Harmattan (16 page)

Monsieur Boubacar did not resist. He stood now, at the compound entrance, with his hands forlornly by his sides. Then, looking over my father’s shoulder, he noticed Fatima and me standing petrified in the doorway of our house. He raised one hand and with it patted the air towards us, while, with the other, he offered the exercise book to my father. ‘At least let Haoua have these exercises that I’ve prepared for her – please, Salim.’

‘Get away from my home,’ my father said, and turned his back on my wonderful teacher.

Weeks went by. After the incident with Monsieur Boubabcar, I hardly dared mention my poor mother, lying in a hospital somewhere in the capital, to my father. I knew that Abdelkrim had sent some money home with Sushie, to enable Father to visit Mother, but he did not seem in any hurry to do so. On the contrary, with me working at home all day, he seemed more relaxed, settled. Sometimes he even seemed happy, and I began to wonder if he had simply forgotten about Mother; a notion that grew as steadily as the number of days that Aunt Alassane spent in my father’s company, skulking around our compound. The talk in the village was that he had no intention of visiting Mother – that he was scandalised by her illness and that he did not acknowledge any part in either it or her care. In spite of everything that had happened, I could not believe this of my father.

We heard occasional, vague reports about Mother’s worsening condition through Monsieur Richard or Sushie but, with the growing unrest in the capital, fewer people around Wadata were making regular trips to Niamey then.

‘It’s kind of getting a bit
hairy
there right now,’ Sushie said to me one morning at Wadata’s little market where I was selling ground nuts.

I did not know what she meant.

‘A little bit dangerous. There are a lot of very angry people running around Niamey at the minute – cursing Mainassara, shouting a lot and staging riots. Who can blame them? Many haven’t been paid for months. The military are pretty twitchy too by all accounts. They’re expected to keep things under control – and
they
haven’t been paid either! I heard on the radio that they arrested some journalists yesterday!’

I’d heard it too. I could not imagine living without my little radio set now, but the more news I heard about the unrest throughout the country, the more I worried about my brother. ‘Do you think Abdel will be all right, Mademoiselle Sushie?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. Abdel’s a big boy. He can look after himself. You’ve got enough to worry about without worrying about him, Haoua.’

‘
Toh,’
I said, more anxious than ever.

By March, my brother and sister and I were so distraught that we finally decided to risk my father’s anger. Fatima and I had been watering Mother’s okio that morning and Adamou, on his way to tend to our livestock, had stopped to discuss our situation yet again.

‘You do it, Haoua,’ Adamou insisted. ‘You are better with words.’

‘He’ll be angry with me, I know it,’ I said, ‘especially if that witch is hanging around again.’

‘Our poor Mother will be feeling abandoned,’ Adamou said. ‘He must know that too. If he doesn’t go to see her, one of us ought to.’

‘Why don’t you speak to Father, Adamou?’ said Fatima. ‘You are the oldest.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I will do it. If he is angry, so be it. God will guide me.’

I was writing a little note to Mother later that day when Father came into the house. I made a half-hearted attempt to shield it from his eyes; even though he could not read it, I knew he would quiz me about it. And he did.

‘What are you doing?’ he said quietly. ‘I thought we had agreed that you should put all of that behind you.’

‘All of what, Father?’ I said, cautiously.

‘You know what I mean, Haoua – school, writing, all of that nonsense. It can only bring trouble your way.’

I tried to read his face. He seemed calm enough, but I wondered if this was just the beginning of yet another fierce rage.

‘I just want to let Mother know that we have not forgotten about her, Father.

She has been away for nearly three months now, and only Abdelkrim has visited her.

Sushie says that even he cannot manage it often because of the trouble in the city.’

My father looked agitated. ‘Your mother can only read the few words that you taught her, child. It is pointless to waste your time on such things – especially when there is so much to do here!’

It was true. The toil was never-ending. And yet he seemed to spend more and more time playing
Tiddas
and dominoes with his friends and less time helping us.

‘This will not take long, Father. I’m just letting her know that we are all fine.

