‘I see. So you don’t think he was poisoned?’
‘No.’ He looks away and scowls. ‘But it makes no difference. Even if he wasn’t killed by the enemy, he was still here on a mission from God, so that makes him a martyr, doesn’t it? He got what he always wanted, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ali switches suddenly to Arabic. ‘Paradise has been decorated for him,’ he chants, ‘and beautiful women are calling upon him – “Come, oh commander with the order of God” – and they are dressed in their best attire.’
This is awkward. I cast round and say the first thing that comes into my head.
‘I like your handwriting, Ali.’
He blinks and looks down at his writing board as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Al-Fatiha,’ he murmurs. ‘When I was three I could recite it. When I was five I could write it by myself. At seven I sensed its beauty, and by the time I turned nine, there were only two things in the world that thrilled me to the spleen: playing football and reading Al-Fatiha. It’s only seven verses, yet the whole Book lies within.’
‘If I spoke to you of Al-Fatiha,’ I quote softly, ‘my words would overburden seventy camels.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Omar would know,’ says Ali. ‘He had a memory like a sheikh, that man. An answer for everything—’ He breaks off, heartbroken.
I know it’s dangerous to start feeling sorry for this boy, but I can’t help it. He should be at home in Goundam right now, or walking tall behind a herd of cows, not squatting on a tyre in Timbuktu, confused and miserable.
I glance at my phone. It is nearly nine o’clock. Baba is at the town hall with the elders and Mama is at the market.
Aisha wants to slit Ali’s throat with a kora string, but I don’t. I want to cheer him up and then, if such a thing is possible, to rescue him.
‘Would you like to see something beautiful?’ I ask.
I run into our yard, and down into the vault. The Manuscript Locations log book is on the table at the foot of the steps. I flick through it until I find what I am looking for: ‘Illuminated Al-Fatiha, Trunk 12.’
I open the lid of Trunk Twelve and delve inside. The illuminated manuscript smiles up at me, gorgeous as always.
Clasping the precious Al-Fatiha under my veil, I run up the stairs, past the horse and out into the street – and smack into my father, who is back from the town hall. The topmost folio of the manuscript slips from under my veil and drops to the sand.
‘What have you got there?’ says Baba.
‘Nothing.’
He bends to pick up the folio. His eyes, which looked so tired a moment ago, ignite with rage.
‘How dare you!’ he stutters, grabbing my elbow. ‘Come inside this minute!’
‘Baba, please don’t be angry—’
‘How many times have I told you never to take manuscripts outside this house, yet you deliberately disobey me!’
He marches me into the yard, snaps a supple branch off the neem tree and strips it of its leaves.
‘I’m sorry, Baba.’
‘So am I,’ he says, raising the branch.
I turn my back and brace myself for the blow. Baba hasn’t beaten me since I was five years old, and that was also to do with the manuscripts. I was playing with our one and only key to the ancient door of the vault, and somehow I mislaid it. I remember Baba’s exact words: ‘Perhaps a neem tree branch will jog your memory.’ As it turned out, he was right.
Still the blow has not landed. I hear an apologetic cough, and turn to look. Ali has come in through the entrance archway. He is standing there, holding a sheep on a short rope.
‘What do you want?’ snaps Baba, lowering the neem branch.
‘I brought your ewe back,’ says Ali. ‘I found her wandering in the street.’
‘I don’t keep sheep,’ scowls Baba. ‘That animal belongs to my brother Abdel next door.’
‘Right. I see.’ Ali shuffles his feet and stares at the ground, but does not leave.
‘What now?’ says Baba.
‘It’s none of my business,’ says Ali, ‘but neem branches do not make good canes. That camel-hide whip they used on me yesterday – it stings like the fire of hell, I promise you. The end is split into three strands, you see, and the strands are hardened with salt. Perhaps we could lend it to you for a little while.’
‘Get out of my sight,’ says Baba.
Ali puts his hand across his heart, a gesture of respect, and strolls out into the street, leading Uncle Abdel’s sheep behind him.
