Tears of the Desert by Halima Bashir Read Free Book Online Page B

like being with them,” my father objected. “And anyway, we don’t go
drinking . . .
”
    My mother snorted in derision and turned her back on him.
    Whenever those friends came to call, she would tell them that my father wasn’t in. But then they’d point out that they’d seen his car outside. My mum would roll her eyes and give them the silent treatment. Finally my dad would come strolling out of his hut, welcoming his friends with smiles—and they’d head off to have a nice time drinking sorghum beer together.
    Most Zaghawa women objected to their men drinking. They would go out with a pocket full of money and come back broke. In our culture men didn’t worry much about the cost of living. Nearly everything was freely available: meat, sorghum, milk, salad, vegetables, fuel, water—none of these things had to be paid for. So they didn’t see what the problem was if they spent their money on beer.
    The women did most of the work, and the men believed that the more wives they had the easier life would be. A man with only one wife might be laughed at by his friends: They’d say he was like a man with only one eye. If a woman’s husband died, one of his brothers was duty bound to marry her—so as to keep the children in one extended family. Such customs might seem barbaric to outsiders, but to us that was the way things had always been. Our identity as Zaghawa was defined by such traditions.
    One day Grandma decided that it was time Mo and me had our traditional Zaghawa scarring done. She had everything ready in her hut—a bowl of hot water, a razor blade, and some paste made from
taro
ash mixed with oil. She told my mother to go fetch Mo and me, as she had “a treat” in store for us. But as soon as I was in her hut I took one look at the shiny razor blade, the ash paste, and the bowl of water, and I just knew that I didn’t want this scarring done to me. I turned and ran.
    “Don’t let her escape!” Grandma yelled. “Catch her! Catch her!”
    My mother grabbed me and tried to hold me down, but I was struggling and fighting like a wild animal. I could sense that her heart wasn’t really in it, so I twisted and broke free and darted out of the hut. I made a run for the gate, as Grandma cried out for someone to close it. But I was through in a flash! I ran and ran as fast as my legs would carry me, and I didn’t stop until I was on the far side of the village.
    I made my way to a friend’s house.
    “Why’ve you come alone?” her mother asked, in surprise. “What happened?”
    “Nothing,” I lied. “It’s just my mum said that I could. Where’s Shadia? Can she come out to play?”
    I spent all day playing with Shadia. When the sun went down I told her mother that I was scared of the dark, so I didn’t really want to go home. Could I stay there for the night instead? Of course, Shadia’s mum knew then that something was wrong, and she insisted on taking me home. As soon as we walked in through the gate Grandma started scolding me, and she told Shadia’s mother exactly what I had done.
    When I caught sight of little Mo I knew that I’d been right to run away. He had angry red cut marks on his face, and they were packed out with the gray ash paste. He was tearful and confused, and he kept trying to touch the wounds. He had a sad and bewildered expression, as if he was wondering why on earth they had hurt him. He was just two years old, and he was far too weak and gentle to run away.
    I knew that from then on I had to give Grandma’s hut a very wide berth, or else she would get me. But Grandma was far too clever to make a big deal out of it, and she quickly pretended that it was all forgotten. She kept on trying to entice me into her hut, but that only served to make me more suspicious.
    “Why don’t you come to my hut, my darling?” she’d say. “I’ve got a lovely treat for you.”
    I’d scowl at her. “No! No way! I know what you’re up to—you’re trying to cut me!”
    A few months