Sophie and the Locust Curse (6 page)

Chapter 10

Sophie left the house on Monday morning with a tremendous feeling of excitement. Today would be the four hundred and fourth Oudalan Province Camel Race, but it was Sophie’s first, and she cared about the result too much for comfort. She was so nervous that she had not even been able to eat her usual bowl of maize-flakes.

The race was to be held on the vast sandy plain beyond the white rock Tondiakara. When Sophie arrived there she found a multitude of villagers and townspeople, gossiping happily in groups. At the centre of one cluster Salif dan Bari was telling the story of his rope bite and explaining how his rope pills had saved his life. Elsewhere Belko Sambo was showing off his new mobile phone to a group of wide-eyed cattle-herders. Further along, Al Haji Wahib was taking bets on the upcoming camel race.

‘The favourite for today’s race,’ said Al Haji Wahib, ‘is Hurryhump at three to one, ridden by reigning champion Mustafa ag Imran. Next is Fat Wah at five to one, ridden by the exquisitely beautiful Salimata bin Lina. Come and place your bets.’

Sophie went to the starting line. At one end of the line were some wicker chairs on which were seated the mayor of Gorom-Gorom and the chiefs of all the villages in Oudalan. Behind the line fourteen camels paced nervously to and fro. Their riders were sitting bolt upright in their saddles and trying to avoid eye contact with one other. Gidaado was there, wearing a borrowed Number 10 football shirt. He was leaning over and murmuring in Chobbal’s ear. Sam Saman was also present, sitting in the saddle of a muscular beige camel and smirking across at Gidaado.

‘Hey, skink-teeth!’ called Saman. ‘There you are! You’re so thin now that I can hardly see you!’

Gidaado ignored him.

‘Nice camel,’ yelled Saman. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Chobbal,’ said Gidaado quietly.

‘Good name,’ said Saman, ‘because we’re going to eat him for breakfast.’ He cackled at his own joke and a few of the other riders laughed as well. Gidaado stared straight ahead and tightened his grip on Chobbal’s reins.

Gidaado’s cousin Hussein appeared next to Sophie, sucking on a stick of sugar cane. They greeted each other and Sophie asked him where his brother Hassan was.

‘He’s back home in Giriiji with Uncle Ibrahiim,’ said Hussein. ‘They are practising a praise song for whoever wins the race today.’

‘Why aren’t you with them?’

‘I am just the calabash player, aren’t I? Besides, I need to go and let them know who has won, so they can make the last-minute changes.’

The hubbub of the crowd was suddenly drowned out by a voice so loud that the sand vibrated underneath Sophie’s feet. She looked up with a start to see a small bearded man standing on top of Tondiakara. He wore a red beret and very dark glasses. Sophie recognised him as Furki Baa Turki, the loudest crier in Oudalan.

‘PEOPLE OF GOROM-GOROM!’ cried the man, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Welcome to the Four Hundred and Fourth OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE!’

‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ laughed Hussein, putting his fingers in his ears.

‘PLEASE UNDERSTAND,’ yelled Furki Baa Turki, ‘that the Oudalan Province Camel Race has a STRICT no-biting policy, which applies to all contestants and their camels. Other rules are as follows: NO leaping from one camel to another, NO grabbing of ears or tails, NO unsheathing of swords. NO swearing in Fulfulde, French, Tamasheq, Songhai, Bambara, Moré, Dula or Arabic, except for the word “
Zorki”
which each contestant may say up to three times. Contestants will run to the Sheik Amadou calabash tree, go round it ONCE and return to this point. The FIRST camel to cross the line will be declared the winner, so long as it has on its saddle the SAME rider who started the race on it. The judges’ decision is final. NO attacking the judges after the race. NO strangling the winner, NO stealing his or her gold nugget, and NO declarations of war on his or her village. IS THAT CLEAR?’

‘YES,’ cried the fourteen riders in their various languages, tiptoeing their camels up to the starting-line.

