Read Online Harmattan by Gavin Weston - Free Book Online Page B

opposed to alcohol. That’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about,’ he said, lighting his cigarette.
    I searched his face, but it gave nothing away.
    ‘Kala a tonton . I’ll see you later, Little One,’ he said, and we parted company.

6
    The sun beat down intensely as I walked to the river. The load I carried on my head was not a particularly heavy one. Mother had taken the majority of our garments but I was still tired from the long trek of the previous day.
    I wondered what Miriam was doing – how difficult things had been for her with her father. I was reminded that I had yet to face my father.
    As I neared the river, I could hear singing and my spirits began to lift. In all, there were about thirty people there, mainly women and girls, most of whom were scrubbing garments in the shallows. Draped over bushes and low branches, articles of clothing of every size, type, pattern and colour dried in the sun. A group of infants were amusing themselves on the riverbank. Some of the women had younger babies tied onto their backs as they worked.
    Souley, a girl Adamou’s age, made a rude gesture at me when she was sure that no one else was paying much attention. Miriam and I had no time for Souley. She was a clever girl, but her parents did not send her to school and we were sure that she was jealous.I sucked my teeth at her, set my bundle down on the dry ground and waded through the silted water to join my mother. She was stooped over, her hands moving furiously back and forth over my father’s jel aba , as she sang the chorus of our working song.
    Han kulu ay ga maa zanka jindey. Every day I hear children’s voices.
    Han kulu ay ga ba aran. Every day I love you.
    At first, she did not hear me hail her. ‘Mother!’ I called again. ‘Azara! Are you alright?’ For a moment, when she looked at me with weary eyes, I almost thought that it was Bunchie, my late grandmother, standing before me.
    ‘Haoua,’ my mother said, breathlessly. She stood upright and coughed a little, banging her chest with the flat of her wet hand. She nodded, then, frowning, she turned her head away to clear her throat.
    The realisation that she was getting old, and that one day I would lose her too, suddenly filled me with dread.
    ‘Toh ,’ she said, returning to both her work and her song.

7
    It was mid afternoon by the time we got back to the village. We found Abdelkrim in our compound sitting on a plastic crate and surrounded by Adamou and his friends.
    As usual the boys were in a great state of excitement. Abdelkrim was busily working at something with a rusty pair of pliers – I could not make out what – while, all around him, the boys shouted and jostled and pushed each other playfully.
    ‘We’re each going to have our own rally car!’ Adamou told us excitedly, as we approached them.
    ‘Dakar here I come!’ shouted one of his friends.
    It was a favourite pastime for the boys of our village to make fantastic toys from wire coat hangers – mostly scrounged from Monsieur Letouye’s shop. Sushie, Richard and Monsieur Boubacar were also regularly pestered for coat hangers each time word got about that one of them might be travelling to the capital. The heavy wire would be used to create elaborate outline forms of all manner of vehicles – complete with moving wheels, axles, doors and even sometimes what the boys called ‘working suspension’. Some even had drivers – little see-through figurines, desperately clutching tiny steering wheels in see-through pick-ups, camions and Jeeps. One or two of the boys in particular were exceptionally skilled at creating detailed models; so much so that they were considered lieutenants in Adamou’s gang.
    Attached to the rear of each of these truly impressive vehicles was a wire pusher and handle, allowing them to be raced competitively through the dusty alleys of Wadata.
    As a child, Abdelkrim, like every boy in our village, had spent many hours making and racing his own creations