by Claire Hajaj
He’d anticipated every possible reaction from his father –surprise, pleasure, even fury – everything except disinterest. He didn’t even look up from his desk when Nick told him. ‘If this were a true act of conscience,’ he’d replied, ‘then you wouldn’t need my approval.’ The Torah finally arrived, a Pandora’s box of second thoughts. Today it was somewhere in the house he shared with Kate, still waiting to be opened.
Margaret had closed her eyes, her chin dropping as if in sleep. Silence washed the air between them, a light wind blowing ripples across the lake. Eyelashes shadowed her cheeks; pale fingers stroked the beads on her wrist. Against the sun she could have been one of her own drawings – the same fierce grace of line, the hypnotic contrast of bright and dark.
‘So, why do you believe in ghosts?’ he asked.
She looked up, her face sharp in the sun’s relief. The expression there was so close to hatred it made Nick recoil in shock.
‘Because I also killed someone.’
Nick’s mouth went dry. ‘Who?’
‘My child.’
She stood up, pulling her headscarf back around her face. ‘Margaret,’ he said, struggling to his feet. But she ignored him, turning for an instant towards Binza’s shack. He reached out for her hand but her fists were clenched; she wrenched them away. Then she was gone, running back towards the village.
He watched her go, heart pounding. His senses were newly awake to the land’s secret menace, the hiss of the wind, the dark threat of the lake.
I also killed someone. He remembered the cross in her garden, the thread of sorrow linking everyone in that house. His mind shied away from possibilities too terrifying to contemplate. But then JoJo’s shape emerged in the distance, skipping past Adeya’s fields. He raised his arm, a cheerful wave summoning Nick home.
The village council has called a meeting about the rains. Jalloh and Tuesday and Imam Abdi and Mr Kamil – they will all be there. Baba says they want to make trouble, but will not stand and face it. I heard him tell Mama: ‘The only thing faster than Kamil’s mouth is his car.’
Baba will bring me to the council with him. ‘You are nearly a man, Yahya,’ he told me. ‘One day you must speak there yourself. Nicholas will come also.’ He had asked Baba’s permission. Baba looked at him for a long while. Then he said: ‘Of course, you are most welcome.’
The council meets at the mosque, after prayers. Usually we pray at home, not at the mosque. Mecca is towards Baba’s clock. Once I told Bako that Allah lives inside the clock. ‘You can hear Allah,’ I told him. ‘He says, tick-tock, tick-tock.’
Mr Kamil has brought Juma. He looks at me when I walk into the room. He used to look at me like I was a goat and he the dog. But I am different now.
Nicholas sits down with us, at the big table. Juma sits opposite, with Mr Kamil. Imam Abdi has the highest place, at the head. Jalloh is beside Baba. Tuesday is there, too. Today he has buttoned his shirt, because there are no ladies.
A stranger sits beside Imam Abdi. He is fat, like the governor. A rich man. He sees me looking and smiles at me. His teeth are white as a jackal’s.
Imam Abdi begins with a blessing. He thanks Allah that He did not burn all the village. He asks Allah to help us with the dry season. He prays for Allah’s law to return to us. He talks too long. By the end he is squawking like a parrot. At last, he tells us, ‘Allah knows best.’
Mr Kamil, he stands up. He says: ‘My friends, Allah knows best. So why does He send the fires to take our fields? It is judgement. We bow to laws that are not His and to corrupt men. We have caused our own suffering.’
Baba raises his voice. He says: ‘The ones who suffer most are not in this room. First we must discuss our responsibility to them. Charity pleases Allah more than all other praise.’
Mr Kamil does not like it when Baba speaks. He points his fingers straight out, like knives. He says: ‘Dr Ahmed is correct. We must tend first to the suffering. But tell me, where is the root of the disease? The price of water is breaking us. And even then, the trucks do not come. Greed is drinking our water and greed is eating our food. There is a knife at our throats. I can name the knife. Can you?’
‘The governor is no friend to us,’ Tuesday says.
Baba is translating for Nicholas. But I am thinking of when the governor gave me his cap. He smiled at me then. His teeth were white, too, like the stranger’s.
