Moments such as this gave Independence Square its name. The women of Timbuktu are laughing, cheering and clawing at their veils. Dust rises around the Al Farouk monument. Spontaneous dancing has broken out. A discarded veil lands on the statue itself, and for one glorious sacrilegious moment the great Protector Djinni shares a jaunty scarlet headdress with his horse.
Blinking and squinting in the sun, we form ourselves into ranks and advance shoulder to shoulder towards the police station. Badji Dikko, the woman directly in front of me, is shaking both fists in the air as she walks.
Libérons Kamisa, Rejetons le voile!
Free Kamisa, reject the veil! Free Kamisa, reject the veil! The chant ebbs and swells on the shimmering air as we march towards the seat of the Defenders’ power. For the first time since the invasion they are their name, and we are the Aggressors. The bare-faced women of Timbuktu are marching towards their destiny, unarmed, unveiled and unstoppable.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. A text from Ali.
Run Kadi. Run.
The doors of the police station fly open and two lines of Defenders jog out into the light. One line of black-clad boys turns left, the other line turns right. They spread out along the whitewashed walls of Independence Square and raise their AK-47s to their shoulders.
The last man out of the door is Redbeard himself. He stands on the top step of the police station and surveys the scene.
Comedy or menace? Which does he see when he looks at us?
‘Armez!’ calls Redbeard.
Ready! The boys’ backs stiffen. Their eyes focus. Their hands tighten on their guns.
I see Ali before he sees me, on the far right of the line. Even from this distance I can see his knees are trembling.
He’s afraid. Until this moment I have never seen him afraid.
We are still moving forward, but the mood has changed. Big Fatimata glances over her shoulder at the women and girls behind her. Is she looking to us for courage? We hardly have enough for ourselves. Are they bluffing, these boys, or have they been instructed to shoot us in cold blood?
‘Pointe!’
Aim! There is some fidgeting along the line as each Defender lines up his sights. Badji Dikko stops abruptly, causing me to bump into her from behind.
‘Feu!’
Gunfire and screaming fill my ears. Badji whirls round, eyes wide in craven fear, elbowing me in the face in her hurry to escape. Aisha and I fling ourselves to the ground, and then we are being trampled and kicked and the deafening rattle of automatic weapons is all around us and I just want it to stop.
The two hospitals in Timbuktu are full. Girls and women cram the wards and spill out into the corridors. Crush injuries and broken bones are everywhere, but there is not a single gunshot wound. Redbeard’s men were firing over our heads, and we did not realise until we had panicked and trampled each other half to death.
That night I visit Aisha at the Kabara Road Hospital, where she is being treated for concussion. There are seven patients in the tiny room, and visitors too. It’s chaos.
Mama Diabaté is sitting on a corner of Aisha’s mat, with her daughter’s diamanté veil in her hand. She is sewing the two halves neatly back together.
‘Peace be upon you, Mama Diabaté.’
‘And upon you, ma chérie.’
‘How is Aisha?’
‘She woke up about half an hour ago but went straight back to sleep again.’
‘Were you at the protest, Mama?’
‘All six minutes of it.’ She smiles ruefully, then reaches over to press something into my palm. ‘Aisha said to give you this.’
I look down at the kora string necklace in my hand, and the corners of my eyes prick with tears. I lift it over my head and arrange it on my throat.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ I say.
It is not just manuscripts that suffer chipping. People do as well. All around the city, our friends’ and neighbours’ spirits are flaking away piece by piece. Soon there will be nothing left of any of us.
The evening after the women’s protest, more reinforcements arrive in Timbuktu.
They have been arriving every night since the invasion, these truckloads of warriors from all over Muslim Africa. They come from Mauritania, from Guinea and Algeria, from Niger and Nigeria, from North Sudan and Chad. They park their vehicles outside the fort, armed to the teeth and zealous for the glory of God’s name. Some of them are known to Redbeard from his years of Wahhabist wandering. Others are asked for proof of their jihadi credentials.
‘Look around you!’ Redbeard exclaims as he gets to his feet after night prayers. ‘What you see before you is the true United Nations. Not an amphitheatre of gossips wearing curly microphones, but an army of saints wearing AK-47s, the finest city government on earth!’
