Tears of the Desert (5 page)

My favorite game of all was the “moon-bone” game. I used to keep one of Grandma’s goat’s thighbones hidden in the rafters of the hut. On an evening when the moon was full I’d run out into the yard and cry out: “
Keyoh adum jaghi gogo keyh!
”—let’s play the moon-bone game! It was as if all the neighborhood kids had been waiting to hear those words. At the center of our hamlet was an open area similar to an English village green. Crowds of children would rush down there, their parents bringing tea and milk and hot snacks.

It was so nice to be out under the bright moon, enjoying the cool of the night without needing oil lamps to light our way. The children would line up in a row, with their backs toward me, and I’d throw the goat’s thighbone as far as I could. Then I’d yell out “Start!” Everyone would go racing off searching for the bone. It would be lying in the grass somewhere, glistening blue-white in the silvery moonlight. Whoever found it would cry out: “I’ve found the treasure! I’ve found the treasure!” and then race back to the starting point.

Of course, all the other children would be trying to snatch the bone out of their hands, so this is when the game became really fun. Sometimes there’d be a huge pileup, as one child dove onto whoever had found it, and everyone else jumped on top of them. Parents would be watching, laughing, and yelling out excitedly. I could hear my father calling out his support for me, and that always spurred me on to win.

What I loved most about the moon-bone game was its total unpredictability. The main advantages you might have over the others were speed, and skill at fighting. And for some reason—most likely Grandma’s influence—I seemed to excel at both. Once the others realized what a tough, merciless fighter I was, they seemed to hold back from tackling me. Whenever I won my mother would cook me some
fangasso—
sweet doughnuts, deep-fried in oil. I’d eat them finger-scalding hot and dipped in milk.

But of course life could never be one long episode of fun and games. Shortly after our fight with the four Fur boys I landed myself in some real trouble. As ours was a Muslim village there was supposed to be no alcohol, but there were always people who broke the rules. A handful of women specialized in making sorghum beer
—goro.
They couldn’t do so openly, but they had private drinking dens in their homes. We could always tell which men were their best customers, because drinking
goro
made them have big, bulbous stomachs.

The location of the beer dens was communicated by word of mouth. Some of the beer women had the reputation for making good, strong brews, but others would water it down. The drinkers would gather tot gether, sitting on a rug on the floor or on little stools. The beer women would serve big trays of smoked lamb, and
goro
by the half-gourd full. Often the men would drink too much and it would end in a big fight. The beer women made certain that they only had cheap furnishings, as everything would get smashed up.

Everyone knew who the beer women were. The only people they could really socialize with were other beer women. Sometimes the village Imam would speak with the men who drank, warning them that they were terrible sinners. He tried arguing that both the beer and the money earned from selling it was
haram—
forbidden. But more often than not the beer women were single mothers or widows. They would argue that they had no way to survive other than by selling their beer.

One evening I went around to Kadiga’s house to ask her out to play. I noticed a group of men sitting around laughing and drinking. They were Kadiga’s uncles and cousins. We knew that some of Kadiga’s family were drunkards, and Grandma had warned me to avoid them. The men believed that beer made you fat, healthy, and strong, and so they were not averse to slipping the odd bowl-full to their children.

One of Kadiga’s uncles held out a bowl to me. “Come! Come! Try some,” he called. “It’s good for you. It’ll make you grow into a big strong girl.”

Of course, I’d never had any and I was curious. After a moment’s hesitation I took the bowl. I raised it to my lips, but the sweet, fermented smell made me gag. I steeled myself, as all the men were watching me now. I took a gulp. It had a lumpy consistency and a bittersweet taste. It wasn’t very nice, but it wasn’t totally disgusting, either. I knew that I’d never get the chance to drink any at home. I’d watched people drinking, and they seemed happy—chatting and laughing together—so I thought that maybe it was a good thing.

