’m in uniform, Haoua. They’re more likely to tear me limb from limb! And it’s not safe for you.’
‘But you haven’t been paid either, Abdel!’ I reminded him.
‘I doubt if they’d stop to check,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s also crawling with gendarmes and soldiers down there. If I didn’t get mauled by the protesters, I’d most likely get seconded into duty. Sergeant Bouleb said he’d watch my back for a couple of hours, but in truth I’m AWOL, so I can’t afford to be explaining myself to some irate captain. It could get ugly down there. Angry students, trigger-happy militia. That bridge has hosted a blood bath before today!’
‘What is AWOL?’ I said.
‘It means I don’t have an official pass. We’ll just have to cross further up.’
As we sped away from Pont Kennedy, a convoy of military vehicles thundered past us, heading for the river.
36
April is the hottest time of the year in my country. Even the rush of the motorcycle did little to cool me; the air baked breathless by a fierce midday sun. The machine dipped and leaned and zigzagged and I clung to Abdelkrim as we sped along Niamey’s grand, wide roads; the urgent, beseeching words of my prayers trailing behind us like so much smoke. I took comfort in the sight of the majestic towers and minarets of the Grande Mosquée as they rose before us, strangely familiar to me, even though I had only ever seen a picture of the magnificent building in one of Monsieur Boubacar’s reference books. The engine screamed below us as we charged past taxis, cars and trucks, and still this wonderful, sacred giant seemed to linger to our left, floating on its vast – now deserted – forecourt of diligently trodden dust and sand. I tried to imagine its swarming congregation, flocking here to worship the Almighty God above. There and then, I vowed to witness such a spectacle. Releasing my grip on my brother’s waist, I clutched behind my rump at the motorcycle’s seat, leaned back and peered upwards into the empty, parched sky, the breeze snapping the tails of my head wrap about my cheeks and eyes like angry serpents.
‘Merciful God,’ I said, ‘watch over my mother!’ I felt Abdelkrim’s hand, searching, questioning my shift in weight.
‘What are you doing, Haoua?’ he shouted over the whine of the engine.
‘Nothing.’ I wrapped my arms around his waist again, closed my eyes and waited.
Somehow I had expected l’Hopital Nationale de Niamey to be grander: a building to rival the Grande Mosquée, or at the very least a large, clean, white structure – like Citibank or Sonara.
Instead, its exterior was yellow, like bad teeth, and shrouded in a mantle of hopelessness and dread. Despair seemed to seep from these very walls as we approached and a sickly stench, perhaps of fear masked with disinfectant, reached my nostrils even before I had dismounted.
Small groups of bewildered looking citizens loitered around on the hospital steps and veranda. A queue of people – mostly pregnant women and small children, some with orange hair and distended bellies – meandered into the foyer and through a set of scuffed double doors.
A tatty white pick-up truck with a canvas top and a faded blue cross marked on each of its doors had been parked near the entrance. An orange-roofed taxi pulled into the shade of the building, just ahead of where Abdelkrim had parked the motorcycle. The driver was shouting excitedly in Hausa but I could not make out exactly what he was saying. As we approached the vehicle, I saw him lean across his seat to spring open the rear door. Immediately, a pair of dust-caked feet spilled out towards us and began kicking and thrashing about wildly. The driver craned his neck towards the opening and called out in French as we came alongside his taxi.
‘Can you help me with this fellow, brother?
Abdelkrim leaned into the car. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘A teacher over at La Poudriere flagged me down and asked me to bring him here,’ the driver said. ‘Apparently he collapsed during class.’
I squeezed up beside Abdelkrim and was immediately gripped both by pity and disgust as I gazed at the boy on the back seat. He looked a little younger than Adamou and, despite the tortured grimace th
at he now wore, I could tell that his face was handsome. His eyes were wide with terror and pain. Rivulets of sweat trickled from his brow and into their sockets. His lips quivered, thick dollops of gluey spittle spilling from the corners of his mouth.
The driver had clambered out of the vehicle now and opened the other rear door. He put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and tried to prevent him from knocking his head against the car seat.
‘Isn’t there anyone with him?’ Abdelkrim asked.
The driver shrugged. ‘None of the teachers could leave their classes. They told me he walks from his village to the school every day – two hours each way. Help me get him out, Monsieur!’
Abdelkrim nudged me gently out of the way and then took hold of the boy’s sodden tee shirt. ‘Bring him towards me,’ he said to the driver.
The boy was shivering, his torso heaving uncontrollably and, as the two men tried to manoeuvre him out of the car, he drew his knees up and curled himself like a ball, his frame now wedged.
Abdelkrim stood up and shook his head. ‘We’re going to need more help,’ he said, wiping his hands on his tunic.
The taxi driver was about to speak when two hospital porters in green tunics appeared, one of them carrying a rough board.
‘We’ll take him from here,’ the youngest of the porters said, throwing the board on to the dust and going around to the far side of the car.
His colleague looked at me and gave a little chuckle, then he leaned into the car, grabbed at the patient’s ankles and yanked. Again the boy began flailing his limbs around.
The taxi driver came and stood beside my brother. He clapped Abdelkrim’s arm and tutted. ‘ Walayi!’ he said. ‘Thank you, brother.’
Abdelkrim nodded. ‘What do you think is wrong with this boy?’ he said.
‘I’m no doctor, my friend,’ the driver said.
‘Clear case of malaria, I’d say,’ the younger of the porters called from within before he and his colleague managed to wrestle the still thrashing body out of the car and on to the wooden board.
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