I must be going. It’s time for night patrol. I stand up painfully and head towards the gate.
As I walk past Redbeard, I can feel him looking at me. ‘Ali Konana!’ he calls out. ‘Why so sad?’
Slowly I turn round to face him – not just him but the rows of kneeling fighters behind him.
‘No reason,’ I say.
‘Nonsense!’ Redbeard jumps to his feet and strides towards me. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
The Ninjas, the foreigners, Muhammad Zaarib, all of them are looking at me now.
‘It’s that girl, master,’ I stutter. ‘She’s only eleven.’
Redbeard’s forehead furrows. ‘I told you before, Ali. The whip will not kill her. It will teach her a lesson. A moment of discomfort for a lifetime of blessing.’
‘Right,’ I mutter.
‘Right indeed.’ He strides towards me with open arms and gathers me into a tight embrace. ‘God disciplines us,’ he whispers in my ear, ‘like a father disciplines his sons. Never forget that, Ali.’
Doesn’t he realise everyone is watching us?
Doesn’t he realise Fulani boys don’t hug, not even their own fathers?
Doesn’t he realise his rifle butt is sticking painfully into my side?
Despite all that, I don’t want him to let go.
Independence Square is dark and silent. I feel rags under my feet and the occasional clink of a spent shell. There is no insurgency afoot tonight, no overt rebellion against God’s laws. The immediate crisis has passed and the women of Timbuktu are learning to obey.
I draw my knife from its sheath on my belt and start to carve a spoon. Redbeard is right, of course. We need God’s discipline.
Deep in my pocket my phone vibrates.
Climb the tree says the text.
I look up at the balustrade. She is standing there, veiled, phone in hand.
No.
I’ll come down, then.
Don’t.
It’s too late. She swings her legs over the balustrade and reaches out to grab a sycamore branch.
‘Stop it,’ I hiss. ‘You might fall.’
Dark and formless in her veil, she propels herself along the branch and down into the heart of the tree. A parakeet bursts out of the foliage and flies away, squawking in irritation.
Kadi drops to the ground, lands awkwardly and falls over backwards.
I told her she would fall.
She gets up, smooths her crumpled veil and crosses the street. I shine my torch at her as she walks towards me. The veil is dark and shapeless, as it should be, but on her feet are a pair of bright red shoes with pointy toes. Are shoes like that haram? If not, they should be.
‘Hello, Abdullai,’ she says.
Abdullai. A wave of nausea hits me.
‘Are you whittling a flute, Abdullai? I hear you make beautiful flutes. We could use a flute in our music group, you know.’
I glance up the street towards the mosque. A group of boys comes out of a side street and walk towards us with bundles of firewood on their heads. They must be on their way to a marabout’s yard for a night of Qur’anic study. They have not seen us yet, but soon they will.
I slide my whittling knife into th
e sheath on my belt, grab Kadi’s hand and pull her behind the mechanic’s shack. We listen as the boys pass by, and then the road is silent once again.
‘How do you know those things?’ I hiss. ‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘I went to the Kabara Road Hospital to visit my friend Aisha. Do you remember her, Abdullai? Short hair, big eyes, incinerated kora? She got hurt in the stampede this afternoon, not that you would care. Anyway, on the mat next to Aisha there was this girl from Goundam. Very quiet, she was, what with her broken ribs, but her sisters talked a lot. I asked them if they know you, and they do.’
‘They don’t,’ I say. ‘They know the boy I used to be. That’s all.’
‘They say you’re good at football, Abdullai. You play in goal for Goundam in the league.’
‘That was an age ago.’
‘Baba says goalkeepers are very brave,’ she whispers, stepping closer. ‘And a little bit crazy.’
‘Football is haram,’ I say.
‘That’s Ali speaking,’ she whispers, standing on tiptoes so that her warm breath tickles my ear. ‘It’s Abdullai I want to talk to.’
God knows I want to talk to her. I am entranced by her poisonous scent and her talk of flutes and goalkeeping. I am straining against my warrior name like a ram against a leash. My only desire, my only conscious thought, is to lift the Sufi’s indigo veil and kiss her tattooed lips.
