Harmattan (38 page)

I searched my father’s eyes, but could find no warmth or sorrow. Just anger, embarrassment even. ‘Tell the
anasara
to stop that! He is nothing to do with me or my family!’ he snapped. ‘Get your mother out of that thing. Her body must be washed and wrapped in white cloth before we lay her in the ground.’

‘The body is already prepared, Father,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘My friend here, Monsieur Archie Cargo, has helped us immensely.’

My father paused, and for a moment I thought that he was going to thank Archie Cargo. Instead he retreated, with Alassane, to the house.

The mourners who had followed us from the edge of the village now sidled up to the car. I felt another hand on my shoulder and when I looked up I saw Madame Kantao’s kindly face smiling down at me. Miriam was there too, holding her mother’s other hand.

Behind them, a sea of faces. The whole of Wadata, it seemed. And scores of people from Goteye, Bankilare, Kokorou and Wanzarba. But for every face I recognised there were at least two that I did not.

‘Come, child,’ Madame Kantao said. ‘We must get you cleaned up before the burial.’ Indeed my clothes were filthy, and my body stank, as well as being sore and stiff. In the distance, the lament of an
algaiita
drifted across the village. As I trudged along beside my friends, my throat dry, my eyes gritty and rubbed raw, I looked back just in time to see my mother’s body being lifted gently from the coffin by Abdelkrim and Monsieur Letouye. Then the crowd closed around them and filtered in to my father’s compound.

My mother’s body was carried to the high plateau. The marabout read the opening
Surah
of the Koran:

In the name of Allah, Most Gracious,

Most Merciful. Praise be to Allah the

Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds.

Most Gracious, Most Merciful, Master of

the Day of Judgement, You alone do we

worship and Your aid we seek. Show us

the straight way, the way of those to

whom You have given Your favour, and 

not of those who go astray.

Then all of the women and girls who had gathered for the ceremony stood back. Two lines were formed so that the angel of death might pass through. The men lifted my mother’s shrouded body, chanting as they carried her away. We buried my mother next to Bunchie, among the rocks on the plateau. After her body had been placed in the ground, we all said:

From the earth have we created you,

and into it shall we return you, and from it
shall we bring you forth once more.

Afterwards there was silence for a brief moment, during which one could almost hear the sand grains rasp against one another in the gentle breeze. The marabout, my father, Abdelkrim and the elders then led the procession back towards our village while Adamou, Fatima and I followed with the other mourners. Behind us, the mood had lifted and people were talking freely, openly.

‘The grave is the first stage of the journey into eternity,’ someone said.

‘Death is a bridge that unites friend with friend.’

‘May God show us each other.’

‘This AIDS is a terrible thing,’ I heard a younger voice pronounce, before being hushed.‘Our people have always died in this manner,’ anold woman from Goteye said. ‘The
anasaras
have just given it a name, that’s all.’

‘Walayi
. The Hausa word for it means
Welcome to the Grave
!’

I wanted to cry, but I remembered that the prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him) said,
Whosoever is wept upon will suffer as a result of this weeping
. My mother was gone but I knew that her spirit could still hear me.

Alassane had been following the procession with her sisters, but now she caught up with us and cradled Fatima’s head in her bony hand. She put on a great display of shaking her head as if she had been my mother’s dearest friend. ‘You children must help your father more than ever now,’ she said, sternly.

Madame Kantao put her arm around Fatima, protectively I thought, and gave me a reassuring smile.

Back at the compound, Fatima and I were kept busy, carrying water to the mourners to enable them to wash and drink. It seemed an unending task, despite the fact that Adamou and Fatima had filled every gourd and container they could find the previous evening. Mademoiselle Sushie turned up in her truck, with four huge plastic jars which she had filled at the well at Goteye. People stood about in small groups, or squatted on palm leaf mats, waiting expectantly. I wished that they would all go home, so that I could talk to my brothers and my sister, and perhaps even my father.

