Tears of the Desert (2 page)

The Land Rover was an old khaki green thing, half held together by string and bits of wire. But to us it was like a miraculous apparition from the modern world. When I was older we tried to get my father to sell it, and buy a nicer, newer one. But he refused. He had a strong emotional attachment to that Land Rover, he said. He had so many memories bound up in it, and he feared that they would disappear with the car.

My father’s name was Abdul, but everyone in our village called him
Okiramaj—
which means “the man who has many camels.” It also has another definition—“he who can do anything”; for the man who has many camels is rich, and capable of many things. He was tall and dark-skinned, with a long, ovoid face. He had a thick, glossy mustache, and I used to think that he was the most handsome man in the world.

He had two vertical scars on either side of his head, at his temples. He had been cut when just a boy, to mark him as being from the Zaghawa tribe. These two cuts were also believed to prevent eye infections, and so we called them “the glasses cuts.”

If you didn’t have them people would ask: “You don’t have glasses? Why not? Can you still see well?”

The more scarring that a boy endured, the more of a brave warrior and fighter people believed he would be. Some Zaghawa men had clusters of scarring all over their neck and chest, but my father didn’t. He came from a long line of tribal leaders, and education and skill at trading were highly valued. He was more a thinking man and a village philosopher. He was slow to anger and quick to forgive, and in all my years he never once raised a hand to me.

My father wore a traditional Zaghawa dagger strapped to his arm just below the shoulder. It had a wooden handle, a silver pommel, and a leather scabbard decorated with snakeskin and fine, geometric patterns. All Zaghawa men wore one, which meant they were ready to fight if need be. Around his waist was a string of
hijabs—
little leather pouches made by the
Fakirs,
each with a spell-prayer scribbled on a scrap of paper and sewn up inside.

My father was in his midthirties when he married my mother, Sumah. She was just eighteen and a real beauty. One day he saw her walking through the village, and it was love at first sight. He sought out Grandma Sumah and asked if he might marry her daughter. Grandma was long estranged from her husband, and she and her children had had a hard life. My father was wealthy and Grandma knew him to be a good man. She felt he would make a fine husband for her eldest daughter, and she had readily agreed to the match.

My father and I lay around the fire talking long into the night. He explained to me what an extraordinary day my naming had turned out to be—quite apart from the discovery of my white eyelash. An old man on a camel had arrived at the gates of our home. Although he was a stranger he was invited in, for it was our culture to welcome visitors. But as soon as he clapped eyes on my mother and Grandma Sumah, he flew into a towering rage.

This was Grandma Sumah’s long-estranged husband and he had ridden many days to find her. The Zaghawa are divided into three clans—the Towhir, the Coube, and the Bidayat. Grandma and Grandpa came from different clans. When Grandma had run away from him, she’d returned to the heartland of her tribe, the Coube. Grandpa lived in the distant lands of the Bidayat, and for all these years he’d been unable to trace her.

Then he had heard of a beautiful young Coube girl in our village, Hadurah. He’d learned that she was marrying a rich and handsome man from the Towhir clan. He traced the family names and was convinced that it was his estranged wife who was involved. And so he had set out on his camel to discover if he had finally tracked down his long lost family. Upon arrival he had realized that he had, and that his eldest daughter was already married. He’d flown into a rage against my father, drawing his dagger.

“How dare you marry my daughter!” he’d cried. “Who gave you permission to do so? Certainly not me, and I am her father!”

Before my father could say anything, Grandma Sumah jumped to her feet and whipped out a dagger from her robes. Zaghawa women are not supposed to carry one, and everyone stared at her in openmouthed amazement. It was fifteen years since Grandma had last seen her husband, but she had no problem recognizing him.

“Just you try coming near me!” she yelled, her face like dark thunder. “Leave me and my children be!”

Needless to say, Grandma’s intervention didn’t help very much. And when Grandpa discovered that I existed and that the feast was all in honor of my naming, it made matters even worse. Not only had his wife left him and his eldest daughter married without his permission, but she’d already given birth to a child. Grandpa demanded that he be allowed to take me back to his village. If my father wouldn’t agree, then he would forever curse their marriage.