‘He’s a brute,’ says Baba, scowling.
‘Yes.’
Baba looks down at the neem branch in his hand. An awkward silence passes between us. Then he throws the branch on the ground and stomps off to the vault to replace his precious manuscript.
That night, once more, I drag my sleeping mat to the edge of the roof, beside the balustrade. I put my paraffin lamp on the mat and turn its orange flame down low.
Ali is sitting on his tyre, whittling a piece of wood. I fasten my veil with a silver pin and find his number in my phone.
Climb the tree I text in French.
No
I’m veiled
Still no
I have something to show you
What?
An illuminated Al-Fatiha
OK
Ali walks to the tree, glances up and down the deserted street and starts to climb. He swings himself up into the heart of the tree and makes his way along a branch, pedalling the air. With both hands he grasps the balustrade and hangs there, gathering his strength. Then, with a final effort, he swings himself up and over.
‘Foofo,’ he says, wincing in pain. Hi.
‘Foofo.’
He looks at me and frowns. ‘That’s not the veil I gave you.’
‘I’ll wear your veil another time. What were you working on down there?’
‘This.’ He holds out a rice spoon. ‘You can have it if you like. It’s sandalwood.’
I take the spoon and turn it over in my hands. The handle is tapered and slightly curved. The head is beautifully smooth. I touch my heart in gratitude.
‘I’m only here to talk about the Book,’ he says. ‘The Book is not soft.’
‘What do you mean, not soft?’
‘Forget it.’
He sits down on the edge of my mat and I pass him a beaker of water. He takes a sip and uses the rest to wash his hands, wrists and forearms.
I pick up the manuscript by the edges and place it in front of him. ‘Be careful,’ I whisper. ‘It’s almost three hundred years old.’
‘Wow.’ He traces a finger over the ornate letters, the calligraphic swirls, the radiant blue ink. ‘Hausawi script,’ he says. ‘From Nigeria, right?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, delighted. ‘A truly African Al-Fatiha.’
‘It’s magnificent.’
I lean back on my hands and close my eyes as he recites the sacred verses under his breath. He reads them through three times, then tails off into satisfied silence.
‘I adore Arabic,’ I murmur. ‘They say that reading the Book in any other language is like being kissed through a veil.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ My cheeks feel suddenly hot. ‘I mean, yes, they really say it. I wouldn’t know whether they are right, those people.’
‘Do you have more?’
‘More what?’
‘More manuscripts.’
‘No.’
He cocks his head on one side. Does he know I’m lying?
I change the subject clumsily. ‘Thank you for saving me today, Ali. Bringing my uncle’s sheep and offering to lend him a whip. Ha! He was so angry at you that he forgot to be angry at me. Except that now he thinks you’re a stupid thug.’
Ali makes a little click deep down in his throat. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I think you’re a clever thug.’
The faintest trace
of a smile plays around the corner of his mouth. For the first time ever I am grateful for the veil that protects me from his scrutiny.
Pull yourself together, I tell myself.
Ali leans towards me, and for one crazy moment I think he’s going to kiss me through my veil. Not that I want him to, of course. He’s the invader. The oppressor. An enemy of Timbuktu.
‘Kadi,’ he whispers. ‘It’s haram. Forbidden.’
‘What is?’
‘Perfume.’
‘In God’s name!’ I cry. ‘Are you incapable of having a conversation without using the word haram?’
To my horror, Baba’s voice rises from the courtyard below. ‘Kadi, who are you talking to up there?’
‘Baba, please, I’m on the phone!’ I shout.
Ali frowns. ‘You shouldn’t lie to your father.’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’ I lift the veil to uncover the lower half of my face, and open my mouth as if to shout.
I’ve got no intention of actually shouting. It’s just a joke, as any normal person would realise. But Ali’s eyes widen in fear and he lurches at me with his fingers outstretched to smother my shout.
I giggle and dodge to one side, thrusting out a hand to steady myself. A stupid, clumsy, sacrilegious hand.
What have I done? God, what have I done?
