Harmattan

by Weston, Gavin

  At last, my breathing becomes more steady and my vision less blurred and I hear someone calling to me from Doctor Kwao-Sarbah’s compound. When I look down through the branches, I see Khalaf, Doctor Kwao-Sarbah’s guardian, peering up at me, his narrow face beautiful like a girl’s, his skin the colour of sweetened coffee.

  Across his shoulders lies a long, ancient stick, rubbed smooth by toil and handling, over which he has hooked both elbows so that, in the ebbing light and shadow of the great tree, he seems as if skewered like Moussa’s mouton.

  ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Why are you crying? What has happened?’ he says, in his strange, syrupy accent.

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur Khalaf,’ I say. ‘I am fine.’

  He mutters – Tamashek words at first, which I do not recognise – and shakes his head. ‘You are fine, yes. You are fine. And yet you weep. Why do you weep if you are fine, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘I am thinking about my mother. I am sad about my brother Abdelkrim. I am missing my brother Adamou and my sister Fatima, that is all.’ I claw at my eyes and feign a smile at the guardian.

  Khalaf unhooks an elbow and uses his free hand to shield his eyes from the light behind me. He stares up at me with his mysterious, cat-like eyes and I feel myself bathed in his desire to be protective. At last he shrugs. Hooks his arm over the stick again and turns away to tend his animals or water his vegetables or do whatever he does. I have not yet had time to settle back into my misery, when I hear the deep rumble of Doctor Kwao-Sarbah’s vehicle pausing on the road. I look towards the Kwao-Sarbah’s compound gates in time to see the vehicle enter in a flurry of metal and glass and rubber and dust, the engine giving a final roar before dying completely.

  The rear door closest to the boundary wall is the first to be flung open and, to my delight, Candice wriggles out, dragging her school satchel behind her. I force myself to drive away my jealousy as I peruse her neat uniform and beautiful shoes.

  She spies me instantly and bounds across the compound towards the wall, a great smile on her face.

  ‘Hey, Haoua!’ she calls. ‘You’ll come to watch television at my house again later, won’t you?’

  ‘Oui,’ I say, suddenly overcome with defiance and the desire to do so.

  ‘Good! Well, we’ll talk later. I must go and help now. We had to go shopping and it’s getting late. My mother has prepared many lovely things to eat and my father has arranged for some musician friends of his from Zinder to come too. We will have a great time, Haoua!’ Candice beams at me again before charging off towards her father’s fine, white house, prancing like a young gazelle who has just found her feet.

  * * *

  There is to be no reprieve for me. No rest. No hiding place. When the stone hits my foot, I look down, expecting to see Doodi or Moussa. Instead, I note with surprise that Yola is my assailant.

  ‘Haoua! Haoua! Come down here now!’ She is hissing my name in an urgent whisper.

  Without a word and ignoring the pain in my ribs, I swing down through the branches before, with a final lurch, dropping to the ground beside her.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the old witch calling you?’ she says, reaching out with a licked thumb to daub at my dirty, tear-stained face.

  I shake my head vigorously.

  ‘Do you really want another flogging?’

  I spare her the details of my most recent encounter with our husband.

  She tugs at my pagne, straightens me up, before nudging me gently towards the house. ‘You are to finish preparing the soup and couscous while Doodi and I go to greet Madame Kwao-Sarbah and offer her galettes and lady’s fingers this evening.’

  I stop and turn to face her, noticing only now that she has changed into her blue and cerise pagne, a great swirl of petals perfectly central and taut on her bulging belly. ‘Can’t I come too?’ I whisper. ‘Candice has already invited me, and we…’

  She cuts me short. ‘It is not up to me, Haoua. I’m only going with Doodi because she insists that I accompany her. I’d just as soon be seen dead as with her!’

  She leans in towards me, glances over her shoulder and then says, in a conspiratorial voice, ‘She’s such an old whore, that one! Wheedling her way around these rich neighbours of ours. Pretending to be gracious.’ There is a wicked glint in her eye as these words tumble from her mouth, like jagged rocks in a landslide.

  I smile as she prods me gently in the small of my back, and continue trudging towards the entrance of the house.