‘Good,’ said Furki Baa Turki. ‘It is a GREAT HONOUR for me to introduce the celebrity who will start today’s race. He came all the way from OUAGADOUGOU yesterday on a VERY bumpy dirt track, VOMITING all the way, and last night he didn’t get a WINK of sleep on account of the DONKEYS, ROOSTERS and WILD DOGS just outside his window. Please welcome MONSIEUR ISAAKU SAODOGO, the Chief Assistant of the Assistant Chief at the
OUAGADOUGOU INSTITUTE OF TOPOGRAPHY AND CADASTRAL PLANNING!!!
’

The crowd went wild. A small man in a neat white suit stepped up onto Tondiakara next to Furki Baa Turki. He had bags under his eyes and he kept sneezing.

‘Monsieur Saudogo has a severe CAMEL ALLERGY and an even more severe DUST ALLERGY, yet he has honoured us with his presence here today.’

The crowd clapped and stamped their appreciation, sending great clouds of red dust billowing into the air. The man in white wheezed and sneezed and clutched his collar.

‘Monsieur Saudogo was signalling to me a moment ago that he has COMPLETELY lost his voice, so we will forego the speeches and let him go ahead and start the race. THE FOUR HUNDRED AND FOURTH OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE WILL START AT THE MOMENT THAT MONSIEUR SAUDOGO NEXT SNEEZES!!!!’

There was rapturous applause from the crowd and then some urgent
shush
-ing and then silence. Everyone’s attention was concentrated on the figure in white. He was bent over double, struggling to undo the top button of his collar. His eyes were streaming and his nose twitched.

A Tuareg rider adjusted his copious turban. Saman’s camel lowered its head and snorted. Gidaado fingered Chobbal’s reins and stared in front of him, as unblinking as a gecko.

‘A-TCHOO,’ said Monsieur Saudogo.

‘HOOSH-KA!’ cried fourteen voices, and the camels sped off, their hooves pounding the sand.

Chapter 11

‘HOOSH-BARAKAAAA!’ cried the camel riders, getting into top gear as soon as possible.

For the first fifty metres of the race the camels galloped along in a pack and it was difficult to tell who was in the lead. Then one of the Tuareg riders nosed in front, his copious white turban flapping in the wind. His camel had a fine leather saddle edged with silver and gold.

‘That’s Mustafa ag Imran,’ said Hussein. ‘He’s fast and he’s tricky so watch out for him. He won this race last year.’

Sophie looked for Chobbal and saw him streaking along in fifth place.
Go on, Chobbal
, she breathed.
Run your heart out.

In second place now was a tall light-skinned woman whose long black hair streamed out behind her, shining in the sun. She was rocking back and forth gracefully in time with her camel’s strides. Sophie had seen her at the starting line and had noticed that her lips were tattooed black in striking contrast with her light skin. Amongst Fulani women tattooed lips were considered beautiful.

‘Salimata bin Lina,’ said Hussein devoutly. ‘Look at her go.’

In third place was Saman, leaning forward in his saddle. He was twirling an acacia branch in his hand and bringing it down on his camel’s side with sharp cracks. Each time the camel felt the whip it sprang forward in terror. It was cruel but it was working. Bit by bit, Saman was drawing level with bin Lina.

 Mustafa ag Imran reached the calabash tree first, and as he went round it he grabbed hold of a long bendy branch. He bent the branch forward until it could go no further, then ducked under it and let it go. The branch flew backwards.

Sam Saman saw the branch just in time and he ducked hurriedly. Riding beside him, Salimata bin Lina was less quick. The branch hit her with a sickening
thwack
just above her beautiful tattooed lips, knocking her clean off her camel.

‘
Oooh!
’ said the crowd.

Mustafa ag Imran glanced back and let out an evil guttural laugh, muffled slightly by the folds of his turban.

‘Is that allowed?’ said Sophie, turning to Hussein.

‘You tell me,’ said Hussein. ‘Did you hear anything in the rules about not touching the calabash tree?’

‘No,’ said Sophie.

‘Then it’s allowed. It’s a superb piece of strategic racing.’