I drained the whole bowl. The first sensation that came over me was drowsiness. I forgot all about playing with Kadiga and made my way unsteadily home. With barely a word to anyone I went to bed and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke late the following morning feeling totally awful. I had a terrible headache, I couldn’t open my eyes, and I felt nauseous. At first my mum was worried, but once she got close enough to smell my breath she became suspicious.

“You were at Kadiga’s house, weren’t you?” she demanded. “Did you drink any beer?”

I felt so bad that I didn’t even have the energy to lie. I nodded. “I did. But please don’t be angry. I feel so horrible.”

My mother’s faced clouded over. She disappeared, and a second later she was back with a big stick. Suddenly she was beating me on my legs, and crying out that how many times had I been warned that I was never, ever to drink any beer? It wasn’t the pain of the blows that shocked me, it was the very fact that my mother was beating me. I was used to that from Grandma, but not from my gentle mother.

In an instant my hangover was forgotten, and I ran toward Grandma to escape.

“What? What is it?” she cried, jumping to her feet. “What’s happened?”

Before I could answer, my mother cried out that I’d been to Kadiga’s house and that I’d been drinking beer. In an instant Grandma had me caught in her iron grip.

“What! You went there, to that drunkard house?
To drink beer?
”

Grandma proceeded to give me my second, and much more fierce beating of the morning. So rarely did my mother hit me that just as soon as she’d raised that stick to me I knew I’d committed a big wrong. But Grandma’s beating was only to be expected. Grandma used to beat us regularly, and mostly we used to think that we were getting what we deserved.

As with many things in our culture, the taboo on drinking was enforced much more strictly against the women than the men. I knew that my father occasionally drank sorghum beer. He had a group of friends who would call and take him away to one of the secret drinking dens. One day I overheard my mother quarrelling with him about it.

“Why d’you go drinking with those people?” she demanded. “They’re no good. They just use you for your car and money. Shame on you—you should be thinking first of your family.”

“But they’re my friends and I 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 later Bakhita, one of Grandma’s best friends, came to visit. Grandma called me over, telling me that Bakhita had a present for me. I went to her hut all smiles, as I had forgotten what had happened previously. But as soon as I stepped inside Grandma grabbed me, and instantly I knew what they were up to.

Grandma imprisoned me on her lap in a viselike grip. I was screaming and fighting like a wild cat as Bakhita came at me with the razor blade. She tried to make the first cut to my left temple, but I kicked her away with my legs. As she fell backward the razor blade sliced into my cheek, right next to my nose. I felt the warm blood trickling down my face. I sunk my teeth into Grandma’s arm, biting down as hard as I could, while thrashing around with my legs so that Bakhita couldn’t get near me.

“I can’t do this!” Bakhita cried. “She’s like a madwoman!”

“You have to do it!” Grandma yelled back at her. “You have to do it!”

“Look, how can I with her going crazy like this? It’s impossible. I’ll end up hurting her.”

I still had my teeth sunk deep into Grandma’s arm, as the two of them proceeded to argue it out. Grandma hadn’t so much as flinched: To do so would have been to acknowledge that I was hurting her. Eventually, once I had landed a few more good kicks on her, Bakhita threw down the razor blade and refused to go on.

Grandma turned on me. “Cowardly girl!” she spat out. “Where is your bravery?
Your bravery?
Don’t you know you are a
Zaghawa
?
A Zaghawa!
Coward!”

I ran to my mum’s hut in tears, although secretly I was happy that I’d escaped.

“Why is Grandma so horrible?” I sobbed. “She’s always beating us and trying to hurt us. Look what she’s done now!”

My mum took me in her arms, and tended to my cut face. Then she went to have words with Grandma.

“Look, she’s got a very hard head, has this one. She won’t listen and she won’t obey. Don’t try to cut her again. There’s no point, and you really might hurt her.”