  Inside, Doodi is wearing her finest pagne and matching head wrap. Her wrists are heavy with finely carved bracelets and she wears a beautiful silver Agadez Cross around her throat. With some reluctance I have to admit to myself that, even with her hard and wizened face, she looks quite elegant. For a moment I consider how she might have looked as a young bride, as new to this household – and to Moussa – as me.

  I remind myself that she at least was already familiar with Niamey. I wonder if she too was frightened and if she willingly endured Moussa’s attentions or suffered them in silence. Then her cold eye falls upon me and I cease to care about the child that she once was, intent instead on my own preservation. She looks as if she is about to scold or lift her hand to me again, but then appears to change her mind.

  Instead, she speaks to Yola – indicates that she is impatient to leave. Then she tells me that I must be sure to have finished preparing the rest of the food before darkness falls; that she will send Yola back over to fetch it. She moves towards the doorway, Yola close behind her carrying a tray. She pauses to remind me that Moussa has forbidden me to visit the Kwao-Sarbahs’ house at all this evening – as a punishment.

  Despite Madame Yola’s warning look, I cannot stop myself from asking the question. ‘Punishment for what exactly, Madame?’

  She moves towards me, her eyes squeezed thin, her voice full of venom. ‘You are an insolent girl! You’d do well to learn some respect!’ To my surprise, she does not strike me.

  After they have gone, I stand for some time in the centre of the cool, dark room, aware only of the relentless thrum of traffic on the road outside and the soothing stillness of the moment.

  At last, I sneak a look out through the doorway to check that Moussa is not around. I am relieved to see that his bicycle has gone. When I am certain that it is safe, I make my way outside to the faucet. I turn the brass wheel and, miraculous as ever, the plumbing emits an initial belch followed by a gush of cool, clean water. I stoop down and let it cascade over my head, my neck and my aching shoulders.

  Standing in the damp, darkened dust, I wash myself thoroughly; rub at my forearms, my feet, scrub at my neck and ears, scrape and poke at my encrusted nostrils, dab at my stinging face and work the cloth inside my pagne, under my arms and over my tender, swelling breasts. When I have finished, I stand upright, tilt my head first to one side, then to the other and slap the remaining moisture out of my ears with the palm of my hand – just as my mother showed me when I was little. It occurs to me then that, although I have had my twelfth birthday and I am married and living in a busy, important city like Niamey, I do not really feel as a woman should, and still yearn to be held in my mother’s arms.

  I cross the compound to the storehouse, dry myself thoroughly and do my best to tidy up my hair and face. I check my reflection in my little cracked mirror, tilting it this way and that. I try to convince myself that I look fine. I peel off my soiled, damp and dirty pagne and take my old clean one from the nail on the back of the storehouse door. As I wrap it around my body I am startled by the peering eyes of a praying mantis which has fixed itself to my pagne and is now perched upon my thigh. Even though I know that the creature will not harm me, I gasp and pull the wrapper hastily from my body and shake the insect out of the door. When I have retied my pagne I cast an eye over Moussa’s tools and bicycle parts and the cluttered, oily shelves. On the underside of one of the lower shelves I have pinned the photograph of my mother and brother with Efrance and Momi in the shanties. At night when I lie awake on
my bedroll, I gaze at this picture until the light fades completely or until sleep or exhaustion overtakes me. I bend down now and run my hand along the hidden surface, to check that the photograph is still there. To check that Moussa or Doodi have not discovered it yet and robbed me of this treasure also.

  I straighten up and look around the storehouse once again. Candice has asked me to show her my ‘room’ several times, but always I have made excuses.

  Now that I am clean again, I re-enter the house. I lift the lid off a large pot of Yola’s o jo jo meatballs, the smell making my mouth water. Also on the table, covered in little scraps of cloth, are basins full of okra fritters, platters of roasted cassava, bananas, chunks of fresh pineapple and mango salad; food which I had rarely seen or tasted in Wadata. When I have finished preparing the couscous, I spoon it carefully from the pan into three smaller basins and place these on a plastic tray. I cover these too with cloth, then wipe my hands and step back from the table.