Ali didn’t see where my hand came down. He didn’t hear the quiet sickening crunch, the unmistakable brittle snap of ancient paper fibres. He has no idea of the damage he has done. His hand is over my mouth and he’s grinning like a minstrel on a feast day.
Grinning!
Why is he even here, this dolt? Why did I invite him up to this most intimate of all places? To impress him? To convert him? To seek forgiveness for the lash scars on his back?
I knock his hand away and hiss, ‘Get off my roof this minute.’
He leans back, smiling. He thinks I’m joking.
I snatch my veil, rip it off and stare my enemy full in the face. ‘You heard me, Ali. Get off this roof!’
For a moment I think he is going to refuse, but I keep on staring until he averts his eyes. In one sudden catlike movement he vaults the balustrade, grabs a branch and swings down out of sight, and only when he’s gone do I dare look down to inspect the damage.
Yes, it’s bad. A large fragment has flaked off the corner of the holy folio.
God curse me. God smite me with leprosy. God make every one of my stupid clumsy fingers wither and drop off! In spite of all my training, the countless hours I’ve spent with manuscripts, I have broken the oldest African Al-Fatiha in the world.
I look up at the stars, wheeling and spinning in their orbits. The stars don’t care. Why should they?
There is nothing for it but to destroy the evidence. I pick up the flake of paper and put it in my mouth, pressing it hard against my palate until it has completely dissolved.
I wince.
I did not expect such sweet words to taste so bitter.
In the morning, two truckloads of light-skinned fighters arrive. They are speaking Arabic in loud uncultured voices and they have rocket launchers on the backs of their trucks instead of machine guns.
Sitting on my roof, I watch Redbeard come out of the military camp to greet the newcomers. He embraces them like old friends, his leathery face cracking into a series of tangled smiles.
I jump up and hurry down the tree trunk two notches at a time. ‘Mama,’ I say. ‘More fighters have arrived.’
Mama is not alone. Aunt Juma is with her. Both of them have long faces.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s your cousin Kamisa,’ says Mama. ‘She’s been arrested in the marketplace for not wearing a veil. They say they are going to flog her in the square next week.’
‘Kamisa is only eleven! They can’t arrest an eleven-year-old girl.’
‘She only went to buy onions.’ Aunt Juma wrings her hands. ‘She was wearing her veil when she went out. She must have got hot and taken it off.’
‘Does Baba know?’
‘Yes,’ says Mama. ‘He is going to speak with the elders this afternoon.’
‘A posse of jabbering old men. What can they do?’
I brace myself for a storm of disapproval, but none comes. Mama and Aunt Juma know as well as I do that the men of Timbuktu have done what they can to save our city, and sadly they have failed.
It’s time for the women of Timbuktu to act.
The phone network in Timbuktu is terrible these days. It takes me half an hour to get a signal and seven tries before my call goes through. When finally Ali answers, I don’t say anything about last night. I just get straight to the point.
‘Ali, they’ve arrested my cousin Kamisa for not wearing a veil. They’re going to lash her in the square next week.’
‘I see.’ He pauses. ‘Is she strong?’
‘Of course she’s not strong! She’s eleven! I want you to talk to Redbeard and persuade him to show mercy.’
‘We do not make the law,’ says Ali. ‘We simply follow it.’
‘Come on, Ali. What about Al-Fatiha? In the name of God, the Compassionate and Merciful. You read it last night. You recite it five times every day. Don’t you think it’s time to practise it? I’m asking you to talk to your master, that’s all.’
‘He would not listen even if I did.’
‘I thought we were friends, Ali!’
The line goes dead. Either he has hung up on me or the network is down again. Either way, I’m properly angry now. Angry with the regime for arresting Kamisa. Angry with Ali for making me plead. Angry with myself for being weak and showing it.
Timbuktu women are not weak. It’s time we remembered that.
Aunt Juma and Mama are in the courtyard, pounding sumbala and cinnamon sticks.
‘Auntie,’ I hear myself say, ‘where is Kamisa being held?’
‘In a cell at the police station.’