Someone
will read it out to her in the hospital – one of the doctors, perhaps.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it. If you’d ever seen these big hospitals you’d know that the doctors and nurses have no time for such things. They are very busy places.’

‘You have seen them, Father?’

‘I have seen them,’ he said, looking to the ground. ‘And I have no desire to see them again.’

I took a deep breath. There would never be a better moment. ‘Father,’ I said, gently, reaching out and touching his sleeve, ‘Mother needs you.’

He said nothing, but closed his eyes tightly.

‘You could take my letter to her…’

He opened his eyes again. They were glazed with what I thought for a moment might be tears. He kneaded them with the tips of his fingers. ‘This dust gets everywhere!’ he said. Then, pursing his lips, he nodded. ‘I will go to her. As it happens, I have to discuss some important matters with your mother – and I have other business to attend to in Niamey.’

I was elated. I hugged him tightly around his middle, my tears soaking into his
jel aba
. ‘Thank you, Father, thank you!’

He patted my back and then, taking my shoulders in his hands, he moved me gently back so that he could see my face. There was, somehow, a distant look in his eyes, but he was smiling. ‘Finish your letter, Little One,’ he said. ‘But, Haoua…’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘Don’t write down any of that business about your teacher, please. We don’t want to worry your mother, do we?’

‘No, Father.’

14th February, 1999

Azara Boureima
Salle Quatre
National Hospital of Niamey
Republic of Niger
Dear Mother,

This is your daughter Haoua writing. I am so pleased to know that Father is seeing you. He has been very busy but Adamou and Fatima and I have been helping with the work here as much as we can. Fatima has told me all about your hospital and the doctors and nurses there and I hope that one of them will read my letter out to you.

While Fatima was away, Adamou and I fixed the floor for you and then we slept outside. Father says we did a fine job. We are looking after your crops too, so do not worry. Our animals are fine also.

Mademoiselle Sushie gave me the little radio which Abdelkrim bought for me and I listen to it at night and hear about things happening where you are.

And I hear about things happening in other countries too and I love it. My friends in Ireland are going to send me some proper shoes! I am so happy.

Monsieur Boubacar and Monsieur Houeto are very well, and so is Miriam and all of her family. They all pray for you, Mother, and so do I. May God bless you.

Affectionately your daughter,

Haoua

***

My father was away for ten whole days and when he returned to Wadata he did not do so alone.

Fatima, Miriam and myself were carrying water back from the river when we spied the two figures walking towards the village from the north.

‘It’s him! It’s Father!’ Fatima shouted.

Keen to hear news of our mother, we set our pails and jars down and hurried to meet him.

‘I’ll see you later,’ I called to Miriam, as the dust flew from my heels.

‘Toh
. Are you going to watch television?’ she called after me.

‘Yes.’

‘Toh
.’

Fatima was ahead of me, but she stopped short, a few metres before the two men. I stopped beside her and put my hand on her shoulder.

‘Father,’ I said.

‘My daughters.’

‘How is Mother?’ Fatima said.

Father stepped forward and put his bundle on the ground. Then he stroked our heads and said, ‘Have you forgotten your manners?’ He turned to indicate his companion – a short, stocky man with yellow eyes. ‘This is my cousin Moussa.’

‘Mademoiselles, ça va? Mate ni go?’ Moussa said, smiling through broken teeth. ‘Iri ma wichira bani,’ we said together.

‘My daughters – Haoua and Fatima,’ Father said, placing his hand on our shoulders as he said our names.

‘Very beautiful. Very beautiful young ladies,’ Moussa said, smiling his strange smile again and fixing his gaze on me. ‘You’ve grown into a fine young woman.’

I could not recall ever seeing this man before.

‘You were about this little one’s age when I saw you last,’ he said, pointing at Fatima. I felt awkward and shy and, somehow, unsettled. Perhaps it was Moussa’s teeth or his sickly, darting eyes. I don’t know.

Father was standing behind us now, so I turned to face him. ‘You saw Mother, Father?’

‘Yes.’

