Harmattan

by Weston, Gavin

  To do so would be to invite Moussa’s wrath. I have little doubt that part of the reason he treats the machine with such carelessness is to aggravate me, but mainly he does it because he can – and because he is a pig. Several times I have asked him for the use of a bicycle. He has many: gleaming new ones in his shop: tatty old ones in pieces; both in the shop and lying in a jumbled heap in and behind my storehouse. A bicycle would make my life so much easier; carrying goods from the market would be so much quicker, so much less exhausting. But each time, Moussa snorts and laughs at my requests.

  ‘Do you think that I am made of money?’ he says, shaking his head. He has forbidden me to waste his money on taxi fares also. Every centime must be accounted for. I think of Djibo, a boyback in Wadata, whose father had brought a fine, black bicycle back after a trip to the city. For a moment I wonder if he might have purchased it from Moussa. With this machine, Djibo was able to ride to the river, draw two buckets of water and return to our village before we were even half way there on foot. Perhaps he spilled more than we did, our buckets and jars balanced expertly on our heads – his swinging precariously on the handlebars – but it hardly mattered because he could make another trip so easily.

  ‘You’re not in Wadata now, girl!’ Moussa snaps, when I tell him about Djibo.

  ‘We live a civilised life in Niamey. How many other households do you know with running water?’

  ‘But the walk from the market!’ I say. ‘The purchases are so very heavy! If I could…’ Sometimes the look in his eye is enough to stop my protestations. At other times, when I am feeling more reckless, it takes the flat of his hand.

  On occasion, I have even heard Doodi chastise Moussa for the misuse of his machine. ‘A man in your position ought to take care of such things; show others that you are a dignified businessman!’ Though he might grumble, he never lays a hand on his senior wife.

  Later, I am scrubbing clothes, head down, lost in thought, sweat dripping from my brow, when I see his gnarled, yellowed toenails before me. I look up at his face, shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘Husband?’ I say.

  ‘Come with me,’ he says, without explanation. He turns his back and walks towards the storehouse. Cautiously, I look around the compound. Yola and Doodi are indoors, preparing food for this evening’s celebrations. I dust down my pagne and stretch my aching neck from side to side. As I follow Moussa, the pain in my side catches me unawares and I let out a slight gasp. Moussa stops and turns towards me. He removes a chew stick from his mouth and sucks his teeth irritably. ‘Get a move on, girl,’ he says.

  ‘We haven’t got all day!’

  A shiver passes through my body as I try to prepare myself, once again, to be defiled. For a brief moment, a wave of anger washes over me as I consider the injustice of my situation, the ordeal that I have already endured today at the hands of that witch Doodi. Then, as I trudge across the compound behind my husband, the futility of protest as clear as daylight, I seem to move outside my own body, as I have learned to do – watch this slight, dead-eyed girl move in step with the man towards the inevitable act of brutality – and fear leaves me to be replaced with the familiar and welcome mantle of numbed resignation.

  But Moussa passes the open doorway to my storehouse and walks instead towards the corral, where our small herd of goats and moutons, seeking shade, has pressed itself against the compound wall.

  I shake myself alert, suddenly aware that Moussa has turned to speak to me again. ‘Be sure none of the beasts get by you,’ he says. He pauses, noticing my swollen lip and bloodshot eye, perhaps, but does not comment. Then he enters the corral and grabs a young ram by the horns. The rest of the wide-eyed herd circle the enclosure, aware that the selected beast’s time has come. A young hogget stops and squares up to me, considering its chances, then bleats forlornly and scuttles along behind the rest of the herd. A ewe darts back towards the gate, stops in its tracks and shits, before moving off again. ‘Get ready to open the gate!’ Moussa calls, as he drags the terrified ram towards me. The animal twists and lurches as I close the gate behind it, its back hooves digging into the gritty sand and leaving deep trenches as Moussa bears his weight down on its shoulders. ‘Grab the haunches! Grab the haunches!’ he calls, as he loses his grip with one hand. I throw myself at the animal’s rear, grabbing fistfuls of its coarse hair, while Moussa regains purchase on its horns before wrestling it finally to the ground. ‘Hold it!’ he calls. He brings his knee up and lays his shin across the ram’s windpipe. The helpless creature’s eyes are full of fear. It struggles once again and I grip all the harder. Moussa draws a cord from a pocket and, catching the animal’s front legs in the crook of his arm, binds them together just above the hock. The ram makes a deep, forlorn bleat and then kicks violently with its back legs, catching me in my already tender ribcage. Before I know it, I have released my grip and the beast has twisted its haunches around so that its rear sticks up towards the sky, despite Moussa grappling with its shoulders.

