Harmattan (27 page)

Abdelkrim had remained standing in the same spot, staring vacantly at the bed previously occupied by our mother for quite some time after Doctor Palcy had addressed him. The elderly woman on the bed had not acknowledged us. As I stood waiting for my brother to do something, I found myself wondering if she were the grandmother of the tiny, wailing babies who also occupied the bed and wished that – even if she were not – she, or someone, would comfort them. Briefly, I considered doing so myself, but I was frightened by my brother’s expression and, though pleased that God had heard my prayers and ensured that my poor mother recover in a more suitable place, I was also frustrated that I could not yet see and touch her.

Eventually, I had taken Abdelkrim by the hand and led him across the ward to Doctor Palcy’s office.

This is how things looked just before my life changed forever: the scene that I relive, like a dream, every day of my life.

Abdelkrim was sitting on a tubular metal chair in front of Doctor Palcy’s desk.

I was standing near the door, leaning on a rickety table and playing with a set of chipped white-enamelled scales. The shutters were open and a buckled ceiling fan lurched above us, but still the air was thick and heavy and tainted with other people’s grief. I looked about the room; at the files and healthcare posters, the examination bed, the half full waste paper bin, the blank forms on Doctor Palcy’s desk, the striped cup full of pens and pencils, the rubber stamps, the little dish of paper clips, and I wondered if, some day, I could be a doctor and spend the greater part of my life working in a desperate place like this. For quite some time I had pictured myself as a teacher, helping other people through education, but I thought that to help people by saving lives would surely be a great thing.

On one wall, displayed high above an array of framed certificates, my eyes lingered on a portrait of our president. It was a much more grand image than those I was used to seeing in my home and school and Mademoiselle Sushie’s
dispensaire
.

And larger too. Against a golden background, he was standing proudly before my country’s beautiful flag, the folds of which caused the orange, sun-like disc in its centre to look more like a bruised and battered guava. He wore a fine, embroidered, ivory-coloured tunic with a matching skullcap and the presidential sash of green and yellow. His right hand rested on a leather bound copy of the sacred Koran. On his left hand he wore a large, jewelled ring. The text below this impressive image read:
S.E. Le
Général de Brigade, IBRAHIM Mainassara Bare, Président de la république du
NIGER, Chef de l’ État.

I remember that I had been staring at the face of our president, thinking that – somehow – he looked surprised to find himself there, posing for this photograph; just as I now felt somehow surprised to be waiting in this doctor’s office when all I wanted to do was embrace my sweet mother.

Dr Palcy had entered the room and my brother and I both turned to face her.

Abdelkrim stood up and crossed the room to stand beside me with his hand on my shoulder. He took a deep breath as Doctor Palcy picked up a document from her desk and fixed it to a clipboard.

‘Where is our mother, Doctor?’ he had said, his voice wavering.

Doctor Palcy had shaken her head. ‘Monsieur Boureima,’ she said, a blank expression on her broad face, ‘you know that your mother was a very ill woman. I’m sorry to say that she passed away early this morning. You will need to sign this and take your copy to the morgue for the body to be released.’

She had held the clipboard out towards my brother, but I did not see him take it or sign the document.

As my head began to spin and my knees buckled beneath me, the last thing I remember is Abdelkrim’s hands clutching at me and his voice calling my name,

‘Haoua! Haoua!’ over and over again.

When I opened my eyes I found that my face was pressed hard against my brother’s tunic and that the insignia on his shoulder was digging into my cheek. My body had been propped up against Abdelkrim’s, and now, when I cautiously sat upright, I saw that we were seated outside on the steps of the hospital veranda, flanked by other despairing or bewildered people.

Abdelkrim was slumped forwards, eyes closed, his fingers interlinked behind his head, elbows resting on his knee.

I rubbed my eyes and sniffed, aware that my face was tight, tear-stained and dirty, yet without any memory of having actually wept. The knowledge that I would never again be warmed by my mother’s smile, or hear her gentle, patient voice, or feel her arms around me, had already set – like sun-baked clay – deep within me. I was thankful that I barely recalled the initial shock.

I leaned back into my brother’s shoulder and tried to speak his name. Only a faint, unfamiliar crackle crossed my lips, and I realised that my throat was dry and raw.