‘Then we shall march on the police station,’ I tell them. ‘Just us women. Tomorrow, after Friday prayers.’
They have stopped pounding now. They are staring at me like I’ve turned into a bearded djinni.
‘Do you think they will take any notice?’ says Aunt Juma.
‘They will have to,’ I say. ‘We will march unveiled.’
Once again the Timbuktu Telegraph has worked its magic. Since yesterday morning, all the gossip in the marketplace and mosque has been about the women’s protest march. We meet after Friday prayers, as planned, at the monument of Al Farouk.
We are getting good at recognizing our friends and neighbours by their veils. I spot Aisha’s diamanté veil a mile off, and push through the crowd to get to her.
We embrace tightly.
‘I hear all this was your idea,’ she grins. ‘Do you think it will help Kamisa?’
‘I hope so, yes. But it’s not just about Kamisa, is it? It’s about every girl and woman in the city.’
‘You know you’re, crazy, don’t you?’
‘Sure. When did I last have an idea that wasn’t crazy?’
Fatimata, the first wife of the mayor, has agreed to lead the protest. She steps up now onto the pedestal of Al Farouk, wearing a beautiful dark blue robe and matching veil. When she raises her hands for silence, her long sleeves drop down a little, revealing intricate henna tattoos on her wrists and forearms.
‘Women of Timbuktu!’ she cries. ‘There is nothing wrong with veils!’
That’s not right. That’s not what she’s supposed to say.
‘Veils are good,’ she declares, ‘and in the future of this great city we will always need them!’
I glance sideways at Aisha, who is shaking her head. Either the mayor’s wife has lost her mind, or she has turned traitor. Money is a powerful persuader, particularly in these difficult times.
‘We will always need veils,’ cries Fatimata, ‘for recently born babies, recently married brides and recently dead corpses!’
; A cheer goes up from the assembled girls and women. Aisha punches the air.
‘For Tuareg men and for highwaymen!’
A ripple of laughter, and clapping.
‘But not for young women in the street!’
Cheers of agreement.
‘Or old women in the mosque!’
More cheers.
‘Or eleven-year-old girls like Kamisa Diallo, buying onions in the marketplace!’
Aunt Juma is standing to one side of the pedestal wearing her lime green veil. Her fists are clenched, and at the mention of her daughter, her shoulders start shaking. Mama steps closer to her sister-in-law and curls an arm round her waist.
‘This is not Riyadh,’ cries the mayor’s wife. ‘This is not Jeddah. This is not Islamabad. Sisters, this is Timbuktu, the city of three hundred and thirty-three saints!’
Aisha throws back her head and trills her tongue at the back of her throat so loud that I have to clap my hands over my ears. The ululation catches on. It sweeps through the crowd from one impassioned tongue to the next. It echoes from the stern facades of the town hall, the police station and the Sidi Yahya Mosque, more potent and formidable than any war cry.
Fatimata puts her hands over her eyes as if in prayer. ‘Timbuktu is Muslim,’ she shouts, ‘but the women of Timbuktu do not walk veiled!’
With that, she removes the veil that hides her eyes and throws it in the air. The black fabric billows, curls and drops silently into the dust. Fatimata stands there on the pedestal with her painted eyebrows, tattooed lips and double chin on full display, glaring round as if daring us to even think the word haram.
Aunt Juma takes off her lime green veil, rips it down the middle and drops the two halves at her feet. Mama does the same with hers.
Aisha lets go of my hand. ‘This is it,’ she says. ‘No going back.’ She slowly lifts her diamanté veil to reveal her long neck, gleaming teeth and thick unplaited hair. She steps on a corner of the veil and yanks it with both hands. The fabric stretches, ladders, and with a coarse rasping sound it tears in two.
I told Ali I would wear his gift some day, and I have been as good as my word. I wish he were here for this moment. I push a fold of the veil between my teeth, bite a small hole in the cheap fabric and hook one finger from each hand into the hole. With one hard pull, the veil splits and the unforgiving Mali sun bursts in on me.
Blood & Ink Page 11