  He pushes me aside and kicks the animal’s feet from under it. ‘You stupid girl!’ he snarls at me. He falls squarely onto the animal’s flank and digs an elbow into the side of its head. ‘Pin it down while I tie the back legs!’ Moussa shouts. ‘And don’t let go this time!’ The animal grunts as Moussa shifts his weight. I do as I am bid, falling upon the creature so that my face is close to its head and I am looking directly into its staring, pleading eye and breathing its hot breath and the stench of terror. In a moment, Moussa has bound the back legs and the animal is helpless.

  Moussa stands up and dusts himself down. He scowls at me again, and for a moment I think that he may beat me. But there is still work to be done, as always.

  Moussa gives the animal a kick and then crosses to the fence where a skinning knife is hanging in its sheath. He draws the blade out and runs his finger along its ancient dark grey edge to check that it is sharp. He looks up and catches my eye, bares his bad teeth at me and says, ‘We’ll feast tonight.’ He laughs and I stand back as he moves again towards the hobbled animal. Standing before the beast for a few moments, he seems to hesitate. He looks at me again. Cold eyes. Then he drops to his knees, lays the knife down close to the creature’s head and begins a hurried prayer over the still bleating ram.

  When he has finished praying, he gets to his feet again, lifting the knife as he rises.

  He turns again to look at me. ‘You like to watch this part, Little One?’ he says, his voice full of sarcasm, the blade dipping and thrusting in my direction.

  Don’t call me that! I think. It is not your right to call me that! I move back to the fence, aware that what he has said is true: I am unable to take my eyes off the blade; I have watched my father perform this task many, many times, yet I am still fascinated by the moment when a simple act, a slight movement, removes life from a living, breathing creature. The ram’s final, protesting bleat is stifled as Moussa forces its chin upwards and pierces its throat with the point of the knife. A deep, red arc cascades upwards and outwards before spilling on to the dust and, as the animal’s body stiffens and shudders, Moussa draws the blade expertly across its windpipe and calls for a bowl. I stand frozen as I watch the life ebb away from the animal, a dull greyness replacing the former brightness of its eyes. Then the sound of Moussa’s impatient voice brings me again to my senses.

  ‘The bowl! The bowl!’ he shouts, reaching a bloodied hand towards me. I hand him the battered metal bowl.

  He snatches it away from me, shakes his head and says, ‘ Walayi! ’ Then he tells me to find him a good straight stick.

  I cross the compound and begin to scratch through the dust and debris in the shadow of the Whistling Mgunga tree until I find a suitable stick. It takes no time at all but, when I return to the corral, Moussa is squatting beside the limp carcass with his elbows resting on his knees, waiting for me, his chew stick clamped between his teeth and a foul look on his face. As I offer him the stick, he jumps to his feet and lunges towards me. The sudden movement alarms me and
I step backwards, my eyes wide with anticipation and fear.

  ‘You are such a stupid girl, aren’t you?’ he says, catching my forearm and yanking me forwards. ‘What kept you? Why do you dawdle so?’ The tip of his chew stick almost touches my cheek.

  ‘I am sorry, Monsieur…’ As I speak, my hand opens involuntarily and the stick drops to the ground.

  For a moment he stares deep into my eyes, and though I know I ought to lower my gaze, I cannot. His breath – hot, metallic, tinged with alcohol – wafts around my face, and I feel my gut tighten. His dirty, bloody fingernails dig into my skin so hard that I wince and peer at my arm. The fingers of my left hand are curled towards the sky, palm upwards, Moussa’s grip rendering it limp, lifeless, as if it too has recently been slaughtered. I gaze at the skinning knife in his fist. For a moment I think there may be a part of him that might wish to use it on me. At last, he releases his grip, leaving a bloodied impression of fat fingers on my forearm. He shakes his head, stoops to pick up the stick and, turning his back on me, squats down before his kill.