The racers galloped on. Mustafa ag Imran was still in first place, Sam Saman in second. Gidaado was back in third place, just rounding the calabash tree.

‘
COME ON, GIDAADO!
’ yelled Sophie. ‘
STAY WITH THEM!
’

Saman’s camel was gaining ground on the Tuareg with every stride. Camels trained by the famous bandit Moussa ag Litni were known for their stamina, and the second half of the race was sure to be good for this one. Whipping his camel savagely, Saman came up on the outside of Mustafa ag Imran until he was within arm’s reach of him. He leaned over and grabbed the flapping end of the Tuareg’s turban.

‘
Zorki
,’ came the muffled voice of Mustafa ag Imran.

Saman yanked the turban hard, pulling the Tuareg half out of his saddle.

‘
Zorki!
’ said ag Imran.

‘
Bahaat-ugh!
’ cried Saman, and his camel screeched to a halt. As the Tuareg’s camel ran on, Saman held on to the turban with both hands. Sophie cringed. Mustafa ag Imran span round twice, flew off his camel backwards and landed in the dust.

‘
Oooh
!’ said the crowd, and there was the unmistakeable sound of lots of people tearing up their betting slips.

‘
Hoosh-ka!
’ cried Saman, and his camel sprinted off again.

‘That’s terrible,’ said Sophie. ‘
Surely
Saman will be disqualified for that.’

‘Grabbing of ears or tails is forbidden,’ said Hussein, ‘but there is nothing in the rules about yanking turbans. It is a superb piece of strategic racing.’

Saman’s brief stop was of course just what Gidaado needed. He was not far off the lead now and the gap was closing fast.

‘
COME ON, GIDAADO!
’ shouted Sophie, jumping up and down. ‘
YOU CAN DO IT!
’

There were about a hundred metres left of the race. Gidaado crouched low in his saddle and his borrowed Number 10 shirt billowed in the wind. Chobbal was a blur of white, moving faster than Sophie had ever seen him go.

Saman glanced back and looked amazed to see Chobbal right on his tail. He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out again, closed into a tight fist.
What have you got there?
thought Sophie.

With eighty metres to go, Gidaado was right up alongside his rival, their camels so close that their flanks were touching. Sophie could see the look of concentration on Gidaado’s face as he tried to nose Chobbal in front. Saman lifted his whip and brought it down hard on Gidaado’s back.

‘
Oooh
!’ said the crowd.

Sophie yelped as if she and not Gidaado had been hit. ‘SURELY that’s not allowed!’ she cried.

‘There is nothing in the rules about whipping your opponent,’ said Hussein. ‘In fact, it is a superb piece of strategic ra-’

‘It is NOT!’ shouted Sophie. ‘That’s your COUSIN being whipped out there!’

Again and again Saman’s acacia whip came down across Gidaado’s back. Gidaado flinched each time but he stayed firmly in the saddle and kept his eyes straight ahead. It would take more than a whipping to make him lose this race.

Sophie put her hands over her eyes and peeked through her fingers, hardly daring to watch. Chobbal’s nose was slightly in front. Now his whole head was in front. Now his whole head and neck. With fifty metres to go,even his hump was in front.
He’s going to win
, thought Sophie, hardly daring to believe it.
Chobbal is going to win
.

Gidaado was almost a whole camel’s length ahead of Sam Saman. With an audible snarl Saman reached across towards Chobbal’s tail.
If he grabs the tail, he is disqualified
, thought Sophie happily. But Saman did not grab the tail. He drew back his hand and took hold of the reins of his own camel once more.
He’s given up
, thought Sophie.
Sam Saman has given up!

Chobbal was out in front and running well. Sophie could see the whites of Gidaado’s eyes and the perspiration on his brow. He was grinning in triumph, knowing that the race was his.
He’s almost won
, thought Sophie.
Chobbal has almost won! Gidaado won’t have to sell him. The people of Giriiji will be able to buy millet. Gidaado’s grandmother will get her medicine.