Read Online A Riffians Tune by Joseph M Labaki - Free Book Online Page B

of water and came with me.
    The donkey was under the tree, and I took her directly to it. I hoped she would give a prognosis, be it good or bad, but she said nothing. She examined the wound, pressed her finger against the shoulder to see how painful it was, and cleaned it. She gave a good shake to her bottle and sprinkled the liquid all over the wound, then gave me the bottle, and instructed me to sprinkle the liquid over the wound every three hours.
    I followed her instruction religiously, hoping and strongly believing the wound would heal and the donkey would recover. Several days passed and there was no change. Then its neck started to swell, followed by the shoulder. Tiny, white worms swarmed all over the wound, and the donkey was not able to stand.
    I walked to the village of Zaio where there was a veterinary nurse with very basic skills. I explained the situation to the nurse, and he seemed to understand me.
    â€˜I need to see the donkey,’ he said.
    â€˜The donkey is lying down and can’t move,’ I responded.
    â€˜If you hire a taxi for me, I will go with you,’ the nurse said.
    â€˜Hiring a taxi is beyond my reach,’ I answered.
    He shrugged, turned around and walked away. Deeply disappointed, I ran back home to think what else I could do. Before reaching home, very close to the valley where I had killed the snake, I heard commotion and shouting. As I hurried to see, I found farmers and shepherds (very young girls and boys, no older than ten) stoning the donkey to death. By the time I got close to the donkey, it was dead.
    I looked at it and chased the shepherds away. Numb, I walked home and thought,
people of all ages, all kinds, boys and girls, can be just as cruel as death itself
.
    * * *
    MY MIND STILL SIMMERING, pondering the fate of our donkey, I went to see
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout and his son, Maroine. Though I left before light, I was not the first to arrive in the village; the butchers were first. A cacophony of bargaining activity was going on among them, but quickly the noise died down and the butchers bought all the animals they needed, healthy or ill. The animals were slaughtered, butchered and sold on the spot – the blood, hot and alive, was left to dry. The animals’ heads were piled on top of each other, and shoppers bargained on heads, bowels, brains, hooves and skins. On my way to
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout’s shop, I found a small boy about five years old, crying, tied to a hook and left alone in the middle of the road to fry under the sun. The boy was crippled – probably suffering from polio. The belief was that someone with miraculous healing power might spot the boy, have mercy on him and heal him. ‘First, crippled by nature, second, tortured by his parents – poor boy,’ I murmured to myself.
    With mixed hope and fear, I stepped into
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout’s shop and asked his elder son, ‘Are
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout and Maroine here?’
    I knew little about Maroine other than he was about twenty years old and married. ‘Come to the back of the shop and wait for them,’ Maroine’s brother said. This was unexpected hospitality.
    Time passed and there was no sign of them. I could not sit still and wait, so I left the shop and went to the café at the end of the street.
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout was there, surrounded by a group of men, talking, laughing, drinking tea and smoking all sorts of tobacco. He called me to join the crowd. ‘This is Maroine, my son,’ he said. Maroine did not move. He sat indifferently on his chair next to his father. The crowd left, and just the three of us remained. We changed tables and
Sidi
Hadj ordered fresh tea. Moving tables gave me a chance to observe Maroine.
    He was tall, very thin, his eyes covered by a fringe of hair and he wore jeans (known as ‘American trousers’). His father was wearing the same clothes as last time, a brown and pink turban, white
jellabah
and
salham
(cloak) and,