  Then I hear him suck his teeth as he begins to whittle the stick into a sharp point.

  ‘Should I return to my chores, Monsieur?’ I ask, my voice shaky.

  ‘You stay nearby,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘I may need you again.’ He inspects the point of his stick, tests it against his palm, then, with a grunt, leans forward and, hooking a finger into the loop of cord, drags the dead animal’s rear legs onto his lap. Its head lolls to one side, the tongue protruding now, giving the creature an almost comical expression. Its rear legs jerk apart as Moussa inserts the bloody blade between the hooves and cuts the cord. Then, seizing one of the hooves, he inserts the point of the stick into the animal’s flesh, just above the hock. I can just make out the sound of tearing, skin separating from muscle, as Moussa levers and heaves the stick forwards, upwards and from side to side until he is satisfied that it has penetrated far enough. He withdraws the stick and throws it down, wipes his palm across the torn flesh and, inhaling deeply, leans forward to put his mouth to the aperture. I recall how – as tiny children, crowded around the elders in Wadata as they prepared for Eid al-Adha – we used to laugh at this part of the process.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Moussa empties his lungs, breathing deeply into the ragged wound, then clamps a hand over the laceration while he inhales once again. It is always a strange sight, in spite of the fact that I have seen this ritual carried out countless times before; this man blowing air into the leg of a dead beast.

  When he is done he ties off the cord above the matted gore, spits, and drags the back of his hand across his mouth. The now bloated carcass is laid on its back, legs jutting outwards. The skin on the underside of the animal’s belly is stretched taut as a djembe, as if one could beat a fine rhythm on it. Instead, Moussa picks up the knife and runs the steel blade from loin to throat in one effortless, sweeping movement.

  The skin parts like a soft new coat which has suddenly popped its buttons. Moussa flings the knife to one side, then, digging his fingers into the tissue and fatty layers of the creature’s belly, he grips hard and begins to peel hide from muscle; tearing, pulling, wrestling a final struggle from this lifeless beast. Minutes later it is done; the creature lies in the bloodied dust, its leering, lidless eyes staring wildly at its own twisted pelt.

  Moussa stands up. Turns towards me. I can tell that he is pleased with himself. Indeed, he has made the task look easy. His shirt and trousers are saturated with blood, which is already beginning to congeal in the late afternoon heat, and a crust has formed on the contents of the bowl as it bakes in the glaring sun. Moussa stretches, then gently prods the flayed carcass with his toes. He pulls back his lips to expose his bad teeth. It takes a moment before I realise that he is smiling at me – if his expression could be called a smile. I avert my eyes for a second and, when I look again, I see him take the knife and hook it under the saggy flap of what was the ram’s jowl. Then, silhouetted against the now softening light, he lifts the whole hide on the tip of the knife and, with his arm outstretched, holds it above his head in a triumphal, frozen gesture before flinging it towards me. It lands a short distance from my feet – buckled, twisted, spiritless.

  I look up at the sound of Moussa’s cackle. ‘There’s a new pair of sandals for you, Little One!’ he says, and I know that not one part of this poor beast will be wasted.

  He removes the creature’s innards, tying up the stomach and intestines with scraps of oily cord, and places them in two large plastic basins on the ground.

  ‘Fetch me some water,’ he tells me, cleaning off his knife against the shaggy coat of the mouton.

  When I return, laden with two full pails, water sloshing over my shins and feet, Moussa has skewered the butchered beast to a cross made of rough timber in preparation for cooking later this evening. He props the timber cross upright and makes certain that it is secure. He dips his hands into one of the buckets, then tips the contents of both over the carcass; splashes of stained and muddied dust splattering over my feet and his. He laughs as I wipe the bridge of my right foot against the calf of my left leg. ‘You ought to be well used to blood by now,’ he sneers. He has a filthy look on his face.

  He moves towards me. Holds a hand close to my face. I can see traces of gore and sinew and grit beneath his long fingernails.