Now the stranger speaks. He says: ‘It is true, sir. The governor has not forgiven the rebellion. You will pay and pay, for as long as he lives.’
Mr Kamil bows his head. ‘Welcome, Danjuma,’ he says.
Now I know who the stranger is. I saw him on the posters in Tuesday’s shop. Danjuma is the man who stands against the governor in the election. Tuesday saw us looking at the posters. He said: ‘Is he handsome, this Danjuma? Not so handsome as me, eh?’
Danjuma is handsome. He has a friendly face and his shirt is purple. He clasps his hands and smiles at everyone. He leaves no one out from the smiling.
‘Danjuma knows our problems,’ Mr Kamil tells us. ‘When he is governor, he will give us back justice.’
But Baba, he speaks again. He says: ‘The last time our guest’s party fought the governor’s party, this village paid a heavy price.’
‘I know, sir,’ Danjuma says. ‘Your father was with us, and mine. But that was many years gone. Do we wait for our children to fight the battles that should be ours? I see your boy is here with you.’
He points my way. Baba, he looks down at me. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses. I want to tell him, I am ready, Baba. Ready to fight. But he says to Danjuma: ‘I want my son to have peace, food and learning. And I want to leave our dead to rest. I tell you, we must talk to the governor. Ask him to lower the price of water. Give him the chance to hear our concerns.’
Jalloh, across the table, he says: ‘Yes, sir.’ Tuesday, beside us, he looks here and there like a cat. Imam Abdi, he is angry. He looks like he has swallowed one of Jalloh’s goats, and its legs have stuck in his mouth.
Mr Kamil puffs out his big chest, like a rooster. He speaks to Baba in a rooster voice. He says: ‘You cannot stop what is coming. There are just six months until the election. We must prepare.’
Nicholas, he raises his hand. ‘I will help, if you want,’ he says. ‘I can speak to the governor.’
They look at him. A white knight, Mama called him. She watches him, like I do. She watches when we are together.
Danjuma, he is watching, too. He asks: ‘What can you say to the governor?’
I want to tell Nicholas: be careful of this Danjuma. But Nicholas is not afraid. He says: ‘The village should have its own water supply. There’s water underground, a source – or so I hear. We may be able to tap it.’
The men look at each other. Baba, he puts a hand on Nicholas’ arm. He says: ‘First let us ask for the prices to come down. Elections are difficult times to make big changes.’
‘Sure,’ Nicholas says. ‘We can ask for that, too.’
So Mr Kamil says to him: ‘You will go to the governor?’
But Baba, he says: ‘I will take Nicholas with me. Together we will see what can be done.’
Later, when we leave, Baba says to Nicholas: ‘I am sorry if I am overbearing. But I am afraid of what will happen if Kamil and his friends have their way. They talk of helping people but their real interest is in power. Human nature can be ugly.’
‘And it can be noble,’ Nicholas says, putting his hand on Baba’s shoulder. Baba laughs and looks at me. He says: ‘And what do you think of this council, Yahya? Would you like to see Danjuma here, with his loudspeaker?’
I think of the man, of his poster in Tuesday’s shop, of his big hands clasped together over his head. Baba’s hands held Adeya’s to comfort her and wrapped them in bandages. Nicholas’ hands can make real things out of numbers, like our castle. But then I think of the governor’s hand in mine, and I feel fear.
I take Baba’s hands, his good hands. And I say: ‘Baba, pl
ease. Don’t go to the Town.’
Baba takes my face. His touch is warm. He smiles at me, like he did when I was small and Bako was alive. ‘Yahya,’ he says. ‘What has worried you? There’s nothing to fear.’
‘They are not good men there,’ I say. And Baba he squeezes my cheek. ‘Wise boy,’ he says.
Then he turns to Nicholas. He says: ‘This is the most important thing – the moral future of our children. You cannot grow a strong tree with poisoned water. If these boys grow up with anger, what will they learn? What will they become?’
Nicholas nods his head. Then he puts his arm on my shoulder. ‘But first,’ he says, ‘we must make sure they grow up.’
