Sophie and the Locust Curse

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  Sophie and the Locust Curse

  by Stephen Davies

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  ‘Good morning,’ said Sophie’s dad, wandering into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my motorbike goggles?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie, who was standing on tiptoes searching in a wall cupboard. ‘Have you seen the maize flakes?’

  ‘I was wearing them when I came back from my research trip, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I put them.’

  Sophie’s father was a botanist who had come to West Africa to research carnivorous plants. For three years now they had lived in a country called Burkina Faso in a small town called Gorom-Gorom.

  Sophie put her cereal bowl back in the cupboard and picked up a mango. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘where’s the fruit knife?’

  ‘Never mess with knives,’ said Sophie’s father, leaving the room.

  Sophie found the fruit knife and began to peel her mango. She worked quickly, knowing that her friend Gidaado could arrive any moment. When Sophie and her dad had first come to Burkina Faso three years ago she had found it very hard to fit in, but meeting Gidaado had made things easier. One friend her age was better than none.

  Today was market day in Gorom-Gorom so there was no school, and Gidaado had invited Sophie to come to his village for the naming ceremony of his newborn cousin. Sophie had never been to a naming ceremony here and she was very excited.

  Sophie cut her mango into bite-sized cubes and popped them into her mouth. On the kitchen table a radio was burbling away — a young woman reading the news in French, the official language of Burkina Faso. Sophie was not paying much attention to the news, but when she heard mention of their town Gorom-Gorom her ears pricked up.

  ‘Gorom-Gorom is thought to be the next town under threat from sauterelles,’ the newsreader was saying. ‘Last night they wreaked havoc in Djibo and Aribinda and this morning they are moving east towards Gorom-Gorom. On our early morning show, “Wake up with Fatimata”, General Alai Crêpe Sombo criticized the government for its “slow and inadequate” response to the unfolding crisis...’

  ‘Dad!’ shouted Sophie. ‘What are sauterelles?’

  Her dad’s voice from the study was faint. ‘I already found them, thank you,’ he said. ‘They were in the bath of all places.’

  Sophie sighed. Perhaps the sauterelles were djinns, mischievous spirits of the desert. Or perhaps they were monsters, half-man half-frog. After all, didn’t the French word sauter mean ‘jump’? Sophie went to the window and peered out, half expecting to see a horde of jumping djinns or slavering monsters pogo-ing towards the house. But all she saw were a few fire finches and her dad’s sunflowers swaying in the breeze.

  A sudden snort in the street outside made Sophie jump. A metal flap in the gate lifted up and a thin black hand came into view, fumbling with the bolt on the inside.

  ‘Dad!’ cried Sophie. ‘Gidaado is here! Don’t forget to pick me up from his village tonight, will you?’

  ‘No thanks, dear,’ came a faint voice from the study. ‘I’ve had two cups already this morning.’

  ‘Salam Alaykum,’ called Gidaado, leading his white camel in through the gate.

  ‘Alaykum asalam,’ said Sophie.

  Gidaado was holding a long wooden staff and on his head he wore the traditional floppy cap of the griot clan. Griots were professional storytellers and musicians. They knew thousands of stories, riddles and songs, and they were also experts in family history. Whenever there was an important party, a wedding or a naming ceremony, a griot or two would be invited to come and sing about the host’s ancestors.

  ‘Did you pass the night in peace?’ said Sophie in Fulfulde, Gorom-Gorom’s local language. Having lived here for three years she was fluent in Fulfulde, although she still spoke it with a slight English accent.

  ‘Peace only,’ said Gidaado. ‘Did you wake in peace?’

  ‘Peace only. How is Chobbal?’

  ‘Peace only.’ Gidaado stroked the snowy neck of the camel which knelt beside him. He had named the camel after his own favourite food, chobbal, a kind of millet porridge.

  Sophie stepped up into the saddle on the camel’s hump and rested her feet in the U of the neck. Gidaado jumped up behind her, raised his staff and clicked deep down in his throat. Chobbal’s back legs unfolded, rocking the children forward, and then his front legs, lifting them high up into the air.