Grandma didn’t object. As far as she was concerned she’d washed her hands of me. But when my father came home that evening and saw what they’d done, he became so angry. I told my father not to get too upset, because I’d fought them off and escaped once more. They’d hardly managed to cut me at all. And now Grandma appeared to have given up trying to do so once and for all.

That seemed to improve his temper no end. He held out his arms to me, singing softly:

He took me on his lap, ruffled my hair, and gave me a kiss on the top of my head. “While I’m here no one can do anything to hurt you. You’re safe here with me.”

Of course, my father meant every word that he said.

But no man is invincible, no matter how much a little girl might wish him to be so.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mo, Omer, and Me

One day my mother awoke with a terrible pain in her ear. We were worried that an insect might have crawled inside during the night. Grandma inspected the ear, and concluded that we had to pour in some hot sesame oil to force the insect to crawl out. My mother lay down on Grandma’s bed. She heated up the oil, tested it with her finger, and when it was just right she poured a little inside. She asked how it felt, and my mother said it was quite nice, sort of warm and soothing.

Grandma proceeded to pour in enough oil to fill up my mum’s ear, and then we sat and waited. And we waited and waited and waited. Finally, Grandma had to concede that no insect had come crawling out. There was only one thing stronger than sesame oil, Grandma said, and that was gasoline. I’d never heard of anyone having gasoline poured into their ear, but Grandma insisted it would do the job.

She went to fetch the can of gasoline that my father used for his Land Rover. My father had warned me about that gas can—it was dangerous, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it. I wondered if it really was the right thing to be pouring into my mother’s ear. It was meant for the Land Rover, a machine, not for people. Grandma returned with the heavy metal can. She unscrewed the lid and poured a little of the liquid into a clay bowl. As she did so, my nose caught the rich, heady fumes.

“D’you really think it’s good for Mummy’s ear?” I ventured.

Grandma glared at me. “It’s strong enough to move that big car, isn’t it? So it must be better than sesame oil. Or do you have a better idea?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Well then, keep quiet. Who’s the medicine person around here anyway? If you had your way we’d leave your poor mother to die . . .”

Grandma warmed the bowl of gasoline over the fire, and poured a goodly dose into my mother’s ear. We stood back, holding our breath as we watched. For a second or so nothing happened, and then my mother started to splutter and cough horribly. An instant later she was heaving and clutching at her throat, her face a vivid red color. She kept trying to choke out some words, but her voice came out as a breathless, strangled croak.

I grabbed my mum’s arms, which were shaking violently, and put my ear close to her. “Water! Water!” she rasped.

I rushed out of the hut and grabbed a bowl of water. I watched in mounting panic as my poor mother gulped it down, and an instant later it all came up again. My mother clutched at her stomach and her throat in agony. All that day she lay on the bed getting steadily weaker. Her breath came out in short, wheezing gasps, and nothing would stay down. I was worried that she was going to die. It was terrifying.

When my father came home that evening he was beside himself with anger. He kept marching up and down the yard, cursing under his breath. “Stupid woman! Stupid woman! That stupid, stupid woman.” He meant Grandma, of course, but I couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. He was cursing Grandma in English so that she wouldn’t understand and be offended. It was only years later when I started learning English at school that I realized what he had been saying.

All night long my mother was retching and struggling to breathe. At the crack of dawn my father was up and about, preparing to drive her to the hospital. He carried her out of the yard and laid her across the two front seats of the Land Rover. I was sick with worry and I wanted to go with him. But he told me that I had to stay behind and look after little Mohammed. With barely a wave goodbye he set off on the long drive to the nearest large town.

The following evening my father returned. He was grim-faced and exhausted, anxiety etched across his features. My mother was very sick, he explained. The gasoline had gone down the narrow tube that connects the ear to the throat, and from there it had got into her stomach and her lungs. She would be in the hospital for many weeks, although the doctors hoped she would make a full recovery.

Later that night my father took me on his knee. He stared into the fire-light, worry in his eyes. “That Grandma of yours, Rathebe. . . . You know, she believes in some stupid things. Some of them are so wrong, yet can anyone tell her? Of course not. She’ll never listen, so she’ll never change her mind.”