This nook behind the mechanic’s shack is hidden from the street. One kiss, that’s all, and nobody would know.
She leans towards me. Her fingers brush my belt and the sheath of my knife.
Be strong, I tell myself. Whenever a boy is alone with a girl, the Devil makes a third. I step back hard against the wall of the shack, pressing myself against the corrugated tin so that my lash wounds scream in protest. I clench my jaw and press back harder still.
The pain is exquisite and divine. It racks my soul and brings me back to life.
‘Abdullai is dead,’ I say, knocking her hand away. ‘My name is Ali.’
‘Ali! Ali! Why do you have to be Ali?’ She bangs the corrugated tin. ‘So what if Redbeard gave you that name? Refuse it! Give it back to him!’
‘It’s more than just a name. It’s who I am.’
‘Listen, Abdullai, the girls at the hospital also told me how much Redbeard is paying your family to have you fighting with them. For cattle herders it’s an absolute fortune! You joined the Defenders because you love your parents. I understand that now.’
‘Nonsense!’ I hiss. ‘Redbeard is more of a father to me than my own father ever was.’
She backs away and slumps down on the ground. Her head is in her hands, her shoulders heave. She’s clever, this girl, but she won’t get what she wants. My moment of madness has passed. I feel nothing for her but pity.
‘Feed the white horse,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t feed the black horse, feed the white one.’
‘What?’
‘We are all a blend of good and bad desires, Kadi, but our lives depend on which desires we feed. Feed the white horse, Kadi, and he will carry you to Paradise. And starve the black horse, lest he get strong and bear you off to—’
‘Are you preaching to me?’ says Kadi, springing to her feet. ‘How dare you preach to me, you of all people!’
‘I’m trying to help you,’ I tell her. ‘From this night on, whenever you feed your father’s horse, you will remember God, and the importance of—’
‘Shut up!’ she yells. ‘I don’t need your stupid sermons. And for your information, I never feed my father’s horse. I hate my father’s horse.’
‘Why? What has he ever done to you?’
‘This,’ she says, and kicks me in the shins with her devilish red shoes.
I do not even flinch. Not because it doesn’t hurt – it does – but because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
Besides, something she just said jars my mind. It makes no sense.
‘Are you sure?’ I say slowly. ‘You never feed your father’s horse?’
‘Never, why?’
‘Because the other morning, when I was in your yard, I saw your footprints in the horse’s pen.’
‘You pig!’ she cries. ‘I thought you came in to help me, not to spy on us.’
‘You went to the haystack and back,’ I say. ‘Is that where you keep the manuscripts? In the haystack?’
‘What sort of imbecile keeps manuscripts in a haystack?’ she cries. ‘Besides, who said anything about manuscripts? I told you, we’ve only got one manuscript.’
‘Your father seems to think you have more than one,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘“Kadija,”’ I say, lowering my voice to imitate her father. ‘“How many times have I told you never to take manuscripts outside this house, yet you deliberately disobey me!”’
‘He didn’t say that!’ She is desperate now. ‘He didn’t!’
She turns and runs across the road and climbs the sycamore tree.
She’s mad, that girl.
I sit down on my tyre and rub my aching shins.
Manuscript 3588: the tariq of Muhammad Fodiri Al-Wangari
Muhammad Fodiri Al-Wangari was travelling on foot from Timbuktu to Djenné, when he stopped for sunset prayer. He spread his cloak on the ground and stood on it to pray.
An infidel passed that way, saw Wangari’s fine embroidered cloak and decided to steal it. As the infidel reached out his hand, Fodiri Al-Wangari levitated three inches into the air so that the thief could snatch the cloak without disturbing his prayer.
The would-be thief converted there and then. He stood beside the airborne saint to weep, repent and pray.
May the blessing of Muhammad Fodiri Al-Wangari be upon us.
The day after the women’s protest, Baba and Mama go to a naming ceremony near the old Sankoré Mosque. Even in these desperate times, people still give babies names. They shave the baby’s head and whisper in its ear the ninety-nine names of God.