My father took Abdelkrim by the arm and led him out past the entrance of the compound, where Archie was preparing his car for the return journey to Niamey. I had just poured some water over the marabout’s hands and decided that Archie might like to wash too. I followed Abdelkrim and my father and stopped a few metres behind them: just as they had not heard me behind them, I was unaware then of the figure standing behind me.

‘Our guests must be fed, Abdelkrim,’ I heard my father say. ‘Many of them have travelled great distances in order to pay their respects.’

Abdelkrim looked at him blankly. ‘I doubt if Mother knew half of these people, Father.’

My father made no attempt to conceal his anger. ‘How would you know, soldier boy?’ he snapped. ‘You’ve had little enough to do with your family these past years! How dare you criticise others who wish to pay their last respects to your mother!’

‘I think they’ve done that. They should go home now,’ my brother said, pushing back his broad shoulders. ‘And I’ll remind you that my employment in the military has done you no harm.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I think you know what I mean, Father.’

My father took a step towards Abdelkrim, so that their faces were up close.

Archie had finished packing the car and slammed the trunk closed. He looked at me and shrugged. For a moment I thought that he might intervene. The tinny sound of western music on the car radio raked across the dust towards me.

‘What is it that you’re trying to say, Abdelkrim?’ my father said.

Abdelkrim took a step backwards, so that he was leaning against the vehicle.

He coughed, then shook his head. ‘Now is not the time for this, Father.’

‘Now is fine.’

Their eyes were locked. They held each other’s gaze for too long. Eventually Abdelkrim spoke.

‘Toh
. So be it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I know you frittered away the money I sent to Mother. Where did it go, Father? On whoring and gambling? You can use what’s left to feed your
guests!’
He side-stepped my father and made to move towards Archie, but my father caught his arm and spun him back against the body of the car.‘I have no money to feed these mourners!’ he hissed. ‘You must bear your responsibilities. You must help us. Do not shame me!’

Abdelkrim pushed him back, gently. ‘Shame
you
? Shame
you
? You are the one who has brought shame to this family!’

My father looked furious now. ‘How dare you!’

Abdelkrim glanced towards the compound entrance and saw me standing there, quiet and frightened. ‘And don’t talk to me about
responsibilities
.’ He pointed towards me. ‘There are your responsibilities: Haoua and Adamou and Fatima. Tell these people to be on their way and concentrate on looking after these children – instead of squandering everything you have on the likes of that old witch!’ he pointed beyond me now, and as I followed the direction of his gesture I realised that Alassane was standing behind me.

She had a look on her face that was neither a smile nor a sneer but somehow both at the one time. At that moment, but for her expression, she looked perfectly respectable, ordinary, wholesome even. Her
pagne
and matching head wrap were sumptuously decorated in a swirling pattern of yellow and black. A chew stick jutted from one corner of her mouth. It was only then – as I examined her closely for the first time that day – that I recognised the string of beads which she was wearing around her thickset neck. They were my mother’s. A wave of anger washed over me and for a moment, heady on my brother’s indignation, I considered confronting her.

But it was not to be.

‘Aren’t you going to tell him, Salim?’ Alassane said, coldly.

My father composed himself. ‘Keep out of this, woman!’ he snapped. ‘This is men’s business.’

She gave a little sneer and sucked her teeth. ‘
Toh.
Then act like a man.’

My father shot her a look of irritation and then jabbed Abdelkrim in the chest.

‘I can look after my family. I don’t need you to tell me how to do so. I have the means to do so. Have some respect for your elders!’ His finger stabbed out the beat of his words.

Abdelkrim pushed his hand aside. ‘So, don’t ask me to feed these hangers-on. And don’t talk to me about respect. Mother is not even cold in the ground and already you flaunt this woman in front of the whole village!’ There was rage in his voice now. ‘I know all about your plans. The wedding, the bolt of cloth. I have heard about it all. Tell me how, exactly, are you going to provide for
her
’ – he jabbed his thumb towards Alassane – ‘and your children?’

‘Tell him, Salim!’ Alassane called.

My father hesitated. ‘I will be able to provide,’ he said. ‘God will provide.

Inshallah
. But for now I need you to help your family.’

My brother tutted and shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Walayi!’
my father groaned. ‘All the money is tied up in the wedding.

