Tears of the Desert (14 page)

The
Fakirs
in our village were carefully chosen by the community as men of good character, and truly wise. They were blessed with the ability to wield the power of God. It was dangerous to do so, unless you understood how to use the holy Koran in conjunction with ancient spells and other traditional law. But for every good
Fakir
there was invariably a self-proclaimed bad one. These men used dangerous and dark powers—black magic and devilish arts—to achieve people’s worst desires.

I’d been home from school for a month or so when I witnessed the terrible harm such bad
Fakirs
caused. I had a cousin called Mousa in his early twenties, and like most young men he was impetuous. One day he went to consult a bad
Fakir
concerning a quarrel in the village. The
Fakir
prepared a spell to use against his adversary, but at the very moment of casting it the spell fell upon Mousa instead. For weeks on end Mousa locked himself away in his hut, and the only person he was able to speak to was his elder brother.

His parents took him to see a good
Fakir,
but he could do nothing. He needed to know the name of the bad
Fakir
who had cast the original curse, and of the intended victim, before he could undo the spell. Unfortunately, my cousin was too crazed to be able to tell him. Eventually, they flew Mousa all the way to Nigeria, where the
Fakirs
are renowned for their power in lifting curses. But even they were unable to do anything for him.

Whenever we visited their house Mousa would be all hunched up in his dark hut, his face twisted into a grimace of pain. He looked so unhappy and I felt so sorry for him. I even tried asking him who it was who had cast the bad spell, and who was the intended target, but Mousa just mumbled confusedly. Finally his family took him to the hospital. The doctors tried giving him all sorts of medication, but nothing worked—proof in itself that Mousa’s madness was caused by an evil
Fakir
’s spells.

Time passed quickly, both in the village and at school. I reached my eleventh birthday, and I felt more than ready to move on to the secondary school. But first I had to pass my exams, without which I couldn’t graduate to high school. Every pupil in the country had to take them, and the results would be compared across the country. I studied harder than ever, and once the exams were completed I waited with my friends to hear the results. If any one of us had failed it would break apart a friendship that had seen us triumph over such adversity.

The first I heard of the results was a pounding on the door of my uncle’s house, early one morning. It was Mona, and she had raced over to be the first to tell me. She had been watching TV with her parents, and my name had been announced as being one of the top five students for the whole of Darfur. She hugged me tight and we danced for joy. I couldn’t believe it. It was inconceivable.
One of the top five.
There were hundreds and hundreds of schools across the region.

We hurried in to school. I asked Mona if she knew how she had done. She shook her head and grinned. It didn’t matter—she was sure to have passed. What mattered was that I, a black Zaghawa girl from the bush, had beaten every single Arab girl in our school. Upon arrival at the school gates I was mobbed by teachers and pupils alike. Everyone had heard the news—all except for me, as my uncle couldn’t afford a TV.

We gathered for one of our last-ever assemblies. The headmistress stood out front, as I took the place of honor in the roll call of results. I was given a gold embossed Koran, and a prize of some money. But what mattered most to me was that I had beaten the system. I had proved to them all that race was no arbiter of talent or intelligence. I left that school which had caused me so much heartache being rewarded by the headmistress for being her star pupil.

That evening there was a party at my uncle’s house. Mona, Najat, Samirah, and Makboulah were there, as were many of my other friends. Some of the Arab girls even deigned to visit, although Sairah had left the year before to go to another school. But best of all was when my father turned up. He’d heard the news on his radio, jumped into the Land Rover, and driven all day to be with me. He was overjoyed that his name, his family name, had been on the news. And he was so very, very proud of me.

The party went on long into the night. When the last people had said their goodbyes, my father took me out onto the veranda. I was proud that I had come number five in the province, I told to him, but if the truth be told I regretted was that I wasn’t number one. Still, I had shown that a black African girl could beat those from rich, privileged families. My father took my hand in his and we sat there in silence, both of us struck with a blissful happiness.

