Sophie and the Locust Curse Page 5

  Saman glanced back and looked amazed to see Chobbal right on his tail. He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out again, closed into a tight fist. What have you got there? thought Sophie.

  With eighty metres to go, Gidaado was right up alongside his rival, their camels so close that their flanks were touching. Sophie could see the look of concentration on Gidaado’s face as he tried to nose Chobbal in front. Saman lifted his whip and brought it down hard on Gidaado’s back.

  ‘Oooh!’ said the crowd.

  Sophie yelped as if she and not Gidaado had been hit. ‘SURELY that’s not allowed!’ she cried.

  ‘There is nothing in the rules about whipping your opponent,’ said Hussein. ‘In fact, it is a superb piece of strategic ra-’

  ‘It is NOT!’ shouted Sophie. ‘That’s your COUSIN being whipped out there!’

  Again and again Saman’s acacia whip came down across Gidaado’s back. Gidaado flinched each time but he stayed firmly in the saddle and kept his eyes straight ahead. It would take more than a whipping to make him lose this race.

  Sophie put her hands over her eyes and peeked through her fingers, hardly daring to watch. Chobbal’s nose was slightly in front. Now his whole head was in front. Now his whole head and neck. With fifty metres to go,even his hump was in front. He’s going to win, thought Sophie, hardly daring to believe it. Chobbal is going to win.

  Gidaado was almost a whole camel’s length ahead of Sam Saman. With an audible snarl Saman reached across towards Chobbal’s tail. If he grabs the tail, he is disqualified, thought Sophie happily. But Saman did not grab the tail. He drew back his hand and took hold of the reins of his own camel once more. He’s given up, thought Sophie. Sam Saman has given up!

  Chobbal was out in front and running well. Sophie could see the whites of Gidaado’s eyes and the perspiration on his brow. He was grinning in triumph, knowing that the race was his. He’s almost won, thought Sophie. Chobbal has almost won! Gidaado won’t have to sell him. The people of Giriiji will be able to buy millet. Gidaado’s grandmother will get her medicine.

  Then it happened. Chobbal’s snowy flank shuddered. The muscles in his neck convulsed and his eyes rolled. He started to stumble.

  ‘Oooh,’ cried the crowd.

  Chobbal staggered a few more strides before his legs buckled underneath him. He crashed to the ground less than ten metres from the finish line and Gidaado rolled off his back into the dust. Boy and camel lay there side by side, not moving.

  Saman charged past them and crossed the line. The crowd clapped and cheered and surged forward, flocking around Saman’s winning camel and the bodies of Gidaado and Chobbal.

  ‘WE HAVE A WINNER!’ cried Furki Baa Turki. ‘NUMBER 3, SAM SAMAN, HAS WON THE FOUR HUNDRED AND FOURTH OUDALAN PROVINCE CAMEL RACE!!!!!’

  ‘No!’ cried Sophie and she began to push her way through the mob.

  ‘The boy is okay,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘He’s already beginning to come round.’

  Sophie reached the front of the crowd. Chobbal was lying on the ground perfectly still, and a tall thin man was bending over him. Where have I seen that man before? thought Sophie.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she cried, throwing herself down beside the stricken camel and stroking his ears. ‘Why did he collapse?’

  The tall man straightened up and put something red in his pocket.

  ‘It is not serious,’ he said. ‘A build up of lactic acid, nothing more.’

  Sophie stared at him blankly.

  ‘A stitch,’ said the man. ‘The camel got a stitch from all that running.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ cried Sophie, and all around her the crowd drew in their breath sharply. ‘Having a stitch hurts but it doesn’t make you collapse.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said the man, his eyes flashing. ‘I suppose you have a university degree in camel biology, do you? Have you ever seen a camel with a stitch?’

  It was then that Sophie recognized him.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she said, standing up slowly. ‘But at the market the other week I did see a bull knocked out by a sleep dart.’

  A muscle twitched in the tall man’s face, but he said nothing.

  Gidaado was sitting up now and shaking his head from side to side. Sam Saman stepped through the crowd and stood over him.

  ‘Good race,’ he said, smiling down at Gidaado. ‘Are you coming to the award ceremony? I believe my prize is a rather large gold nugget.’