  ‘Gidaado,’ said Sophie as they moved off, ‘what are sauterelles? It says on the radio that sauterelles are coming to Gorom-Gorom, but I don’t know what the word means.’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Gidaado. ‘That fire finch over there probably knows more French than I do.’

  Sophie laughed. She knew that Gidaado did not go to school and that her question had been a long shot. Even though French was the official language of Burkina Faso, not many people spoke it. Here in Gorom-Gorom everyone used Fulfulde.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Gidaado. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing interesting.’

  Sophie was doubtful, but she tried to put it out of her mind. ‘Are you ready for the naming ceremony?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Gidaado. ‘The baby is my cousin so when I do the tarik it’s my own ancestors I’ll be singing about. Couldn’t be easier.’

  ‘Are you singing on your own?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Probably not — the other Giriiji griots should be there too.’

  Chobbal the camel went out of the gate and walked up the street towards the market. His movement rocked the children on his hump gently backwards and forwards. A town crier was walking down the road ahead of them, banging his tam-tam and shouting at the top of his voice.

  ‘RED SPECKLED COW!’ yelled the town crier. ‘LAST SEEN ON WEDNESDAY MORNING GRAZING NEAR TONDIAKARA! IF YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, CONTACT YUSUF DIKKO!’

  Here in Gorom-Gorom Sophie heard criers almost every day. They announced naming ceremonies, weddings, funerals, and messages from the town authorities. If there was going to be a vaccination programme in town, a crier would let people know about it. If a serious crime was committed, a crier would go round appealing for information. But the most common job of a crier was to announce descriptions of missing cows. In Gorom-Gorom there were thousands of cows and every morning they would leave town and go out to the scrubland to graze. Every evening there were some which did not come home.

  Gidaado was chuckling to himself. ‘Hey, Sophie,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference between a crier and a donkey?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hit the donkey and he’ll stop braying.’

  Sophie did not laugh. ‘He is only doing his job,’ she said. ‘Let’s stop, Gidaado, I want to ask him what sauterelles are.’

  ‘It’s no good asking a crier something clever like that,’ said Gidaado. ‘He doesn’t even know if it is morning or evening.’

  Sophie scowled. What made griots so great that they could make fun of people doing other jobs?’

  ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur,’ she said as they drew level with the crier. ‘Do you speak French?’

  The crier stopped banging his tam-tam and turned to look at her. ‘Do I look like a schoolteacher?’ he said in Fulfulde.

  ‘No,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Or a schoolboy?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Then what would I want with French?’ said the crier.

/>   ‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie, embarrassed. ‘I just thought—’

  The crier spread wide his arms. ‘Did my grandfather and my father’s grandfather speak French?’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie again. She could hear Gidaado chortling behind her, and elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. ‘Have you heard the news today?’ she asked the crier.

  ‘Yes. Yusuf Dikko has lost his red speckled cow, last seen on Wednesday grazing near—’

  ‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘I mean really bad news. Like something dangerous on its way here.’

  ‘I am a crier,’ said the crier. ‘I know about lost cows and found goats and new babies. If you want really bad news, go and listen to a radio.’

  ‘I did,’ said Sophie, ‘but no one around here can tell me what it said.’

  The crier scowled and moved on, beating his tam-tam. ‘RED SPECKLED COW!’ he yelled. ‘LAST SEEN ON WEDNESDAY MORNING GRAZING NEAR TONDIAKARA! IF YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, CONTACT YUSUF DIKKO!’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ muttered Sophie.

  ‘Come on,’ said Gidaado behind her, ‘we’re late for the ceremony. HOOSH-KA!’ he yelled, twirling his staff in the air. Chobbal broke into a run and Sophie grabbed the wooden prongs on the front of the saddle just in time to avoid falling off.

  ‘Gidaado!’ shrieked Sophie. ‘You know it is forbidden for animals to run in the market.’

  ‘He’s trotting, not running,’ said Gidaado. ‘HOOSH-BARAKAAAA!’