He sat up and put his arm around me. He gave me a little squeeze and said,

‘She is gone, Haoua.
A ban
.’

Immediately, the awfulness of the situation hit me again. I clutched at my brother and wailed; a desperate, lonely screech tinged with fury.

And Abdelkrim wept too. ‘I hoped that you would see her before the end, Little One. She talked about you and Adamou and Fatima every day. She loved you all very much.’ He gripped me tight, patting my shoulders in his strong hands and rocking me gently.

In time, my desperate, heaving panic became quiet sobbing.

Abdelkrim took me by the elbows and gently pushed me upright. ‘We have to retrieve her body,’ he said.

I nodded. The dreadful truth. ‘She must be buried within twenty four hours.’

For a moment I thought that he might pour scorn on our traditional ways. Indeed, I was alarmed to realise that my own heart was full of anger and doubt towards our God. I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind, deciding that such matters would have to be addressed another time. ‘And it must be in our village, Abdel,’ I added. ‘She must be taken home to be with Bunchie.’

‘Yes,’ he said, pinching his nose. ‘In our village.’

I felt a new kind of dread grip me. ‘How can we do that?’

He stood up and dusted down his uniform with his palms. Then he stepped off the veranda and walked towards Sergeant Bouleb’s motorcycle. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘There’s no time to lose!’

I pushed myself up, dizzy, weak, and followed him. By the time I reached the motorcycle, he already had the engine running. ‘Where are we going, Abdel?’ I said, over the revving engine. ‘Shouldn’t we try to let Father know before we do anything else?’ ‘You’re right.’ He put his hand to his face, then shook his head vigorously.

‘Got to think straight!’ He cut the engine and swung his leg over the saddle, then heaved the machine back on to its stand. He fumbled in a pouch on his belt and extracted a cell phone, similar to the one I had seen Moussa carry. ‘Aiee!
Walayi!’
he said, as he stared at the phone’s screen.‘What is it?’

He held it out towards me. ‘I have very little time left.’

There was that expression again. ‘
Time?’
I said.

‘Time, credit – money to make the call.’

‘Oh.’

‘My regiment clubbed together to buy this phone. But it doesn’t work well, and who has money to buy credit now?’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I’ll try anyway. I have a number for your
anasara
friends. If it doesn’t work I’ll just have to go to the
cabine
téléphonique
,’ he said, and moved off into the shade.

I clambered onto the seat of the motorcycle and waited. At the edge of this new nothingness. I wondered if my mother had been reunited with Bunchie. Somehow it still did not seem possible that she was dead. We had not seen a body. I stared at the hospital entrance and watched the constant flow and hobble of the sick and the despairing. Many of the women who came and went during those few slow moments were just like my mother in so many ways; in age, in stature, in the way they dressed.

It was as if all I had to do was choose one of them to be her. A woman in a blue and red
pagne
and head wrap crossed the veranda and came towards me. I half closed my eyes and tried to fashion my mother’s warm face from the woman’s harsher features.

As she neared the motorcycle, she noticed me staring at her and her face softened to a gentle smile. ‘
Ira ma wiciri bani,’
she said.

‘
Foyaney
. Good morning to you too, Mother,’ I said.

The sound of bickering distracted me. Nearby, two small boys were attempting to transport a large block of ice on a flat cart; one pulling, the other walking alongside and steadying the load with a rusty metal hook. The scorching sun and soft sand were not making their progress easy.

When I looked around again there was no sign of the woman in the blue and red
pagne.

Abdelkrim appeared at my side again.

‘Did it work, Abdel?’ I said.

He sighed. ‘I spoke to Richard, very briefly. Then we got cut off.’

‘But you told him?’

‘Yes. At least they will know now. And Father can organise the funeral.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘We have to find my friend Archie.’

‘Archie?’

‘Archie Cargo. He has a car.’ I was about to ask more questions but Abdelkrim was already clutching at the bike’s handlebars. ‘Shift back,’ he said, squeezing onto the saddle and kicking the machine into life.

I did not look back at the hospital as we sped away. I hoped that I would never again look upon the place where my mother’s life ended. Nor was I interested any longer in absorbing the detail of this bustling city. For as long as I could remember I had dreamt of drinking in the wonders of such a place, of even becoming a part of it.