  I take a step backwards, but he catches me by the ear; pulls me towards the slaughtered beast. Without letting go of me, he stoops down so that I am bent almost double as he dips a finger into the bowl and brings it towards my cheek. I tug frantically, but he is strong and simply twists my ear harder. My head is already full of echoes and bad music from Doodi’s beating. I reach out instinctively and clutch his wrists but he twists at my ear again and yells – something indecipherable – into the other. I drop my arms and gaze wide-eyed at the wagging finger, lingering like a bloody-headed snake before me and all the while the sound of my tormentor’s voice echoes inside my head and my belly is full of rage and fear.

  I close my eyes and spit as Moussa draws his finger across my lips. In an instant he has released me, but only so that he may swing the flat of his palm hard against my cheek. I let out a cry, bring my hands up to cover my face, then spin around on the balls of my feet in preparation for my escape. I tilt my weight forward only to realise that I have twisted my left foot out of my sandal and, before I can run, Moussa has grabbed hold of my pagne and yanked me back towards him. He grips my chin hard, his cruel fingers sticky and steely with the scent of blood. Now he brings his sweating face close to mine again and for a moment I hope that he will see not only fear and panic in my eyes, but my rage too.

  ‘Monsieur! Monsieur!’ I say.

  ‘Monsieur! Monsieur!’ he mimics.

  ‘Monsieur, please…’

  Locked in his grasp and unable to move my head, I roll my eyes from side to side in a vain attempt to search for help. For a moment, Moussa appears to read my mind, appears to consider the possibility that someone, anyone, may indeed come to my aid; he looks over my head, toward the compound gates, then, reassured once again that he is safe within this compound, he digs his fingernails into my chin and shakes my head vigorously.

  ‘You spit at me? You spit at me, huh? You little bitch! I take you into my home. Save you from a life of scratching around in the bush. Feed you. Clothe you.

  Give you shelter. And you spit at me? I take you from the squalor of your stinking little hole… pay mightily for the privilege, give you a proper home and you disrespect me like this?’

  I see him through a curtain of tears, his loathsome, wavering face bearing down on me, his hot breath filling my nostrils and lungs. Again I try to speak, but only a pathetic mewling emerges from my lips.

  ‘Don’t stand there sobbing, you stupid girl!’ he barks. ‘You are a disgrace to your family! You are nothing!’ He sucks his teeth. Curls his top lip up towards his nose.

  Says, ‘It is little wonder that my wife beats you!’ T
hen he pushes me away. Looks at his hand. Wipes it on his trousers. Tells me that he will deal with me later. That I should return to my chores.

  * * *

  I do not return to my chores. As I run past Yola emerging from the house, she calls out to me but, although through my tears I see her mouth form words, I do not actually hear her voice. Nor do I stop. For a brief moment, I consider running through the compound gates, following the traffic mustering beyond. Then, having considered the consequences of leaving the compound without permission, I bolt instead in the direction of the latrine house.

  Before I know it, I find myself back in the branches of the Mgunga tree. My chest is heaving uncontrollably and mucus drips from my nose. I press down first on one nostril, then the other, and so clear the filth from my face. I wipe the tears from my burning cheeks with the palm of my hand, noticing again the bloody impression of Mousssa’s hand on my forearm.

  From beyond the storehouse (the closest thing to a home which my husband has provided for me) I can hear Moussa re-sharpening his knife on a stone. The stinging pain on my cheek and the raked furrows on my jaw are nothing to the pain I feel inside my head. And his words are seared into my brain. Filthy, brutal lies. I picture the humble yet neat home that my mother kept, and Bunchie before her, and my eyes well up once again.

  Down below, out on Rue de Kongou, the traffic thunders by: cars and camels and camions, taxis and trucks, bicycles and carts all threading their way through the sultry early evening haze. Heavy-laden pedestrians, tatty refugees, and office workers in crisp white shirts scurry past our compound gates like termites, heading for Plateau, Gao or the shanties at Pays-Bas. Mixed with the diesel fumes and dust and stench of piss, there is a frenzy in the air this evening; a feeling of celebration and excitement as people prepare for Eid al-Adha. I steady myself on the curve of a great bough, with my knees drawn close to my face, and wonder how it is possible to feel so alone in such a busy place as Niamey, home to so many people.