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grass, behind their children and the dogs. The father – Noel Boyd – was leaning forward, protectively, towards the camera, a tight smile on his pale face.
    His hair was cropped very short and he wore small, round sunglasses which, I thought, were not as nice as my brother’s. The girls’ mother was wearing a cap which cast a heavy shadow over her face. This was the only picture of Katie and Hope’s parents that I had, and it perplexed me a little that I was unable to see the eyes of either of them.
    ‘Strange dogs,’ Abdelkrim said.
    I nodded. ‘Like babies.’
    ‘Hmm.’
    ‘You can’t real y see their mother’s face… ’
    ‘The sun has been high,’ Abdelkrim said, ‘and she is wearing a hat.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It looks like they are somewhere very high – a mountain, perhaps?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ I took the photograph from him and turned it over. ‘ Downhil , 1997, it says on the back.’
    ‘Uhuh. And where is that?’
    I shrugged.
    We sat in silence for a few moments, just looking over the postcards and photographs before us.
    ‘It’s nice that you have these friends,’ Abdelkrim said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And they write often?’
    ‘Every few months,’ I said. ‘Sometimes their father writes too.’
    ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t the mother write?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Perhaps she can’t,’ Abdelkrim said.
    ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘everyone can read and write there.’
    Abdelkrim nodded slowly. ‘They must be very rich. What does the father do?’
    ‘He’s a teacher. I think their mother is too.’
    ‘That’s what you should do, Haoua,’ my brother said. ‘You should continue to study hard, get away from here. Travel. You’d make a good teacher. You are a bright girl.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but Wadata is my home. And what about our mother? How would she cope?’
    ‘You could come back! Go to the USA. Or France. Learn all you can, then come back – and change things. Niger is a sick country! Make things better!’
    ‘How, Abdel?’
    ‘Somehow, Little One. We will find a way. I will help you, if I can.’
    I knew that he meant it.
    He smiled and put his hand in his pocket. ‘Look… I still have the little radio your friends sent.’
    I took the radio and fiddled with its switches and dials and Abdelkrim showed me how to wear the tiny earphones. A barrage of music bombarded my ears until I moved the dial again. Then, voices. News from the capital. Something about the Paris-Dakar rally. I took the earphones off and handed the radio to my brother. I was a little envious. ‘I like it.’
    ‘I will get you one, Haoua,’ he promised. I knew that he meant that too.
    I gathered up my belongings and put them back into the envelope, then placed it safely under my bedroll again. ‘Mother will be waiting for the rest of our washing,’ I told Abdelkrim. ‘I’ll finish my drawing later.’
    He nodded. ‘Please give Katie and Hope and their family my greetings when you do.’
    ‘I shall,’ I said.
    Abdelkrim stood up and stretched, then crossed the room to where his army issue kitbag was leaning against the wall. As he flipped it open to search for more cigarettes, I noticed the neck of a bottle protruding from one of its pockets.
    ‘What’s that?’ I asked, as I tied the remaining clothing into a bundle in preparation for the journey to the river.
    ‘Whiskey,’ he said. ‘Want some?’
    ‘No!’ I said, appalled.
    He laughed and made to go outside.
    ‘Abdel!’ I called after him.
    He stopped, turning to face me – an unlit cigarette in one hand, pink plastic lighter in the other. ‘Hmm?’
    ‘How long can you stay?’
    ‘Not long, Little One. A few more days, perhaps…’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘…If I don’t murder Father first!’ he added, with a grin.
    I lifted my bundle and walked towards the door. ‘Why do you squabble with Father?’ I asked, pretending that I had not overheard his discussion with our mother. ‘Is it because of the rumour?’
    ‘He is