Harmattan (44 page)

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.

Candice looks at me, rolls her eyes and gives me a great smile and I put my hand to my mouth and snigger. Just as I do so, the invisible audience gives a little snigger too.

The animal noises intensify and the man now looks angrier still. He sits forward, stretches his neck muscles and moves his head from side to side, then puts his hands in front of his chest and quickly draws them outwards, in a cutting action.

His arms now form a cross shape. He says,
Hhhhhey!
loudly, and all at once the animal sounds stop and there is complete silence in the forest. The man nods, leans back against the tree and then closes his eyes again, and almost immediately the silence is broken again by the chorus of laughter from the invisible audience.

Candice and I are rolling around on her bed, giggling and slapping each other playfully, when I suddenly become aware of another sound. I turn my head and realise that Feisha has been calling to us over the clamour of the television set. Her face is like a storm and she points to the set and indicates that it should be turned off.

Candice bounds from the bed in an instant and I stand up too, sensing that something is wrong.

‘It is
that man
!’ Feisha says. She looks at me. ‘Your
husband!
And he is not happy!’ Immediately, my heart is seized by fear. I am on my feet in an instant and spare only a fleeting moment to glance towards Candice. I see the concern on her face, notice how quickly the happiness we were sharing just a few moments earlier has been snatched away from us both. Then, with my heart racing, I put my head down and follow the billowing blur of Feisha’s
pagne
: back along the tiled hallway and into the large living room where Doctor Kwao’s guests are still enjoying his hospitality. As we pass through and Feisha excuses us, I can feel a dozen pairs of eyes boring into me, but I am determined not to look up. I am almost as mortified as I am scared. The floor passes beneath me like the never-ending desert. To help me cross it, I try to concentrate on the slap of Feisha’s sandals on the hard tiles. All at once, I become aware of a gentler padding behind me, a lighter step. Without turning around, I guess that Candice is following us.

At last we reach the steps rising from the living room to the outer hallway. As we climb to the top and turn right into the brightly lit corridor, I become aware of the silhouetted figure of a man – an elegant man, not the mean, scruffy form of my husband – lingering just inside the screened doors.

Doctor Kwao-Sarbah looks at me and, while attempting something close to a smile, rolls his eyes. ‘Ah, Madame Haoua,’ he says, ‘Monsieur Moussa is here to escort you home.’

His words sound awkward, full of unease. He has never addressed me as ‘Madame’ before.

For my part, I feel frightened, deeply embarrassed, and perhaps I even dare to be a little angry.

My husband stands on the veranda with a chew stick in his mouth.

I can tell immediately that he is irritated by the way he rolls it from side to side in his teeth. His clothing is still covered in gore and blood. He is babbling something, fawning before Candice’s father but, I am certain, determined that he will not be shown up by me.

‘I’m sure she simply misunderstood, Monsieur Boureima,’ Doctor Kwao-Sarbah says.

I steal a glance towards Candice, perhaps in some vain attempt to seek help, but the look on her face confirms that she too feels helpless and fearful of my situation.

As I shuffle along towards the doorway, I keep my head down, not daring to look Moussa in the eye. Doctor Kwao-Sarbah puts his big, clean hand on my shoulder and gently guides me on to the veranda. Before me, I see Moussa’s ugly feet, his long, yellow toenails still splattered with the fine spray of the
mouton
’s blood. I hear him suck his teeth and hiss the word,
Walayi!
Then, as Doctor Kwao-Sarbah takes his hand off my shoulder, Moussa reaches out and clutches my arm tightly. He is clever enough not to apply too much pressure with his fingers – not yet – but I am instantly aware of a certain amount of discomfort. He draws me firmly towards him and then steers me down the steps of the Kwao-Sarbah’s veranda. My head is reeling. I am frantically trying to think of excuses.

‘I apologise for this intrusion, Doctor.’

‘Really, as I have said, it is no intrusion,’ Doctor Kwao-Sarbah says. ‘Candice has grown very fond of your dau…’ He checks himself. Gives a little cough.

‘Perhaps you’ll come back with your young wife later on, Monsieur? And join Mesdames Doodi and Yola?’ But, like seeds sown on barren ground, his words fall, lost behind us as Moussa marches me towards the gates.

* * *

No sooner have we rounded the corner of the Kwao-Sarbah’s compound than I feel a sharp pain in the muscles of my upper arm. Moussa has gouged his filthy fingers into my flesh, and now proceeds to fling me towards our own compound. He catapults me through the entrance and I stumble and fall awkwardly to my knees as he releases his grip momentarily. On the street there are few passers-by now, and those who do notice us, choose to ignore us. For a moment I dare to hope that Khalaf, the Kwao-Sarbah’s guardian whose eyes have just bored through my husband as we passed him, will follow us. But we are alone.

I am trying to get up from the ground when I feel the fabric of my
pagne
tighten around my throat and shoulders.

‘Get your lazy hide off the ground, you little whore!’ Moussa spits, wrenching me upwards with one hand.

Before I can even put a foot forward, he shakes me, like a dog with a rat, and pushes me again, jabbing at my shoulder blades with his rough fingers. My blood is racing. For a moment I consider protesting. Offering some reason, some excuse, as to why I have disobeyed his word. As he swings me around the gatepost, and slams me against the block wall, I decide that it is pointless to protest, and resign myself to my fate. What will happen will happen.

‘I’ll teach you to embarrass me! I’ll show you who is master of this house!’

He repeats such phrases over and over again, between slaps and punches and kicks, his spittle peppering my face each time he opens his mouth. He grabs my jaw. Shakes my head from side to side. Breathes his foul breath right into my nostrils and squeezed open mouth. His eyes are slits of fire and rage. He is a demon, a devil, from whom there is no escape for me. ‘You pathetic little insect!’ he hisses. ‘Do you really think the doctor’s daughter gives a damn about the likes of a stupid little bush girl like you? An ungrateful, ignorant, worthless little nobody who does nothing to justify the food I struggle to provide for her?’ He grabs at my chest again. Pinches my left breast with his sharp fingernails. Then he takes hold of the neckline of my
pagne
and shakes me again from side to side. He lowers his head and summons a hideous, animal-like growl from deep within his gullet before discharging a sickening lump of phlegm at my feet. I yank myself away from his grip and take a step into the air, my foot failing to propel me at all as I am wrenched back by Moussa once again. I see the flat of his silhouetted hand like a raggedly black crow as it moves towards the side of my head. I make a poor attempt to avoid the blow and barely feel it as it connects; Doodi has covered my body in a mantle of pain already, so that Moussa’s frenzied attack renders only bruise upon bruise and little in the way of new shock to my flesh. Bent over now, with my hands above my head and my knees ground into the dust, I feel somehow that I am witnessing this beating, rather than enduring it – from the vantage point of my Whistling Mgunga tree, or from the kitchen window, or on television. And what I see is a small, frightened girl being slapped and kicked and shaken mercilessly by a screaming bully whose words have become a formless rant; just another assault on already ringing ears. The vision makes me angry.

Reminds me of watching Souley and her awful friends as they picked on smaller children, me and my classmates powerless to help, having already been warned that we would face a similar fate if we breathed so much as a word to Monsieur Boubacar or the other teachers at Wadata.

Perhaps it is really this image that now causes me to throw my head back, look defiantly into the eyes of my attacker and smile through bloodied teeth.