I told my father that we needed a doctor in our village, a proper one like they had at the big hospital. Otherwise, Grandma might end up killing someone. That made my father laugh. There was nothing he could think of that the village needed more, he said. It would be a real blessing. The next day I told Grandma what my father and I had decided.

“What rubbish!” Grandma snorted. “A doctor! What do we need a doctor for? What use are people who just read books?
I
can cure most things, and with the help of the Fakirs . . .”

Three months passed before my mother was well enough to come home. Even then she had to rest in her hut and wasn’t allowed to expose her damaged chest to the smoky cooking fire. This was the time that I taught myself to make
kissra—
the flat sorghum pancakes that we all loved to eat. Grandma was useless at making them and my mother was too ill. The best
kissra
has to be light and thin, like a crisp crepe. The secret lay in three things: getting the mixture just right; allowing it to ferment a little before cooking it; and handling the
garagaribah—
the special
kissra-
making spatula—correctly.

The
garagaribah
is a thin woody spatula, made from the pithy insides of a date-palm leaf. Once the batter is poured onto the hot cooking iron, the
garagaribah
is used to spread it out in a series of sweeping circular motions. I quickly learned that a good
garagaribah
would last for many months without drying or splitting if left in a cup of batter to keep it moist. I would add the cup of batter to the next batch, as a culture to aid in its fermentation. It was that which gave the
kissra
a slightly sour, fermented flavor.

Some six months after the gasoline incident my mother was pregnant again. The day my second brother was born it was as if a tiny version of Grandma had entered the world. He came out kicking and screaming, and demanding to be at the very center of attention. Grandma must have sensed that she was no longer alone in the world, for she was instantly inseparable from her angry, warlike grandchild. She and gentle Mohammed had never really hit it off, but now she had her tough little Zaghawa grandson with which to go to war.

In keeping with Zaghawa tradition my father gave his second-born son his surname—Omer. On the day of Omer’s naming, Grandma was so proud of her little warrior grandchild. She held the tiny bundle of energy and fight in her arms, beaming with happiness. Halfway through the day’s ceremonies, who should turn up but Grandma’s estranged husband. Yet nothing it seemed could put a damper on her good spirits. Soon she and he were chatting and laughing away as if they were long-lost friends.

“You’re such a hot woman,” Grandpa remarked, with a fond smile. “No other woman could have escaped like that, and stolen my children away . . .”

Grandma gave a fierce grin. “And don’t you forget it! I’m warning you—you try and cross me again and there’ll be hell to pay!”

Grandpa turned to my father. “How can you live in the same house as this hot woman—this fierce, runaway wife of mine?”

My father shrugged. “Well, she has her own place and we have ours. It works for us, doesn’t it,
abu
?”

Grandma smiled happily and tickled little Omer. She had a real liking for my father, in spite of their differences on how to bring up the children. He had given her a home and respect, and he never openly crossed her. Whenever she did something truly outrageous, my father was usually the first person to defend her. She was the elder of the family and we had to respect her, he’d argue. Even if she was wrong, we should learn to live with it.

Well, I could learn to live with most things, but right now I was having real problems with Grandma’s newfound fondness for Grandpa. I watched in amazement as she bounced little Omer on her lap and fed Grandpa choice tidbits from the feast. It was almost as if they were being
intimate
together, and Grandma was . . . well . . . she was
Grandma,
and far too old and wizened for that sort of thing.

That evening I went and found my mother. I plunked myself down beside her. “What
is
Grandma up to now? I mean, have you
seen
her and Grandpa . . .”

My mother smiled. “What’s wrong, Rathebe? They’re just making friends again, that’s all.”

“But why? I mean, are they divorced or married, or falling in love again or
what
?”

My mum laughed. “I don’t know. And you shouldn’t really ask. . . . All I do know is that no one’s ever been able to tame her. That’s just Grandma: She always gets her own way.”