  Chobbal picked up his hooves and the huts and stalls on either side became a blur. The rushing wind tousled Sophie’s hair and blasted hotly against her eyeballs.

  ‘Now he’s running!’ said Gidaado.

  Chapter 2

  Sophie screamed again. Galloping in the market was not like galloping in the desert. Not only was it forbidden, it was also terrifying. The streets of Gorom-Gorom’s central market swarmed with men and women. When they heard the sound of hooves behind them, they turned round to find a white camel bearing down upon them. Children fled, cyclists swerved and old men jumped aside with remarkable agility.

  Just in front of them strolled a young woman carrying a plate of fried fish on her head. The baby on her back was crying so loudly that she did not hear the approaching camel hooves. Sophie closed her eyes and yanked the reins sharply to the right, sending Chobbal careering into a fruit stall. There was a yellow-green explosion as bananas, guavas and mangos scattered far and wide. Chobbal charged on through the debris and the stallholder jumped up and shook his fist at Sophie. ‘A hanyan!’ he roared after her, which was not a polite thing to say.

  Gidaado whooped. ‘That was a near miss,’ he yelled.

  ‘You call that a miss?’ said Sophie, wiping bits of over-ripe mango off her face.

  As they neared the police post on the edge of town, a man in a smart khaki uniform stepped out into the road and waved at them to stop. Chobbal did not even break his stride.

  ‘Arrêtez!’ shouted the policeman, reaching for the pistol in his holster.

  ‘Gidaado!’ screamed Sophie.

  Gidaado peered round Sophie and waved his staff cheerily at the policeman. ‘UNCLE DEMBO!’ he bellowed. ‘WE’RE LATE FOR IBRAHIIM’S NAMING CEREMONY.’

  The policeman’s stern face broke into a grin of recognition. ‘HURRY UP THEN, GIDA,’ he shouted in Fulfulde, ‘AND GIVE MY APOLOGIES TO IBRAHIIM! I AM ON DUTY ALL TODAY!’

  On the outskirts of Gorom-Gorom a mobile phone mast was being erected, the first one in the whole province. A crowd of curious children stood at a safe distance and watched open-mouthed as workmen heaved on the mast’s tension cables.

  The cattle market and the water tower flashed past and then the road came to an abrupt end. Chobbal galloped on eagerly into the sand. Looking back, Sophie saw the town’s enormous welcome sign written in French and Fulfulde:

  BIENVENUE A GOROM-GOROM!

  GOROM-GOROM WI’I BISMILLAHI!

  Welcome to Gorom-Gorom, read Sophie, and she thought again of the sauterelles which were at that very moment on their way here. What could they be? Gigantic carnivorous plants, perhaps. That would give her Dad something to study. He was in his fourth year of research here and still had not found anything truly spectacular. But, thought Sophie, one of the sauterelles would probably eat Dad alive before he could even set up his microscope.

  Gidaado’s voice in Sophie’s ear interrupted these morbid thoughts. ‘See that big white rock?’ he shouted, pointing with his staff.

  ‘Yes,’ yelled Sophie.

  ‘That’s Tondiakara, where the magicians go at night to sacrifice chickens.’

  ‘Lovely!’ said Sophie.

  ‘And you see that tree with the big round fruit hanging from it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a calabash tree, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not just any old calabash tree,’ said Gidaado. ‘That’s the Sheik Amadou calabash tree. Sheik Amadou sits under that tree every day from sunrise to sunset, meditating on all the needless suffering in the world.’

  ‘So how come he isn’t sitting there now?’

  ‘He’s in hospital,’ said Gidaado. ‘A calabash fell on his head last Thursday.’

  Sophie looked all around her at the desert. It was flat and featureless except for a few straggly thorn bushes. No sauterelles here yet, she thought. Unless they had excellent camouflage.

  Chobbal let out a sudden snort of rage and began to buck up and down violently as he ran.