  Sophie walked towards him, her heart pounding.

  ‘How much did it cost, Saman?’ she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  ‘What?’ said Saman.

  ‘The sleep dart. How much did you pay this man for it?’

  Saman laughed. ‘Zorki, Gidaado,’ he said. ‘What is the matter with your white girlfriend? I think a djinn has jumped on her head and sent her a bit bonkers.’

  Blood rushed to Sophie’s face. She clenched her fists and advanced on Saman. The mob pressed in around them, hoping for a good scrap. Sophie felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to see Hussein standing behind her.

  ‘Leave it, Sophie,’ said Hussein. ‘There’s nothing in the rules about sleep darts.’

  ‘That’s all right, then, isn’t it?’ said Sophie. ‘I suppose YOU thought that shoving that dart into Chobbal’s backside was A SUPERB PIECE OF STRATEGIC RACING?’

  ‘No,’ said Hussein.

  ‘Good,’ said Sophie. ‘Because if you did, I would buy one for YOUR backside.’

  With that, she turned and pushed her way through the crowd and walked away as fast as she could, Saman’s laughter ringing in her ears.

  Chapter 12

  On market day Gidaado did not come to Sophie’s house. She went to the animal market and found him there, standing with Chobbal not far from the other camel-sellers. She was surprised at how peaceful Gidaado seemed.

  ‘Aren’t you angry?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘But there is nothing I can do now, is there?’

  ‘You could strangle Saman, for a start,’ said Sophie. ‘Look, he’s coming this way.’

  ‘No,’ said Gidaado quietly. ‘Strangling the winner is forbidden in the rules of the race. Besides, he’s bigger than me.’

  ‘I warn you,’ said Sophie, flexing her fingers. ‘If you won’t do it, I will.’

  Sam Saman strolled up to them. He was wearing a pair of shiny new shoes and eating a banana.

  ‘Salam alaykum,’ said Saman.

  ‘Alaykum asalam,’ said Gidaado.

  ‘Selling the camel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Times are hard, are they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll do you a favour,’ said Saman. ‘Give me the albino camel and I’ll give you the rest of this banana.’

  Sophie opened her mouth to say something, but her attention was caught by a Land Rover zooming in through the gates of the animal market. What was going on? Usually vehicles were not allowed in amongst the animals.

  The Land Rover circled a few times and then came and stopped right in front of them. The passenger door opened and a man in army uniform stepped out.

  Then the back doors opened and two more people got out. One of them was a giant of a man dressed in black. The other was a red-haired girl carrying a camel-skin handbag. Sophie groaned inwardly as she recognized Marie.

  ‘Bon soir,’ said the uniformed man, holding out a large hand to Gidaado. ‘They told me I would find you here.’

  ‘Alaykum asalam,’ said Gidaado, shaking the hand and gawping at the medals on the man’s uniform. They were mounted neatly on three strips of leather and they gleamed in the dazzling midday sun.

  ‘Is this him?’ said the man in French.

  Marie nodded.

  ‘And this is his translator?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marie.

  ‘What is your name, translator-girl?’ said the man, holding out his hand to Sophie.

  ‘Sophie,’ she said, taking it.

  ‘I am Genera
l Alai Crêpe-Sombo,’ said the man. ‘You have already met my daughter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie.

  ‘And this is Pougini, my bodyguard,’ said the General.

  Sophie glanced at the giant and noticed a mean-looking truncheon in his belt.

  ‘Sophie,’ said General Crêpe-Sombo, ‘tell your friend that I have been listening to his cassette all week. Marie here plays it so loudly in her room that everyone in the house is forced to listen to it.’

  Sophie translated the General’s words into Fulfulde and Gidaado’s eyes widened.

  ‘Has he come to murder me?’ he said.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Saman, admiring the giant’s truncheon. Saman did not understand French, but he was listening in on Sophie’s translations with great interest.

  ‘Usually,’ continued the General, ‘I am not a fan of my daughter’s music. She is fond of le rap, a sound which I detest more than the taunts of an enemy army on the far bank of a fast-flowing river.’

  Sophie translated and Gidaado nodded sympathetically.