In Zaghawa tradition the worst one man can do to another is to dishonor him, so my father knew that he had to handle this carefully. He called together the village elders—men of Grandpa’s age and older—and they tried to talk him down. They explained that however much everyone regretted it, what was done was done. My father and mother were married, the child was born, and it had been named that very morning.

My father left the elders to talk and returned with a pillowcase stuffed full of money. He handed it to Grandpa, explaining that it was a down payment on the dowry that he would be paying for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Better late than never, Grandpa must have decided, for his mood suddenly brightened.

My father slaughtered another cow, and announced that it was now a triple celebration: first, for my naming; second, for the discovery of my white eyelash; and third, for the reunification of a long-separated family. The only person who wasn’t very happy with the turn of events was Grandma. She refused to say a word to Grandpa. She just stood and stared at him, gripping her knife and testing its edge on her arm.

Grandpa had stayed a day or two, before he had to get back to his village. He told Grandma that now he knew where she lived and that she was happy, he could go home with a clear mind. But still Grandma brandished her knife at him, and told him to be on his way.

The story of why Grandma had run away from Grandpa was an extraordinary one, my father added. Once he had heard it, it explained a lot about Grandma’s fierce nature. But we should keep it for another day. Everyone else had retired to their huts to sleep, and it was time that we joined them.

My father ruffled my sleepy head. “So, now you know the story of how you got your name,” he told me. “And who knows, maybe one day you will be a healer—just like the village medicine woman, Halima.”

My father didn’t know it, but his words were a prophecy of the future.

CHAPTER TWO

Grandma’s Trip to the Lost Valley

Often my father was away early, spending the day out in the fields tending to his livestock. Over a breakfast of
acidah
I couldn’t get the story of Grandpa and Grandma out of my mind. What had he done to her, I wondered, to provoke her to run away?

I peeked at the smoky hearth. Grandma was staring fiercely into a huge black cooking pot, stirring the
acidah
mash until it reached just the right consistency. For a moment I thought about asking her what had happened, but I dismissed the idea right away. I knew what Grandma was like, having been on the receiving end of countless tongue-lashings and worse. Deep inside her chest beat a heart of gold, but her manner was always stern and fearsome.

I called Grandma
“abu”
—Zaghawa for “grandmother.” She was tall and strong, and her round face was framed with plaited hair. In Zaghawa tradition a woman would plait her hair tight to her scalp, with one row running parallel to the forehead, and the rest running backward to hang down her neck. Grandma had two deep diagonal scars on her temples, and the left side of her face was a mass of tiny cut marks. This was the scarring of the Coube clan, and each clan had its own distinctive markings.

We Zaghawa believe that scarring makes women look beautiful. One day Grandma had told me how her mother and grandmother had spent hours doing her cutting, when she was just a little girl. The two cuts to the temples had been made with a razor blade, but the tiny, shallow cuts to the cheek were made with a sliver of sharp stone. I thought it was wonderful, and I was dying to have it done to me when I was old enough.

Grandma loved to wear bright
topes
in all the shades of the rainbow, just as if she were still a young, unmarried woman. She was over forty years old, but she was still regal and beautiful, and fit enough for hard work. She wore gold earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, decorated with gems of a gleaming red. Some of the jewelry was handed down from her ancestors. Darfur is rich in gold, especially if you go searching deep in the mountains.

I couldn’t risk asking Grandma to tell me the story of how she came to leave Grandpa. So I decided to corner my mum and force it out of her. My beautiful mother was considered a bit of a soft touch in our family. She had exactly the same scars as Grandma, and if someone saw them together they’d know from the scars alone that they were closely related. The style and shape of the scarring is specific to the family.

My mother was shorter than Grandma, and a little plump, which was just how Zaghawa men liked their women. Prior to getting married the bride is supposed to eat
damirgha—
a porridge made of durum wheat, milk, and yogurt. The idea is to fatten them up for the wedding day. After giving birth a mother has to lie on her bed for forty days and eat
damirgha.
Once again, the idea is to keep her plump, and to enable her to provide rich milk for the baby.

People used to say that Grandma could never get plump. She was too “hot” and angry, and this would burn up any food that she had eaten. Even Grandma used to complain about it. “You’ll never be thin like me,” she’d grumble to my mother. “Your life is too easy and comfortable.” As for me, I resolved to be just like my mother: plump enough to be beautiful, without being incapacitated in any way.