It was then that my father told me about his dream for me—how he wanted me go to university to train to be a medical doctor. I had proven that I had the flair to make it, and if he worked hard then he could afford to fund my studies. I was the only one of his children with the talent to do so, he confided in me. Mo and Omer were a great help on the farm, but in truth neither cared much for school or studying.

A medical doctor.
Could I really be a medical doctor, I wondered? Sometimes Mo, Omer, and I used to play a game where we’d act out what we wanted to be when we grew up. Omer would be a tough soldier, yelling and making fierce thrusts with a sword. Mo would act as if he were a driver, holding the steering wheel and changing gear. As for me, I’d ask my brothers what was wrong with them, so I could make them better.

Then we’d have to argue who had the best job. “I’m the best because I’m going to kill people,” Omer would say. “Me—I’m driving people,” Mo would declare. “Without me no one can go anywhere.” “But the doctor is the best,” I’d argue. “When you get ill, I will help you get well again.” Whoever was declared the loser we’d make the loser the donkey, and they’d have to carry the winner around on their back.

My father went on to confess that he was disappointed in Mo and Omer, for neither had any interest in the wider world, the politics of our country, or even the struggle of the Zaghawa people. Outside of his family, these were my father’s consuming passions. Our present rulers had stolen power, my father told me, his voice laced with a quiet anger. The people should choose who to govern them, not a bunch of military men in plastic uniforms. Our military rulers were overshadowing the country’s bright future.

By the time we got back to the village a second party had been organized. Half of the village seemed to have watched the announcement of the exam results on my father’s TV set, and everyone was invited. By now, Mo and Omer seemed to have reconciled themselves to the fact that academia was not for them, and they seemed happy for me. It was a wonderful party, and I felt so proud to have achieved even this much for my village.

During my final term at junior school my mother had given birth to my baby sister, Asia. Baby Asia was quiet and gentle, just like Mohammed had been. She was still very much a bundle of rags, but it was clear that she was going to take after my mother. She had big eyes, just like her, and her hair was going to be long and lustrous. Of course, I felt a touch of jealousy, as I was no longer the only daughter. When I saw my father cooing to her, I felt a stab of envy. But the age difference was such that it soon passed: I was approaching my twelfth birthday, whereas Asia was just a little baby.

During the long summer holiday the rains were especially good, and the trees became heavy with fruit. In the farms around the village there were mango, guava, orange, and lemon groves. There was such an abundance that we reckoned the farmers could spare a little. The trouble was that each farmer was jealously guarding his trees, just in case any pesky children came looking to steal his fruit.

One morning Grandma told us to go and fetch her some lemons and mangoes from a nearby farm. She didn’t openly instruct us to steal them, but we got her meaning. We knew that farm well. There was an old man looking after it, so we weren’t especially worried. We sneaked down there, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. We started hurling sticks and stones into the branches, knocking down the ripest fruit.

As we gathered the fallen lemons and mangoes, we heard a roar of anger from behind us. We tried to make a run for it, but powerful hands grabbed Omer and me from behind and knocked poor Mo to the ground. Suddenly, we were starting into the face of a young and very tough-looking Zaghawa man.

“Throwing stones and damaging my fruit trees!” he thundered. “You bad children! Stand in line, while I decide what to do with you.”

He took a couple of steps backward and glared at us. “I know you, don’t I? You’re that Grandma Sumah’s lot. No wonder! I bet she sent you. Well, speak up!”

“No one sent us,” Mohammed wailed. “No one sent us to do anything.”

“He’s right,” I added. “We came of our own accord.”

As for Omer, he just glared at the man in a stubborn silence.

“Well, you can stand there until someone comes for you,” he announced. “I’ll bet that Grandma sent you—and I’m not letting you go until she comes to explain herself.”

All morning we were made to stand beneath the fruit tree, under the watchful gaze of the angry man. But there was no way Grandma would come for us, of that I was certain. She was far too smart for that. If she did, it would be akin to admitting that she’d sent us to steal some fruit. The angry man could then demand payment, and he might even try to claim compensation for his damaged trees.