That night in my bed, I ask Mama: ‘When Nicholas goes back to England, can I go with him? Like Baba did, to study?’
She touches my cheek and says: ‘You are too young, JoJo. There will be time later.’
‘When I go,’ I tell her, ‘I will learn mathematics and build things. And I would send you money, you and Baba and Nagode. And Nagode will come to stay with me, when she is older. You will see.’
Mama turns her head from me. I can see only the shape of her, her back and her cheek. She says: ‘I know, JoJo. I know.’ Her voice is quiet and I think she is crying. I am afraid to ask her why. Maybe it is for Bako. Or maybe Adeya has become more sick.
Instead I ask her: ’Do you like Nicholas?’
Her head comes up and her voice changes. She says: ‘I like him well enough.’
I tell her: ‘He’s a good man.’
She touches my cheek, her skin as soft as Adeya’s goats: ‘And I pray you will be one, too.’
After she goes, I pull my blanket over my head. I think of how it will be to live with Nicholas. It is cold in England, and everything is green. I will study at the university. And I will stay with Nicholas and his wife. If they have children, I will be like their big brother.
Next day I tell Akim, at our desks before the teacher comes. I tell him: ‘I won’t go to the high school next year. I will go to England instead, with Nicholas. The schools here are no good.’
I can see Adeya, listening. Her desk is in front by the teacher, where the girls sit. She turns to me, and I see her face. Mostly she smiles when she sees me. But today she does not smile.
Akim laughs to see her. He says: ‘Look – your girlfriend will miss you, eh, JoJo?’ He brings his face close to mine and makes his voice high, like a girl’s. He says: ‘Kiss me, JoJo! I love you. Don’t mind my smell. Kiss me!’
My face feels red. I used to think Adeya and me, we would marry. And I kissed her once, on the mouth. She asked me to. So I did. Her mouth was dry, but I liked it. She said: ‘Do it again.’
Now all the boys are looking at me. I feel their eyes on me, like ants. My face, it burns.
Adeya is also red. She speaks to Akim in a low voice. She says: ‘Leave him be, stupid.’
‘You leave him, stinky,’ Akim says to her. ‘I can smell your shit from here.’
‘Lift her dress,’ I hear someone call. ‘Maybe she only has one hole. You have to put your dick in the same hole she makes her business.’
Adeya looks at me. I open my mouth – but nothing comes.
Akim, he says: ‘Better go to England, JoJo, to find a nice woman. Who wants a wife who smells like shit?’
I see her eyes, the look she gives me. Then she turns her back to me. She makes herself small, like a dog when you hit it.
I think: in my bag I still have those stickers – the ones I stole from Tuesday’s shop. Flowers and animals. So many times I meant to give them to you.
But now I am looking at her back. I want to tell her: don’t cry, Adeya. I want to tell her that I do not care how she smells. That I have cried for her, too, many times. Like when Baba took her to the hospital that time. I cried all night and did not sleep.
But they are laughing around me and I cannot. All that day, I only see her back.
And at night when I sleep, the dreams come. The fires are burning and Adeya stands inside them, on the other side of the lake. I want to reach her. But between us is too much water, and all the water is made from our tears.
December
Soon, Nick began to suspect Dr Ahmed was deliberately delaying his mission to the Town. Miss Amina’s diabetic foot abscess needed cleaning, Adeya’s dressings needed changing, his monthly drop-in clinic at the market was overdue. He dismantled the grandfather clock – forcing the household to step gingerly over weights and tools whose brown patina defied even Dr Ahmed’s fevered polishing.
Meanwhile, Nick used the time to learn more about the village aquifer. Eric managed to retrieve an old survey, dating back nearly twenty years. It showed a large water source directly under the village, one hundred metres below in fractured bedrock.
The water of life. With it the land could be transformed – irrigation systems and running taps, reservoirs to slake thirst and extinguish fires.
Nick thought of sharing his discovery with Margaret – but she’d retreated from him since that day at the lake. His overtures were rejected with one-word answers and averted eyes, an invisible curtain drawn irrevocably around her.