  Back outside, I wash cabbage heads, cauliflower, carrots, celery, tomatoes, peppers, onions, leeks. I return to the kitchen and chop the vegetables, wondering if I will even get to taste my spicy cabbage soup. I add ginger, laurel leaves, chillies and garlic, then fill the large pot with water and leave it to simmer.

  Beautiful music drifts across from the Kwao-Sarbah’s compound: the plucked notes of a gurumi and the rhythmic beat of a djembe. I look out through the little window, as if to search for them, as if they might be there, floating in the air outside.

  Then I stack the dirty utensils carefully into a pail and go outside to the faucet again. As I am washing the pots and ladles, the music ends and, after a brief pause, the rich, deep tones of a man’s singing voice begins. I look up into the branches of my Mgunga tree and the words, beautiful, tender, honourable and with a hint of sadness, fall gently around me, like ripened fruits.

  She is beautiful to the eyes, oh my Lord, and God gave her Gave her a breast new and green appearing like two balanced weights Gave her a waist lined with stripes

  Gave her a thigh with stretch marks reaching from her stomach to her knee Gave her calves beautiful and soft, you have never seen such creations Gave her a heel like none a son of Adam ever walked on. The song gives way to sounds of laughter.

  It is now that I decide to defy my husband: to pretend to be stupid; to pretend that I have misunderstood; to play deceit as ignorance. I decide not to wait for Yola to collect the food that I have prepared. I decide that I will take it to Candice’s house myself. I persuade myself that, when darkness falls and the whole neighbourhood is immersed in the celebrations, my indiscretion may go unnoticed.

  * * *

  Candice is delighted to see me. I am waiting, tray in hand, outside the Kwao-Sarbah’s iron-framed mesh door when I see her coming down the tiled hallway accompanied by Feisha, the family’s cook, a stern-looking woman with heavy scarification marks – like a meat griddle – on her face. Feisha looks me up and down, just as she does every time I visit Candice. My friend has changed out of her smart school uniform and into the most beautiful dress that I have ever laid my eyes on. Her smile reminds me a little of Miriam back home in Wadata, and for a moment I think about the journey we made together in search of Monsieur Longeur and his magic camera. Now, it is like thinking about a movie of someone else’s life.

  Candice holds the pleats of her dress out wide for me. ‘It’s from America,’ she says, beaming, as Feisha swings open the heavy door to let me enter. ‘Papa brought it back for me.’ She bunches up the blue-green chiffon and invites me to touch it. I am almost afraid to do so, so delicate seems the fabric, like the wing of a butterfly, coated in magical dust, which, if touched, may spoil and thus lose the power of flight. I stroke the hem gently with the backs of my fingers. Then both of us giggle.

  Feisha takes the tray from me and I realise that she is still staring at me – but in a different way now.

  ‘You look nice too, Haoua,’ Candice says.

  I hang my head. Shrug. There is an old stain on the front of my pagne. I do not feel nice. Her words are just a kindness.

  ‘ Walayi! What have you done to your face, child?’ Feisha says, balancing the tray on one arm and clutching my jaw with her free hand.

  I do not answer. There is nothing for me to say.

  Feisha sucks her teeth, then walks off with the tray towards the kitchen, mumbling under her breath as she goes.

  I think that Candice might ask me about the marks on my face too, so before she can do so, I say, ‘Can we watch television now?’

  She nods. ‘Of course,’ she says. Hooking her arm through mine, she leads me down the wide hallway towards her bedroom. We have taken only a few steps when I hear the sound of conversation and I stop dead.

  ‘What is it?’ Candice says.

  I grab at her forearm and whisper urgently, ‘That old witch, Doodi… she must not find out that I am here!’

  Candice shakes her head and pats my in reassurance. ‘The women and babies are out in the rear garden.’ She leads me through another entrance and down some steps into a large, bright room where Doctor Kwao-Sarbah and a group of men – including several musicians – are drinking tea and discussing politics.

  ‘I tell you we’re no better off than we were with Mainassara,’ one of the guests says, as he tunes his gurumi.