Eventually, the angry man lost patience. He gave us each a sound beating and sent us on our way. When we got home Grandma showed us no sympathy whatsoever. Instead, she scolded us for failing in our mission.

“Go try another farm,” she ordered. “And this time, try not to get caught!”

We went to Kadiga’s house and recruited her and her brothers to help. Then we headed for another farm. We split up into two teams. Kadiga’s gang went ahead, deliberately revealing themselves to the old man guarding the farm. We watched from our hiding place as he raced after them, yelling for the thieves to get off of his land. As soon as he was out of sight we rushed in and grabbed as much fruit as we could. It was lying on the ground in neat heaps.

We made our getaway and headed straight for the prearranged meeting place. Kadiga and her gang had managed to outrun the old man, and we divided the spoils between us. We took the plundered fruit to the marketplace, where we sold half to one of the traders.

The rest we took home for our crime boss—Grandma Sumah.

CHAPTER TEN

Cousins in Love

Toward the end of my summer holiday there was a big wedding in a neighboring village. The groom was a close cousin, and we all had to go to support his side of the family. My father was away in his fields, so we would have to travel there in a big truck that doubled as the village bus. Twice weekly the truck would do a circuit of our and the neighboring villages. Most passengers would crouch on the open truck bed, or stand gripping the sides. But the best was if you could get a seat inside the cab.

I didn’t want to travel to the wedding on the truck’s rear, as we would ruin our nice clothes. Passengers would carry a wild assortment of luggage with them: cages of chickens; goats on a string; sacks of maize; old bicycles; even the odd cow. Whenever the truck hit a bump everything would fly into the air. More often than not you’d end up on your back with a goat on top of you and a cage of chickens on your head. It was impossible to arrive at your destination looking even remotely neat and respectable.

Luckily, Grandma had spoken with the truck driver and booked three seats in the cab. As a result, we arrived at the neighboring village in fine fettle. That evening the groom had his head ritually shaved. There was singing and dancing and drumming, as we celebrated the groom being cleansed of his body hair in preparation for the wedding.

Of course, the bride price had been set many months before. The groom had already paid the bride’s family a quantity of gold and a number of animals. He had also bought a new set of clothes for the bride’s family members, so that they could look their best on the wedding day. For their part, the bride-to-be’s family had built a house for the newlyweds and furnished it completely, even down to the kitchen things.

The day after the head-shaving ritual we headed over to the bride’s family home. We took our places on rugs on the floor as we waited for the bride to appear. Everyone kept asking when they would get to see her, but it turned out that there was a problem. The bride’s family said that somehow, the bride had been spirited away in the night.

“Perhaps there will be no wedding at all,” the bride’s grandmother announced, dramatically.

We all knew what was going on, as this was a regular charade. The bride’s family had hidden her in order to extort some last minute money out of the groom. The bride’s mother tried to retain a dignified silence, as the grandmother did the talking.

“Perhaps we could find her and talk her back,” she declared. “But you will have to pay something, to help us persuade her.”

The grandmother named an extortionate price as the fee to deliver the bride. But on our side we knew that the bride price had already been paid in full. The bride’s family were dressed in their fine clothes, all of which had been bought from our side. We refused to pay up, and so the arguing and the bargaining began. Grandma Sumah loved these fights, and she quickly rose to the challenge. She marched out in front of the bride’s family.

“Shame on you!” she declared, theatrically. “This is shameful! How can you behave like this? Soon, we will be one family. Let us pay this money, but proceed with the wedding first. This delay is a deep shame . . .”

The bride’s family knew what Grandma was up to: As soon as the bride was delivered, all thoughts of paying would be forgotten.