This wasn’t the first time that Grandpa had been back to visit us, my mother explained. Ever since his surprise appearance at my naming ceremony he’d been back each year, but I had been too young to remember. It was almost as if he admired Grandma, as if he felt proud to have such a rebellious, renegade bride. And they were definitely starting to get close again.

Grandpa didn’t stay for long, and once he was gone I was relieved to see that things went back to normal—or at least as normal as they could be now that Omer was around. Omer was basically Grandma reborn as a tough little fighter boy. Already he was the spitting image of her. He was going to grow up tall and strong like her, and built for fighting. Of course Grandma thought Omer was just perfect—even though he was off making trouble with the neighbor’s children almost before he could walk.

“Ah, now, this
—this
is a man!” Grandma would announce, whenever he returned from making the other boys cry.

Omer was the exact opposite of Mohammed, who loved getting hugs. Whenever my mother called him for a cuddle he would refuse to come. If Mo had sweets he would share them, but Omer would keep them all to himself. If Mo were given some money by my father, he would immediately hand it to Grandma for safekeeping, but Omer would hoard his. Sometimes, he would have saved up so much money that my mother would ask to borrow some, and pay him back when our father came home.

I didn’t mind handing over my pocket money to Grandma: I’d rather that than have it fall through a hole in my clothes when I was out playing. But I would keep a careful eye on it. From time to time I’d ask Grandma: “How much do I have now?” Grandma would scowl at us, before retreating into her hut. We all knew what she was doing in there: She was checking on her special hiding place. She kept her valuables buried in a hole by the central post of the hut—and that’s where she hid our pocket money.

Grandma used to tell us that once we had saved up enough money we should buy gold. She called gold
tibrih—
the money-saver—and
tibrih
was to be cherished.

“Sell anything,
anything,
but not your gold,” she’d tell us. “If gold is gone it will never return.”

Once Omer was old enough he got a tiny wooden “sword” strapped to his waist, and a little wooden “dagger” strapped to his back. He was ready to fight anyone, regardless of their age or size. If there was a quarrel between them, Omer would attack Mohammed with his sword. He would even attack me, although I was six years older than he. The rest of the time he spent climbing onto the roofs of the huts, clambering over the trees, escaping from our yard, and getting lost and causing trouble.

Mo was always good to me, but in a way it was Omer who was my favorite brother. Whenever I wanted to go on an adventure to the forest, or climbing trees, Omer was up for it. And he was the one I could rely on whenever the going got tough. He was like a little protector by my side.

I wasn’t alone in relishing Omer’s fighting spirit. Whenever Grandma went to the village market to sell some chickens or goats she’d take Omer with her. From the earliest age Mo had started to follow Omer’s lead, so he would invariably tag along behind. If Grandma got into an argument or a fight, Omer would join in right alongside her, but Mo would come rushing home.

“Quick, quick! Come! Come!” he’d cry. “Grandma and Omer—they’re causing trouble! Come quick—come help!”

Whenever we were out and about play-fighting I’d pick Omer first to be on my team. We might be wrestling, or using improvised wooden swords. There was only one rule: You could do anything you wanted to win, apart from hitting people in the face. You could grab someone in a headlock, throw them to the ground, box them in the tummy, or twist their arm behind their back. Usually it would be boy against boy, or girl on girl. But sometimes we girls would fight the boys, just to prove that we were as tough as they were.

Omer had scars all over his legs and arms, which marked him out as a real toughie. Invariably, someone would end up hurt and crying whenever they fought him, and then there’d be trouble. Their parents would come around to our house to complain. My mother would rush to apologize, but Grandma would tell her to keep quiet. Saying sorry was cowardly, she’d argue. My mum would counter that she had to apologize, or the neighbors might beat Omer. But Grandma would point out that if the other kids didn’t want to get hurt, they shouldn’t join in the play-fighting.