  ‘But you,’ said the General, poking Gidaado in the chest, ‘you I like.’

  When Sophie translated, Gidaado puffed out his cheeks with relief.

  ‘I may not understand Fulfulde,’ said the General, ‘but I can tell a good griot when I hear one. And my daughter tells me that you are the best griot in Oudalan.’

  Sophie translated. Gidaado grinned modestly and shot an adoring glance at the General’s daughter.

  ‘No, he’s not!’ cried Saman, stepping forward. ‘He’s not even a proper griot any more. He’s just a crier messing about with a hoddu.’

  ‘What is this boy saying?’ asked the General.

  ‘I’d rather not translate that if you don’t mind,’ said Sophie. ‘It was not very polite.’

  The General glared at Saman and then continued. ‘Last week,’ he said, ‘I launched my election campaign to become President of this country. I have great support in Ouagadougou and in the south, but I also need people here in the north to vote for me. People must understand that I am the man who will solve all their problems and give them hope for the future.’

  Sophie translated for Gidaado and he nodded enthusiastically as if he really believed it.

  ‘In the old days,’ said General Crêpe-Sombo, ‘a man who wanted to become chief would hire a griot to be his praise-singer. The griot would follow that man wherever he went and sing about what a fine fellow he was. What I need for my Gorom-Gorom campaign is a griot like that.’

  As Sophie translated the General’s words into Fulfulde, she suddenly understood what this was all about. General Crêpe-Sombo was about to offer Gidaado a job as a praise-singer, the highest honour for any griot. And all because of that daft cassette they had recorded together.

  Saman had also understood. ‘Choose me, choose me!’ he cried, hopping from foot to foot and waving his hands in the General’s face. ‘I am a griot. I sing, I play the hoddu, I dance. I was born in this town, I know everyone here. I won the camel race. People here like me. People will listen to me. If you choose me, you can’t not win the election.’

  The General stared at him in bewilderment.

  ‘What is this impudent boy trying to say to me?’ he asked.

  Sophie looked down and shuffled her feet in the sand. ‘I would rather not translate it,’ she said.

  ‘I order you to tell me,’ said the General. ‘What did the boy say to me?’

  ‘All right,’ said Sophie, ‘but I want you to know that Gidaado and I do not agree with the things he said.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said the General, breathing heavily through his nose.

  Sophie sighed deeply and said in her best French, ‘Go home. Go home. You smell like a dead skink. Your medals are probably stolen. Get out of our town and take your camel-faced daughter with you. No one here likes you. No one will listen to you. Crawl back into your hole, you can’t possibly win the election.’

  The General’s mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged. He gave a roar of anger and turned to his bodyguard.

  ‘POUGINI,’ he bellowed. ‘SEIZE this impudent boy and do to him what you did to Lieutenant Aladad last Thursday.’

  The giant pulled the truncheon out of his belt and advanced on Saman.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ cried Saman. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘He says you don’t scare him,’ said Sophie sweetly. ‘He says you’re a brainless baboon.’

  The bodyguard roared and reached out to grab Saman.

  Saman did not wait to be grabbed. He dodged the giant’s outstretched hand and scampered away as fast as a meerkat, shrieking as he went. The bodyguard dashed after him, waving his truncheon in the air and yelling horrible threats in French, including many words that Sophie had never learned in class.

  ‘Back to business,’ said the General briskly. ‘Monsieur Gidaado, I want you to be my praise-singer for the next six months. I want you to sing songs and dance dances and speak speeches that will make people love me. Do you think you can do that?’

  Sophie turned to Gidaado. ‘Do you want to work for this man?’ she asked him in Fulfulde.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said Gidaado. ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘He says it depends,’ said Sophie in French, turning back to the General. ‘He wants to know how much you’re offering him.’

  ‘Twenty thousand a month,’ said the General.

  ‘He says he’ll give you twenty thousand francs a month,’ said Sophie to Gidaado.

  ‘You must be joking!’ cried Gidaado. ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘He says you must be joking,’ said Sophie to the General. ‘He wants at least fifty.’

  ‘Thirty-five,’ said the General.

  ‘The General would like to raise that to thirty-five thousand a month,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Zorki,’ said Gidaado.