“No! No way!” the bride’s grandmother countered. “The shame is on you, for refusing to help us. Family or no family—you have to pay now.” The argument went backward and forward, our grandma facing off against their grandma. So far there had been no food or drink served. The bride’s family were holding back the wedding feast in an effort to force us to pay up. But all that seemed to matter to the adults was the fight over the money. Finally, I could bear it no longer.

“
Eya,
I’m hungry,” I complained. “When can I get something to eat?”

My mother told me to keep quiet. She was known as a great negotiator in these situations—a peacemaker and a go-between. But as for Grandma Sumah, the bigger the fight the better as far as she was concerned. Eventually the bride’s family agreed to accept all of the money that our family had on them. But the grown-ups on our side hid some of their money in their clothes, so that they wouldn’t have to hand over everything.

In our culture, if a wedding goes ahead without any fighting, people don’t really enjoy it. We always remember the weddings with the biggest fights, and the most heartfelt making ups. Once money was handed over the wedding feast was served, but it was well after midnight by the time we were finished. In spite of the hour my cousin refused to eat. He couldn’t relax until he had seen his bride. She was an only daughter and very beautiful, and he knew that her family would try to extract the last advantage out of the situation that they possibly could.

He asked his friends to go and search for the bride. At first, no one would show them where she was hidden. But then they paid off the bride’s best friend, and she took them to the house. Still the bride refused to come, unless her family said that it was okay for her to do so. Eventually, the groom lost his patience and he and his friends carried off the bride, taking her across the village to the wedding house. The groom knew that once he had her in that house, then it was all over: No more money could be demanded of him.

At the last moment the bride’s family realized what was happening. They placed their biggest, fattest women in the doorway of the wedding house, to prevent the bride and groom from entering. Both sides faced off against each other, chanting as if they were about to go to war. But the groom’s party played a trick. As the groom pretended to try for the front entrance, his friends smashed down the fence at the rear. They hoisted the bride on their shoulders and carried her inside, crying out their victory as they did so.

The bride’s family knew when they’d been beaten, and they welcomed the newlyweds into their home. The drummer—the
mayee—
picked up his drum, made from cow skin stretched over a hollowed-out tree trunk. The wood was decorated with carvings of beasts, birds, and mythical spirits. A strap on the drum went around his neck, and he stood as he drummed. As each new person entered the wedding house, he beat out a deep, pounding rhythm, calling out their name and their lineage, and their family’s most famous exploits.

Every few seconds the new arrival threw some money at the drummer. It would fall at his feet, or even stick to his brow with the sweat that was pouring off of him. The drummer had a boy with him, whose job it was to scuttle about and collect up all the money. The drumming went on for an age—until those being welcomed ran out of money to throw at the drummer, or until the drummer ran out of grand things to say about them.

When all the guests were present, the drummer stood in the middle of the dance floor. The women formed one line, the men facing them. As the drummer took up the dance rhythm, each man would step forward to choose a dance partner. The chosen woman would come dancing out of line, holding up her scarf to half cover her face, as she peered at the man and decided if she wanted to dance with him or not. If the woman refused, the man would be left isolated on the dance floor, and everyone would laugh at him.

Mostly, she would accept, and then the couple would start to dance around and around the drummer, faster and faster as the rhythm grew in power, pirouetting like a pair or birds, whirling about each other but never quite touching. As more and more dancers joined them, they started to sing a song that came from deep within their hearts.

The party lasted all night, until it was time for the bridegroom’s breakfast. A sheep was slaughtered, and the bride’s mother prepared the first meal for her new son-in-law. Using a fine white flour she made a special
acidah
mash. She part-filled a coffee cup with distilled butter oil and heated it over the fire. The more of the hot oil that the
acidah
soaked up, the more successful the marriage would be. The newlyweds had to feast on the butter oil mash, together with a spicy stew made out of the sheep’s intestines.