‘When will Mother come home?’ Fatima demanded.

He did not answer. Instead, he turned and walked towards the village.

Moussa picked up my father’s bundle and walked towards us. ‘Your poor father is very anxious about your mother, girls. She is a very sick woman. You must look after your father.’ He handed Father’s bundle to Fatima and his own to me. Then he followed Father.

‘But, Monsieur,’ I called. ‘My sister and I are carrying water to the house.’

‘Oui, oui!’ he shouted. ‘You can come back for it.’

‘Walayi!’
I said, and both Fatima and I sucked our teeth in disgust.

It had been bad enough having to deal with Aunt Alassane’s unannounced visits and her bullying ways while my father had been in Niamey, but with Moussa staying in our home things quickly became worse. It was like having to look after a very young child. He did nothing to help around the compound and fully expected to be waited on throughout the day, no matter how busy anyone else might be. To make matters even worse, none of us had any idea how long he planned to stay in Wadata – nor did we dare raise the matter with our father, who seemed to become more like his selfish cousin each day. We knew our place and what was expected of us, and so had no choice but continue to work the ground, carry water, tend the crops and our animals, wash clothes, cook and clean.

I was missing school badly. I missed the classroom and my lessons with Monsieur Boubacar, but I also missed my friends. Few of them visited our compound any more and only Miriam kept me informed about what my classmates were doing in school. In the evenings, as we walked to the river to draw water or wash clothing, she would tell me what she had learned that day, or try to remember the story which Monsieur Boubacar had read to the class. In this way I tried to keep up.

At the river, Souley and her cronies would taunt me and throw handfuls of black mud to try to dirty my clothes, but most of the time I was too tired to care or to fight back.

Most evenings I was too exhausted to think about television at Monsieur Letouye’s compound – or, when I did, Moussa or my father would suddenly demand some more tea or an article of clothing repaired, and before I knew it, it would be too late. Worst of all, Moussa had borrowed my radio and Father had told me that I must remain silent about the matter when I had complained to him.

We had been told that Moussa was an important businessman in the city, but I had quickly grown to dislike him, and Adamou and Fatima were not happy with our situation either.

‘That man is a bastard!’ Adamou declared one night, as we tried to sleep, while, outside, the sound of Moussa’s high-pitched laughter and filthy jokes echoed around our compound.

Most nights, he and my father would disappear into the darkness and would not return again until the following morning. It was only too apparent that they made regular visits to the Big House, but the three of us had grown to prefer to be without Father rather than with both he and Moussa.

‘They’ll hear you!’ I whispered to Adamou, as Fatima tossed and turned and groaned again in the darkness of the room.

‘I don’t care. I’ve had enough of him. What’s he doing here anyway?’

‘He thinks he’s
helping
Father.’

‘Huh!’

The laughter outside subsided and there was silence for a brief while. Then I heard Moussa’s voice again.

‘Your children have respect for you, Salim. That is good.’

My father grunted. ‘You think so?’

‘The boy is strong-minded, though – like his brother,’ Moussa continued.

‘Yes. But not so hot-headed, I think.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Let’s hope so, anyway,’ my father said.

‘Indeed.’

Suddenly, my brother kicked furiously at his bedding and sat upright.

‘Walayi!’
he said, the word hissing through his teeth like the whisper of an angry snake, ‘One of these days I’ll show him who’s hot-headed!’

A short while later, we heard the sound of women’s voices, shrieking and singing, followed by the clinking of bottles.

‘Saaaliiiiim!’ one of the voices called out from the compound entrance.

I recognised it as Aunt Alassane’s immediately.

‘What are you two lovely creatures doing dropping by at this unearthly hour?’

Moussa said, loudly.

‘My sister and I came to see the cloth that your good-for-nothing cousin has been promising to show me,’ Alassane replied.

I could tell that she had been drinking.

‘And we brought cold beers,’ the second woman said, chinking bottles together.

‘Mind who you’re calling good-for-nothing!’ my father said. ‘Didn’t I fix your roof? And that’s not all I’m good for!’