  ‘He says forty,’ said Sophie to the General.

  The General stared at Gidaado and sighed. ‘Monsieur Gidaado drives a hard bargain,’ he said, ‘but I accept. Forty thousand a month for six months, plus two Alai Crêpe-Sombo T-shirts. Deal or no deal?’

  Sophie smiled at the General. ‘Deal,’ she said.

  *

  The shadows of day lengthened and faded and the sun turned crimson. Sophie and Gidaado were sitting on the gravel outside Sophie’s house, shelling peanuts and listening to ‘Greatest Hits of Ali Farka Touré’. Behind them Chobbal munched guiltily on Sophie’s dad’s sunflowers.

  ‘Forty thousand a month for six months,’ Gidaado was saying. ‘It’s enough for the whole village to live on. Wait until Uncle Ibrahiim hears about this.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll still want to sell Chobbal?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Sell Chobbal? No way. He’ll be kissing Chobbal!’

  Sophie laughed. Considering what a depressing month it had been, things were turning out rather well. Gidaado and his family would not go hungry. His grandmother would get her medicine. And with Gidaado in General Crêpe-Sombo’s service, Sam Saman was sure to steer clear of them all for a very long time indeed.

  Sophie changed the cassette and the soulful intro of ‘Mucky Tail I miss you’ soared over the thatched rooftops of Gorom-Gorom. A red-necked lizard scuttled up to them and bobbed up and down, looking for all the world as if it was dancing.

  ‘Your days as a cow-crier are over now,’ said Sophie. ‘You must be ecstatic.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gidaado. ‘Being a crier was great. I wish you would stop dissing it.’

  Sophie threw a handful of peanut shells over him, and he cackled.

  ‘Gidaado,’ said Sophie. ‘You remember that thing you said about Joy? How it’s like drops of milk splashing out of a calabash and wetting your face and arms?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Gidaado. ‘But you said you don’t know what that feels like.’

  Sophie grinned. ‘I’m beginning to,’ she said.

  It is election time and Gidaado is working as the official praise singer
for General Crêpe-Sombo. But Sophie is beginning to get suspicious of the General. Is he really the hero he seems?

  "Funny and very entertaining" - Writeaway

  "Terrific adventure, almost Kiplingesque in its humour and writing style" - Lovereading

  A Boy and a Bear in a Boat

  A boy and a bear go to sea, equipped with a suitcase, a comic book and ukulele. They are only travelling a short distance and it really shouldn't take too long. But faced with turbulent stormy seas, a terrifying sea monster and the rank remains of The Very Last Sandwich, the odds soon become pitted against our unlikely heroes.

  "One of my favourite books of the year. I was captivated by it." - John Boyne

  "One of the most original children's books I've ever read" - Philip Reeve

  "A book to savour" - Julia Eccleshare

  Sophie and the Pancake Plot

  by Stephen Davies

  As a little bonus for you, here are the first two chapters of Sophie and the Pancake Plot.

  If you enjoy it and would like to read the rest of the story, you can buy the ebook on Amazon.

  Chapter 1

  Hundreds of horns gleamed in the African sun. Hundreds of tails flicked to and fro. Hundreds of hooves trudged through narrow streets. This was rush hour and Sophie Brown was being jostled along in a crowd of cows which were heading out of Gorom-Gorom to graze. The animals moved in one great mass, eyes fixed on the ground - like Londoners on their way to work, thought Sophie. Even after three years living in Africa, she still couldn't help thinking about England. Most of her friends were back there, after all.

  Except for Gidaado the Fourth of course. He lived here in Gorom-Gorom and was Sophie's best friend by far. Gidaado didn't know when his birthday was but he looked about ten, which was the same as her. He knew hundreds of songs and jokes and he had a very cool albino camel called Chobbal. What more could you want in a friend?

  Sophie put her hand over her mouth to protect herself from the clouds of dust being kicked up by the commuting cows. She screwed up her eyes and squinted at the mud-brick houses to her left and right, trying to remember where Madame Maasa's place was. This morning Sophie was on a very special errand for Gidaado. He had given her a pocketful of money and told her to buy three thousand pancakes.