Once the breakfast was done the wedding was declared complete. It was then time for us to return to our village, but the truck that was supposed to take us home had broken down. My mother took us to a relative’s house, to see if there was any other transport available. After two late nights I was exhausted, and I fell asleep on their rugs. I awoke in the early afternoon to discover that one of my cousins, thirteen-year-old Sharif, was offering to take us home on his donkey cart. It was a long way but he reckoned we could make it by nightfall.

“Don’t worry,” he declared, brightly. “I’ll get you home.”

“What happens if the cart breaks down?” I objected, sleepily. “It’ll be dark, and we don’t know the way.”

“You’re a typical city girl, aren’t you?” Sharif teased. “That’s what comes of going to the big school. It’s made you weak and soft . . .”

“You’ve been spoiled by that father of yours!” Sharif’s mother added. “He drives you around in that nice car and you’ve forgotten how to walk!”

I tried to object. “No I haven’t, and no I’m not . . .”

“Look, I know you’re used to traveling by car,” Sharif interrupted. “It might not be as fast or as comfortable, but my cart is just as reliable. I’ll get you there all right.”

Before I could say another word it was agreed that Sharif should drive us home. But I didn’t really like this cousin of mine very much, especially after he’d teased me about being a soft city girl. I didn’t like his looks very much, either. He was dressed in a boring old robe, just like all the other simple village boys. I had decided that I wanted to marry a cultured, educated man from the city, a modern man who wore a smart suit and a tie.

The journey in Sharif’s donkey cart was uneventful, if uncomfortable. By the time we reached home my father was already there. He thanked Sharif for bringing us and insisted that he should stay the night, for he wouldn’t have him returning in the dark. After we’d eaten my father announced that he had some surprise news for me. One of my cousins had asked if he might marry me. He was a teacher working in a local school, and because he was an educated man his family believed that it would be a fine match.

“What do you think, Rathebe?” my father asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I hope you said no! How can I go to university and everything if I’m married?”

My father laughed. “Quite—and that’s exactly what I said. I said you had to get a proper education, and maybe we’d think about marriage later.”

“How did this cousin react?” I asked.

I couldn’t help but be curious. And in any case, I reckoned that Sharif was paying a little too much attention, as if he had an interest somehow. I wanted to show him that I was a long way from ever getting married, and that any hopes that a village boy might have were unlikely to be fulfilled.

My father shrugged. “He was very angry. The family was very angry. They took it as an insult. They told me that daughters weren’t for educating. They said you should get married and have kids and take on some responsibilities.”

“Well then, I’m doubly glad you said no. My life would be at an end. I’d be stuck at home, with no study, and no life . . .”

My father went on to tell me a story about one of my nieces. Her father had refused an offer of marriage, but the would-be groom had kidnapped her. They searched for her far and wide, but her “husband” had taken her to a distant village. For years the family had no contact with her, and then one day she returned to the village with her “husband” and son. Her father was extremely angry, but her “husband” proposed a settlement: He handed over some money and animals, and eventually they put their differences behind them.

“I’m telling you this story for a reason,” said my father. “The man we rejected will be angry. We should keep our eyes and ears open and be on our guard. Anything is possible. The way they see it, we have slighted them. So, the sooner we get you off to that new school, the better. Once you’re away, I’m sure it will all be forgotten.”

I needed no further urging—I was more than ready for my new school. My girlfriends from junior school had all passed their exams, so at secondary school Mona, Najat, Samirah, Makboulah, and I were able to re-form our gang. We had made it quite clear by now that we weren’t to be pushed around, and we faced few of the problems that we had before. In any case, my own personal success had set a black girl from the village at the pinnacle of academic achievement—so who could possibly try to claim that we were somehow inferior?

My father was becoming increasingly active in politics now. He had volunteered as a local organizer, raising support for his democratic party to win at the forthcoming elections. When his party leader, Sadiq al-Mahdi, was elected President of Sudan, my father was overjoyed. But his happiness was to be short-lived. One morning there was a shocking announcement on the radio: Soldiers had seized power in the country. Sudan’s brief democratic spring had been cut short, and it was as if my father’s dream had died.