With so much else on his mind he should have respected her withdrawal – but instead it left him frustrated, and even bereft. He’d crossed an ocean – left his family without an instant of loneliness. But now he sensed its first cold touches – as she turned her head away passing him in the hall, as her eyes slid from his at the dinner table. He’d confessed his deepest shame to her, a twenty-year scab ripped away. He felt its ache, painfully vivid, like the bloodied knee of a climber or the broken nose of a bare-knuckle boxer. His senses were newly raw and awake; he found himself noticing familiar things as if for the first time – the yellow flag on JoJo’s castle, bright shavings of peel on the compost heap, the whisper of Nagode’s sleeping tree, Binza’s red doorway, sharp tendrils of sight and sound piercing his being.
I killed my child, she’d said. The memory chilled him. Sometimes he was relieved by her absence but other times – at the dinner table or when they passed in the sitting room – he felt the secret touch of her gaze, a pause that stretched between them like an in-held breath.
On Friday, two weeks after the village meeting, Nick returned home early from the Town, bringing Eric’s monthly supply list for Dr Ahmed’s approval. Friday’s sermon was blazing from the mosque loudspeaker; Nick noticed a larger crowd than usual gathering outside as his Jeep sped past.
He pulled up to the house in the choking heat. Pacing up the steps, he rapped on Dr Ahmed’s surgery door. Silence answered. The dim sitting room was quiet, the air stale. ‘Hello?’ Dust motes stirred; Nick’s voice came back at him in a flat echo. Moisture pooled on his forehead in the oppressive heat. Perhaps Margaret was sleeping inside with Nagode. An image came, unbidden, long arms outstretched on the sheets, sweat tracing soft lines on their skin.
He opened the back door and stepped out into the garden – nearly tripping over Margaret where she sat on the porch steps. She cried out in alarm, snatching something to her chest, the pencil in her hand clattering to the tiles.
‘I’m sorry!’ he said, stretching out to reassure her. Colour scalded her cheeks. ‘I didn’t see you – I was looking for Dr Ahmed.’ He brandished the supply checklist. ‘Eric’s sending someone to get supplies – he wants to know what we need.’
‘Ahmed took JoJo to Friday prayers.’ Margaret’s breath came fast, whatever she’d been holding still clutched to her – a notebook, pressed tight against her skin. ‘You came back early.’ It was an accusation.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. Suddenly he felt ridiculous. He fought the urge to grab her, shake her out of this strange pretence of hostility. The castle loomed behind her, dust rising over the ground where they’d danced. Forget it. She obviously has and so should you. ‘What were you doing?’ He indicated the notebook. ‘Drawing another story?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, getting to her feet and pushing past him into the kitc
hen.
‘So I’ll look for Dr Ahmed at the mosque then,’ he called after her. There was no reply. He gave up, heading down into the garden and out of the front gate.
He could hear noise swelling from the mosque as he rounded the corner. Prayers had just ended and the village men would be gathering their shoes and rolling up their mats, filling the streets with a loose and gentle chatter.
But this sound was different; he could hear dozens of raised voices, punching through the air. Something was wrong. Stopping short, Nick saw files of men marching from the mosque’s entrance, heading purposefully into the street.
He barely had time to back away into the safety of the mosque forecourt before they flooded past him, arms jabbing towards the village’s scorched fields. Some he knew from Dr Ahmed’s surgery: Imam Abdi and Mr Kamil’s son Juma, clenched fists pumping over his head. The crowd’s leader was shouting into a megaphone.
Nick realised he was trapped, an angry line of men stretching between him and Dr Ahmed’s house. He could see no sign of the doctor or JoJo; surely the old man would never take his son to a protest? Not even if the governor burned his house down in front of him.
And now another group approached the march from the opposite direction, smaller and more ragged. Jalloh led them; Nick saw the nervous swing of his big arms. They blocked the protesters’ path right where Nick stood, hurling insults across the invisible line between the two sides. He could feel the unspilled violence simmering, a pressure-cooker coming to the boil.
One of Jalloh’s younger friends pushed across the boundary, fury overlaying his adolescent terror. He launched himself towards the protester holding the megaphone, trying to wrest it from him. But the protester’s hand came crashing down, sending metal smashing into dark curls.