I went to ask my mother why Grandma had left Grandpa. I knew exactly where to find her. She had just given birth, but the baby had died during the prolonged labor. This wasn’t uncommon in our part of Africa: Like most villages in Darfur, ours had no proper midwife, doctor, or nurses. Once the tiny baby had been buried it was quickly forgotten. But my mother still had to lie down for forty days, resting.

Inside her hut it was cool and dark, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light. I felt my way around the smoothness of the mud wall to my mother’s low bed—a simple wooden frame, strung with a latticework of old sacking. The beds were light and easy to carry. During the hot season we would drag them outside and sleep under the stars in the soft breeze.

I shook my mother gently, and she opened her eyes. She’d only been dozing. She smiled. “What is it, Rathebe?”

I perched on the edge of the bed. “Why is Grandma so angry,
eya
?”
Eya
is Zaghawa for “Mummy.” “She’s always got a cross face.”

My mother sighed. “What
has
she been up to this time?”

“Nothing, it’s just she
looks
so angry. And you’re stuck in here, Daddy’s away, and I’m out there with her all the time . . .”

“She’s had a hard life, Rathebe, long years spent all alone. She’s not a bad person. She’s kind within her heart.”

“Well, everyone
says
she’s had a hard life, but no one ever tells me
why.
If I knew why, then at least I could feel sorry for her. It’s all to do with what happened between her and Grandpa, isn’t it?”

My mother gave a little shrug of resignation. “Well, I suppose you had to know one day.” She pulled me closer, lowering her voice just in case Grandma might be nearby. “When they were married Grandma and Grandpa went to live in his village, far, far away. They were happy for many years, but one day Grandma discovered that Grandpa had taken a second wife. He’d gone to a far away place and married a younger woman. Everyone says he did it far away so he could keep his second wife secret from Grandma.”

I smiled to myself. Grandpa had every right to be fearful. No one in their right mind would want to cross Grandma.

“Just as soon as she learned of this Grandma decided to leave him. She told Grandpa’s parents that she was going to pay a visit to her home village. She set off with me and my two brothers, and just the clothes she stood up in. Grandpa is a rich man, but she left everything when she left him. Then she returned for my young sister, your Auntie Makka. She strapped baby Makka onto her back and was just setting off when Grandpa’s relatives stopped her . . .”

“Why? What did they do?” I interrupted, all wide-eyed with curiosity.

“Well, they accused Grandma of spiriting the children away. There was a big fight, and eventually Grandma was forced to leave baby Makka behind. Grandpa’s relatives soon realized their suspicions had been right and that Grandma had left for good. They were furious. They decided to keep baby Makka in the house, watching her like hawks. They knew that Grandma would return for her, and when she did they would capture her. But Grandma was too clever for that . . .”

“But what did she do?” I exclaimed.

“Sshhhh! Keep you voice down. . . . Four years after she’d run away Grandma returned to the village in disguise. She went to the neighbor’s house and gave them some gold. She told them to invite Makka over to play with their daughter. Grandma removed her disguise and your auntie recognized her mum. She spirited Makka away, warning the neighbors not to breathe a word.”

I shook my head in amazement. “Wow . . . Grandma was tough, even back then.”

My mother nodded. “She’s been like that since the day she was born. When Grandpa’s mother came to fetch Makka she was nowhere to be found. She searched everywhere, but finally she realized that Makka was gone. She knew then that Grandma had come in secret for her daughter. She cried and cried for a month. . . . She’d lost her daughter-in-law and all of her grandchildren.”

Grandpa was a rich man, and Grandma could have had a very comfortable life with him. In Zaghawa culture it is normal for men to take more than one wife. What Grandma had objected to was
her
husband doing so, and in secret. Grandma was the daughter of a chief, and she had royal blood in her veins. It was the disrespect that she had found unacceptable. Grandma had been forced to bring up her four children alone. None of them had had more than a basic education, as she couldn’t afford the school fees.

“Grandma did the right thing,” my mother added. “She was right to run away—and don’t you ever let people tell you otherwise. She did it for us, for the honor of our family.”

