Harmattan by Gavin Weston Read Free Book Online

for my daughter too.’ She motioned for us to wait and hobbled through another doorway.
    When she reappeared, she was proudly clutching a small, rectangular object in her leathery hand. ‘Look,’ she said, handing it to Miriam. ‘I had my picture taken too!’
    None of this helped Miriam or me, of course. Secretly, I was a little angry with all of these people, even though I knew that such feelings were not really fair.
    Monsieur Longueur assured us that he would send copies of our photographs when he had had them printed, but I was skeptical.
    As we were making our farewells, Goteye’s Peace Corps nurse appeared, introducing herself as Maggie. Like Sushie, she was pale-skinned and spoke perfect Djerma. Unlike Sushie, she was not tall and elegant; rather, she was short and breathless, with the kind of plump, round body that men like my father wished for their daughters. Her hair was yellow and thin, but she had a pretty face and deep, warm eyes.
    ‘You must eat with us before you return to Wadata,’ Maggie said.
    The smell of Madame Azara’s cooking wafted around us; I guessed they were having couscous and mouton , probably with chillies and peppers. Miriam looked hard at me, her eyes imploring. I knew what she was thinking.
    ‘We should probably get going,’ I said, ignoring both Miriam and the voice in my stomach. ‘It’s getting late.’
    ‘It’s a long way,’ said Maggie. ‘Eat with us and then I’ll drive you back.’
    It was tempting, but I felt uncomfortable, not to mention disappointed.
    Suddenly I just wanted to get away from that place. ‘Thank you,’ I said, awkwardly, ‘but no.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘ Toh . Kala a tonton . Tell Sushie I said hi.’
    The gangs we had seen earlier had now joined forces and were playing a rough game of langa-langa , each boy hopping on one leg while holding the ankle of the other. One of the dogs had pinned a weaker animal down and was tearing at its throat, while the others ran excitedly through their owners’ legs, their leashes trailing behind them. As we passed the quadrangle, the barrage of abuse began all over again.
    ‘Did you get your syphilis treated, girlies?’ one of the boys called out.
    We did our best to ignore such filthy remarks, but inside I was seething. I considered showing them just how furious I felt: the gesture I had in mind was recognisable anywhere in the world – we had seen it used often on Monsieur Letouye’s television – but instead we kept our dignity and did not so much as look at them. A little further on, we met a group of women and girls returning from the river. They had been drawing water and each of them carried a large gourd or a plastic bucket on her head. In addition, some carried extra containers in their hands also. It was a chore which Miriam and I had to carry out many times each week in Wadata. We all prayed that the scheme for a water tower for Wadata would be approved. I was envious of these Goteye women and the short distance they had to travel from the river. I was envious of their smart dispensaire , their big school, their window-boxes, their quadrangle, their houses, their food, their Monsieur Longueur. I was also reminded that to make this journey we had shirked our own chores and that we might well have to answer to our fathers for doing so.
    ‘I’m hungry!’ Miriam said, as we left the village behind us. ‘Why couldn’t we eat with them? Why couldn’t we have the anasara drive us home? What were you thinking, Haoua?’
    ‘Just walk!’ I snapped.
    Back at the river, the two men with whom we had spoken earlier were busily hauling in their nets.
    The older man noticed us on the shore and called out from his pirogue. ‘Did you see that fellow, little sisters? Isn’t he something?’
    ‘We saw him, Father,’ Miriam answered.
    ‘But he does not have a magic camera,’ I added.
    ‘A wasted journey then, girls?’ the younger man called across the water.
    The older man tutted, then sucked