Me, I’m home alone, preparing rice and maffay for the evening meal. Maffay is Baba’s favourite sauce, but we hardly ever have it because it takes a whole afternoon to prepare.
Pok-pok-pok, the spices smell divine. All fourteen famous spices of Timbuktu are congregated in this pounding pot: cinnamon sticks, bay leaves, cumin, aniseed, hibiscus, sumbala, onion flakes, black pepper, pitted dates, chilli, sundried tomato, kabay lichen, wangaray seeds and fine Taoudeni salt.
While I pound, I sing the first few verses of an old pounding ballad that Mama taught me – the ballad of Jali Madi. One day, or so the story goes, a young man called Jali Madi is running after his fiancée when she disappears into a deep dark cave. He follows her inside and finds to his horror that she has been captured by a djinni. ‘She must stay here for ever with me,’ says the djinni, ‘but I’ll give you something in return.’ And he gives Jali Madi an exquisite musical instrument with twenty-one strings, the world’s first ever kora.
I love sad songs these days. I feign a tremor in my voice and wield the pounding stick with wild grief. I wish the band were here to accompany me – we haven’t played together since Tondi’s wedding.
Bing-bing, a text comes through. I reach for the phone. The song dies on my lips.
Redbeard has an illuminated Al-Fatiha manuscript just like yours.
I lean on my pounding stick to steady myself and the fourteen spices in my nostrils make me want to gag. Our Hausawi Al-Fatiha is utterly unique. Redbeard cannot have one the same. Unless…
I take down the jar of cinnamon sticks from the top shelf, unscrew the top, remove a key and break into a run, spilling the precious spices with my trailing foot. Across the yard, over the fence, across the pen I dash. Marimba startles and moves aside.
These are desperate times in Timbuktu. The rains are late, the banks are shuttered and money’s running short. Can it really be that Baba has sold a manuscript?
The key turns smoothly in the lock and I skedaddle down the earthen steps. I light the lamp, locat
e Trunk Twelve and open up the lid. There it is, praise to the Lord of worlds, right where I left it. Whatever Redbeard has, it’s not our Al-Fatiha.
‘Peace be upon you,’ says a voice.
What have I done? Sweet saints of Timbuktu, what have I done?
Ali steps down onto the earthen floor of the vault and looks round him.
‘Get out,’ I tell him. ‘My parents will be back soon.’
‘I think not.’ He is grinning like a pig in an open sewer. ‘No one leaves a naming ceremony early. They stay until the end, when the cola nuts are handed out.’
‘Nyammu inna maa,’ I mutter.
Fulani insults don’t get much worse, but Ali feigns indifference. ‘Your veil was on your sleeping mat,’ he says, throwing it to me.
‘You were on the roof?’
‘Best spot for spying. Go on, put it on.’
I throw the indigo fabric over my head. I am a rabbit in a burrow with a python. Powerless.
‘Your message was stupid,’ I tell him. ‘Baba would never sell a manuscript. A collector in Bamako once offered thirty cows for the tariq of Sidi Ahmed ben Amar. Thirty cows for one manuscript, and you know what Baba told him? It’s not for sale!’
‘And yet,’ shrugs Ali, ‘here you are.’
Yes. Here I am. The witless daughter of a noble Guardian.
‘I expected one trunk, maybe two,’ says Ali. ‘This is incredible.’
‘Turn around and leave,’ I say. ‘Forget what you have seen. I’m begging you, Abdullai.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ He strolls down the central aisle and marvels at the towering stacks of trunks. ‘Tell me, Kadija, how many manuscripts are in this chamber?’
‘Twelve thousand. But only two thousand of those belong to us.’
‘Show me.’
‘Show you what?’
‘I don’t know. Your favourites.’
My first instinct is to refuse. But then I remember Umar bin Said. I open the padlock of Trunk Sixteen and take out The Mecca Letters.
‘Umar bin Said, ancient mystic.’ I lay the manuscript gently on the table and turn up the flame on the paraffin lamp. ‘He went on pilgrimage to Mecca and his journey took him through Bornu and Hausaland, two Muslim lands at war. It upset him so much to see Muslims fighting each other, that he wrote this letter to both rulers.’
Blood & Ink Page 12