  Sophie screamed. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ she shouted. She twisted round in the saddle and saw immediately what the matter was. A tall boy was riding close behind them on a bicycle, gripping the handlebars with one hand and Chobbal’s tail with the other.

  ‘Let go of him, Saman!’ Gidaado yelled.

  ‘Salam alaykum, skink-teeth,’ said the boy. ‘Did you wake in peace? Where are you and your white girlfriend going this morning?’

  ‘She’s not my - let GO!’ Gidaado leaned over and tried to prise the boy’s hand off Chobbal’s tail.

  The boy hung on tight and laughed an idiotic high-pitched laugh. ‘What a freaky camel,’ he cried. ‘Does he always jump up and down when he runs?’

  ‘Gidaado,’ whispered Sophie. ‘Your staff.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Gidaado. He reached down as far as he could and inserted the end of his staff neatly between the spokes of the boy’s front wheel. Sophie winced and closed her eyes.

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Gidaado a moment later. ‘The sand makes a nice soft landing.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Sam Saman,’ said Gidaado. ‘He’s one of the Gorom-Gorom griots.’

  ‘He doesn’t like you much, does he?’

  ‘No,’ said Gidaado. ‘Saman and I go back a long way. We’d better watch our backs over the next few days, Sophie. Sam Saman is not the most forgiving griot in town.’

  Sophie looked at her watch. ‘Talking of griots,’ she said, ‘do you think the Giriiji griots will start the tarik without you? We’re really late.’

  Gidaado chuckled. ‘Start the tarik without me?’ he said. ‘Can you start to make bricks without earth? Can you start to make chobbal without milk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are then. My role in the performance of the tarik is essential. The Giriiji Griots would rather smash their hoddus over their own heads than start the tarik without me.’

  A hoddu was a three-stringed guitar, used by griots to accompany their stories.

  ‘I don’t see why you are so indispensable,’ said Sophie. ‘I thought the tarik was just a list of names. Thig son of Thag, Thag son of Thog, and so on.’

  ‘You know nothing about the tarik,’ said Gidaado, piqued. ‘The tarik is not just a list of names. The tarik is like the spine of a man, the roots of a tree, the water in which a fish swims. When we are born we find it, when we die we become part of it. The tarik is the fabric of our life, a dazzling light shining down the well of History.’

  ‘The well of History,’ said Sophie. �
�Ooooh, deep.’

  ‘Mock all you like,’ said Gidaado. ‘You white people know nothing about History. Even if History was to fall on your head like Sheik Amadou’s calabash, you would not feel it. Even if History was bellowed in your ear by Furki Baa Turki, you would not hear it.’

  Sophie had heard Furki Baa Turki bellow and she was certain that Gidaado was wrong. Furki Baa Turki was a town-crier and he had the loudest voice of all the criers in Oudalan. When he made announcements in Gorom-Gorom market, stallholders would plug their ears with sand and beg for mercy. Besides, thought Sophie, how dare Gidaado talk like that, as if she and her dad didn’t know anything about anything. She sat and fumed silently.

  Perched behind her, Gidaado was singing under his breath. He’s practising the tarik, thought Sophie. I hope he forgets his lines in the middle of the ceremony.

  Chobbal pounded onwards, rocking the children backwards and forwards on his hump. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky until the sand of the desert glared like an overexposed photograph. After a long while Sophie reached into her shoulder bag and took out her water bottle and a small tub of sun-cream. Gidaado reached round her and took Chobbal’s reins from Sophie so that she could smear the cream on her face and arms.

  ‘Are you still mad at me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, hiding a smile.

  It was eleven o’clock by the time the children reached the fields of Giriiji, Gidaado’s village. Here the villagers’ crops stood tall and proud, thousands of millet plants, each plant bearing its precious cargo of crisp golden grains. Harvest time was not far away.

  At last they arrived at a small group of mud-brick huts. Next to one of these huts the men and women of Giriiji were sitting on straw mats in the shade of a large acacia tree. Sophie heard the clacking of calabashes.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Gidaado.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve started the tarik without me,’ said Gidaado.