Grandma had agreed to my father marrying my mother in part because his father had only ever taken the one wife. He was a relatively rich man and could have had many. But his wife had told him: “I will give you as many children as you want. I can even give birth to one a year. But you are not allowed to take another wife.” She had proven true to her word: My father had four brothers and eight sisters, so there were thirteen children in all.

By contrast, Grandma’s father had taken nine wives. His family grew so large that he couldn’t even remember the names of his children. Grandma used to have to join a line of half brothers and half sisters whenever she went to see him. He would ask each the same question: “Who is your mother?” That was the only way that he could place the child.

Grandma used to laugh, and remark upon what a great job her father had done: “He could raise an army from within his own family,” she boasted. But I think she was just putting a brave face on things. Her running away from Grandpa showed what she thought of men taking multiple wives.

When my father had married my mother he’d built a new house—a
bah—
for them to live in. There were four circular mud huts, each with a central pole supporting the beams and the grass thatch roof. Next to that central pole was a fire hearth. There was one hut for my parents, and a women’s hut where Grandma and I used to sleep. Across the way was a men’s house, and a hut for visitors.

In the backyard was a chicken coop. I used to love searching for the hen’s eggs. The coop was on two levels. There was a lower roosting area for the hens, and wooden boxes hung from the rafters, which were for pigeons. Most Zaghawa families keep pigeons: They are given as gifts at weddings and births. Grandma used to collect the pigeon droppings, and mix the dry powder with oil to make a paste. She’d dab this on to our skin if we had allergies, or bad cuts, and often it did seem to help.

The whole of our
bah—
huts, central living area, and chicken coop—was enclosed by a fence made of tree branches driven into the ground. The fence was so high that I couldn’t see over it. But it was just the right height for a fully grown adult to peer over, and call out a greeting as he or she was passing. When I grew older I was to learn that the fence was mainly for defensive purposes, as there was forever the threat of conflict in our region.

When I was young and still an only child I was never lonely, because the village children were my playmates. Every day I would be out runtning, jumping, and laughing with them. But in the evening I’d be back with my family, listening to my father’s stories. In the background I’d hear the cattle lowing, dogs barking, and the camels calling to each other. Sometimes I’d catch the distant noise of animals in the forest—the roar of the leopard, the
hjar,
or the ghostly howl of the hyena, which sent shivers up my spine.

Come bedtime I was meant to sleep with Grandma, as an elder should never be left alone. But if my father was away in his fields I’d sneak into my mother’s hut. My mother would have found time during the day to cook my father a special dish, which we nicknamed the “bed-leg.” It was usually a spicy chicken stew, and it was supposed to give the man special power so that he could make fine, strong children.

Each evening it was left at the foot of the bed—hence the nickname. I’d be lying on my little bed pretending to sleep, but peeping across at the clay bowl that contained the bed-leg. I’d savor the delicious, spicy smell in the still air of the hut. Eventually, once it really was too late for my father to be coming home, my mother would pass the bowl across to me. I had to pretend that I didn’t know what it was.

My mother would tell me it was just some food left over from lunch, and to eat it quietly. I’d open the pot and peep inside. If it was the cold season a fire would be burning in the center of the hut, to keep us warm. I’d tilt the pot toward the firelight, so I could see to eat. If it was the hot season I’d be sleeping outside, so I could see by the faint light of the stars. Getting to eat the bed-leg was a very good reason to sleep in my mother’s hut.

When my father came home from his work travels he’d bring a gift for Grandma—usually a little meat from the village market. Grandma would never eat with my father, or any other men. But she would often prepare him a special homecoming treat: Perhaps chicken, boiled and then deep-fried in oil; or lamb smoked over the fire. If I caught Grandma cooking his treat I’d beg her to give it to me instead. But she’d scowl, and tell me it wasn’t for a lazy, good-for-nothing girl. It was for someone special—my father.

My best friend in the village was called Kadiga. She lived in the house next door and we were the same age. We wore simple clothes—a plain cotton dress, which fell straight from the shoulders to the ankles—and we’d run around barefoot and bareheaded the whole time. We had our hair braided in the same style as Grandma, which we called
beeri.
Grandma used to try to braid my hair, but I much preferred my mum doing it. She was far gentler, and the end result always seemed to be more beautiful.