Now, as I pressed my cheek against Abdelkrim’s back and closed my eyes, I had no idea of or concern for our location or direction. If I opened my eyes, all that I saw was the khaki expanse of my brother’s tunic, a small, damp patch of sweat between his shoulders and a blur of buildings and open spaces as the motorcycle sped along. I wished that I were at home, in Wadata. Then I wondered if Wadata, or anywhere for that matter, could ever really be home without my mother.

When we came to a halt again, I discovered that we were in the shaded parking bay area of L’Université Abdou Moumouni de Niamey. Abdelkrim tapped my thigh and I slid back a little to allow him to dismount.

‘Why are we here?’ I said.

Abdelkrim pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead and picked dust from his eyes. ‘This is where Archie Cargo works,’ he said. ‘He’s a technician here. Teaches a few classes too. I met him one night in the Rivoli.’ He smiled sadly. ‘We got very drunk together.’

I climbed off the motorcycle and followed him to the entrance. Abdelkrim pushed open the heavy, green door and we entered a cool, dark foyer, the walls of which were covered in flyers advertising student meetings, wrestling bouts and musical events, and posters highlighting the benefits of safe sex and warning of the risk of HIV. The faces on these posters looked smiling, happy, carefree.

Inside, a tall, thin man in a grey uniform stepped forward from a desk and asked if he could help us.

‘I’m looking for Monsieur Archie Cargo,’ Abdelkrim said. ‘He teaches woodwork here.’

‘They’ve gone to the bridge,’ the concierge said.

Abdelkrim spilled his hand outwards, inviting more information.

‘The students. They’ve all gone off to join the protest.’ He jabbed a thumb towards a small portrait of the president above his desk. ‘You are one of Monsieur Archie’s students, are you not? There’s hardly a soul about today!’

Abdelkrim shook his head. ‘No, Monsieur. I’m a friend of Monsieur Archie’s. I need to find him urgently. Do you think that he went to protest with his students?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him today at all.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s possible.

I daresay he hasn’t been paid – just like the rest of us!’ With that he put a chew stick in his mouth and went back to his desk.

Back outside, Abdelkrim straddled the motorcycle and lit a cigarette.

‘What now?’ I said.

He took a long draw on the cigarette and shook his head. ‘We’ll just have to find him.’

‘But you can’t go near the bridge in your uniform!’ I said. ‘It’s dangerous! You said so yourself…’

He nodded.

‘Perhaps Mademoiselle Sushie will come for us all.’

Abdelkrim shook his head. ‘No, Haoua. Even if she had already set off from Wadata, by the time she got here and back it would be too late. Besides, Mademoiselle Sushie has many other matters to attend to in the village, and Father will not allow her to be involved.’

I felt unnerved by the truth of the situation, but glad, once again, that my brother had chosen not to question our people’s ways. I could not bear to think of our mother’s soul wandering restlessly. We
had
to lay her to rest within twenty-four hours of her death. ‘Does your friend have a cell phone?’ I asked.

‘He does. But I have no time left on mine – and even if I did, my battery is dead.’ ‘Can’t you phone from here?’

Abdelkrim shook his head. ‘His number’s stored on my phone. I can’t switch it on now, so I can’t get his number.’

‘Ask the concierge for Monsieur Archie’s number,’ I said.

‘He wouldn’t be allowed to give out staff information like that. We’ll keep looking.’ He threw down the remains of his cigarette, crushing it into the dust with his boot, and started the motorcycle. Then we were off again.

The frantic rush around the city lulled me into a kind of numbness, which all but took my mind off the very reason for the urgency. As we hurtled along, I started to recognise places we had criss-crossed earlier in the day: Avenue des Djermakoyes, Rue Maurice Delens, Avenue de l’Uranium. I began, once again, to take note of things that I might never see again: Le Lycée Coranique, Plateau Ministeres, billboards announcing soccer matches, horse and camel races, street entertainment by the local Samaria community groups
.
We zig-zagged our way along Avenue du Président Luebke, past Cinéma Vox, to which Abdelkrim had promised to take me during his last visit to Wadata, and I looked back over my shoulder, sure that I would now never enjoy such an experience; sure, in fact, that life held nothing for me now. I felt no pang of disappointment as the building retreated in a flurry of dust; only the already familiar mantle of shock, the clawing, gnawing chill of grief.