  ‘There’s nothing democratic about slaughter!’ Doctor Kwao-Sarbah says. He looks up as we cross the room and the conversation stops, leaving only the sounds of the ceiling fans swiping overhead and the padding of our feet on the cool, tiled floor. ‘ Ça va, Candice? Haoua?’

  ‘ Ça va bien, Monsieur,’ I say, lowering my gaze.

  ‘ Ça va, Papa. Messieurs,’ Candice says. ‘Excuse us, please. We are going to my room to watch television.’

  Doctor Kwao-Sarbah nods, smiles warmly at us, then turns back to his friends and to the discussion.

  As we enter another, smaller hallway, Candice turns to me and whispers. ‘Do you know who that was?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ I say, distracted, overwhelmed by these surroundings.

  ‘The one with the gurumi. The old one.’

  ‘I wasn’t really looking.’

  ‘That was Monsieur Boukia!’ Candice says, her eyes wide with pride and amazement. She sees that her words mean nothing to me. ‘The great poet from Tchin Talaradin! You must have heard of him, Haoua?’

  I shrug.

  ‘He is my father’s most honoured guest this evening.’

  I nod; a response which seems to frustrate Candice.

  ‘I’d have thought that your wonderful Monsieur Boubacar would have talked to you about Boukia!’ she says, a little sulkily.

  My friend’s room is a wonder to me. She has a proper, raised bed, softer than any I have ever seen or sat on before, and a whole wall of shelves lined with books and fine dolls and brightly coloured plastic toys. Posters of French and Malian musicians line the walls and in one corner is a huge silver radio with black speakers. Across the room sits a beautiful polished wooden dressing table, with drawers and a large mirror and Candice’s very own television set. Through the window grille, we can see Madame Kwao-Sarbah entertaining her guests around the flickering fire of a clay oven in the garden. There is a lot of laughter. I can just make out the forms of Doodi and Yola in the rapidly fading light. I pick up a book which has been lying on Candice’s bed. It is an atlas, a lot like the one which Monsieur Boubacar used in my school in Wadata. As I flick through the pages, I am startled both by the familiarity and the strangeness of the object I hold in my hands, and I am reminded once again of my home village. Already it seems as if it only ever existed in a dream.

  ‘This is where Papa bought my dress,’ Candice says, pointing to a city called Boston in the United States of America.

  I nod. ‘My brother wanted me to go there, to learn how to become a teacher.’

  Candice looks at me in a curious way and for a moment again I think she is going to ask me about my bruises. We have been
friends for only a short time but she seems to sense that I do not feel like talking much today. ‘You will be a fine teacher, Haoua,’ she says. ‘Papa wants me to be a doctor, like him, but I don’t know…’ She takes the book from me and sets it on the little table beside her bed. She gives me one of her great smiles, then says, ‘Shall we watch television now?’ Without waiting for a reply, she moves over to the set, presses a button and the screen flickers into life.

  Then she turns, crosses the room and bounces on to the bed beside me. We giggle again and then settle down to watch. I don’t mind what is on, ever. I am simply fascinated by the images and by what I can learn from them. Sometimes I think that television is better even than books.

  At first the image pitches and rolls, but Candice jumps up and fiddles with the set until the picture settles. An anasara man is working on the engine of a motorcycle, by the side of an asphalt road. As he does so, he talks to himself. Would you believe it? he says, and Of all the stupid… He shakes his head and throws down his wrench. The words, in French, do not really fit the shapes that his mouth forms.

  Candice and I look at each other and laugh, while from within the television we hear a great many other people laugh too.

  It is dark and the man stretches and yawns. He has shiny black hair and a strong, square jaw-line. He is wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, which is covered in stains. He looks at his watch and then says, Well, Ralphie, I guess you really did it this time! He looks up and down the road and then towards the camera. He is obviously very disheartened. He crosses to a tree and unhooks a black, hide jacket from a branch. Then he walks into a forest and begins looking around. He pushes through heavy foliage and comes into a clearing. He looks around again, nods, then sits down on the ground with his back resting against a broad tree trunk. He puts his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. As soon as he closes his eyes, we hear the hooting of night birds, a great cacophony of crickets and bullfrogs and all manner of howling beasts. After a while the man opens his eyes and stares wearily. He now looks very irritated.