Monsieur Letouye has meat cuts ready for these mourners. He must be paid. I don’t have it now. You understand?’

Alassane shuffled impatiently. ‘Just tell him!’

‘Tell me what? You’ve spent everything you had on preparations for marrying that woman. What else is there to know?’

My father looked down at my brother’s feet and shrugged. ‘It is true that I wish to marry Alassane. Soon, hopefully. I want more children, Abdelkrim. A man who has many children is rich indeed.’

‘Aiee!’
Abdelkrim shook his head.

‘But that is not the marriage to which we refer.’

Abdelkrim looked at Alassane and then back at my father. ‘What?’ he said.

‘What is it that you’re telling me?’

‘
Tell
him!’

My father looked up. He too looked at Alassane, then at me, then at my brother. ‘Your sister Haoua has been promised to cousin Moussa since she was six. It is
they
who are to be married.’ He turned to face me. ‘You are almost twelve now,’ he said.

‘It is time.’

My blood ran cold. Had my senses not already been deadened by the loss of my mother, I think I might have fainted again. A single word formed on my lips. A name. A plea. A cry for help: ‘Moussa?’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

Abdelkrim’s displeasure was more obvious. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I will not permit this!’ He grabbed my father’s
jellaba
in both hands and twisted it. ‘You filthy old
zaneem
! Bastard! You won’t do this to my sister!’

My father put his hands against the base of Abdelkrim’s neck and pushed hard, but Abdelkrim spun him around and slammed him back against the door of the Mercedes.

‘Abdel!’ I shouted and ran forward to tug at his tunic. Alassane had got there before me and had grabbed a handful of my brother’s hair. I turned then and tried to push her arm away, just as Archie reached in and grabbed her by both wrists.

‘Abdel!’ Archie called over his shoulder, hauling both Alassane and me back towards the compound. ‘Leave it! Enough! Stop!’

But Abdelkrim was not about to stop. ‘It was you who killed Mother!’ he screamed, his teeth bared and his face bearing down on my father’s. ‘Everyone knows that you’re a carrier! It is you who has brought shame to this family! Do you think I’ll stand by and let you destroy this child’s life as well?’ He slammed Father against the side of the car again. ‘And now you tell me that you want more children!

Why is that, Father? So that you can sell them too?’

My father – looking small now, frail, frightened – gave a final push and broke free of my brother. He raised his hand to strike Abdelkrim, but my brother caught his wrist and bent his arm up behind his back.

‘Not this time, old man! And never again!’ Tiny blobs of gluey saliva sprayed across my father’s face.

Still struggling with Archie, I looked back, appalled at what was happening.

‘Stop it, Abdel!’ I cried. ‘Stop it, please!’

Abdelkrim had Father by the chin now. Suddenly it seemed like he could crush him in his fist. ‘You will not do this, old man. I will not allow it!’ he hissed. ‘You would steal her education from her and sell her into a life of servitude! It is not what Mother would have wanted.’ He released his grip on Father’s chin and then dropped his hands by his side. For a moment he stood silent, staring at my father who remained crumpled, like a rag, against the side of the Mercedes. Both of them were panting heavily.

I pulled away from Archie and stumbled back towards the car. I stood shaking between these two men that I loved; torn, dismayed, frightened. Some of the mourners had heard the commotion and had gathered at the entrance to the compound.

Abdelkrim looked down at me and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I could see that he too was shaking. He looked Father in the eye again. ‘No,’ he said, firmly. ‘I will not allow this marriage. I am going now. But I will return very soon. I will prepare a place for my brother and sisters in the capital. I will come back for them. You will not try to stop me. You will not give Haoua to that bastard Moussa.’ With that he nodded towards Archie and then walked around to the driver’s side of the car. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

It seemed impossible to me that he should leave, just like that, after all that we had been through. Everything was happening too fast.

My father stepped aside as Archie approached the car. Then he too got into the vehicle. Abdelkrim leaned across his friend and called to me. ‘I will come back for you, Little One.’ He peered back towards the compound where a crowd had now formed.