Blood & Ink Page 7

  The roof of La Détente has collapsed, and two of its walls as well. Tables and candles and photos of idols are buried under tons of masonry. As of this moment, the club is closed.

  The skinny boy and short-haired girl are also on their feet. They brush the debris off their clothes, pick up their haram instruments, and follow Kadija down a narrow alleyway along the west side of the building, where the wall of the club is still intact.

  ‘Omar!’ I yell. ‘West side, Omar!’

  I stand my crutches upright on the ground, pull myself to my feet and propel myself as fast as I can along the alleyway. The engine of a motorbike judders into life and I realise that the moto-taxi we ignored outside is in fact a getaway vehicle.

  God be praised, when I reach the street the taxi is still there. The instruments are piled up in the trailer and the miscreants are standing with their hands above their heads, staring down the barrels of three AK-47s. Poor kids.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hamza asks me, and there is a strange half-smile on his face.

  ‘Of course I’m not!’ I shout. ‘I told you to wait for my order! You could have killed me!’

  Hamza gazes back at me with empty eyes. That’s it, I realise. That’s exactly what he wanted to do.

  The girl with the short hair is furious too. ‘Look at it!’ she says, pointing with her chin at the ruins of La Détente. ‘Look what you have done!’

  ‘I know,’ says Hamza. ‘I don’t think Salif Keita will be playing here tonight, do you?’

  I swing myself over to the moto-taxi, take out the instruments and throw them on the ground.

  Kadi’s lower lip is trembling. ‘Leave those alone,’ she says in a small voice. ‘They’re the only ones we’ve got.’

  I stand over the kora and raise one of my crutches high into the air.

  ‘Saabe Allah,’ whispers Kadi. For God’s sake. She is pleading with me in our mother tongue, and there is no longer any trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘This is for God’s sake,’ I tell her. ‘One day you will understand.’

  I bring down my crutch as hard as I can onto the kora. The bowl-shaped body breaks into three pieces and the goatskin splits from side to side.

  The short-haired girl emits a howl of pain. ‘That’s mine!’ she screams. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘The will of God,’ I answer, swinging the crutch a second time. This time the notched bridge caves in and the rosewood neck snaps in two. Strings fly apart with twangs of tortured dissonance.

  Kadi’s friend throws herself at me, hammering my chest with her fists and reaching up to scratch my face. The skinny boy jumps forward and pulls her off me. ‘Aisha, no,’ he says.

  I pick up the four-stringed ngoni. ‘Is this yours?’ I ask the boy.

  He nods.

  ‘Smash it yourself,’ I tell him.

  His knees are shaking as he takes his precious instrument and dashes it against the ground. The neat canoe-shaped body cracks in half and the rosewood handle snaps.

  ‘Nyammu inna maa,’ mutters Kadi in a peculiar throaty voice.

  I ignore the insult and turn my attention to the jembe drum. Projecting all my love for God into a fierce hard ball in my Ali right hand, I punch down onto – and through – the tight skin of the jembe. Then I use the fuel line from the engine of the moto-taxi to spray the broken instruments with petrol.

  The skinny boy is staring dull-eyed at the broken instruments. The girls are sobbing.

  I take the taxi-boy’s lighter from my pocket, flick it open and hold the flame in the air. Symbols are important, Redbeard likes to say. When we deal with stubborn, godless people, we must make our point in a way they will never forget.

  ‘Music intoxicates the heart and weakens the body,’ I quote. ‘The Prophet, peace be upon him, warned his followers of a day when parts of the Muslim community would proclaim fornication and the playing of musical instruments legal. Not so in Timbuktu!’

  I bend down to torch the instruments, and grateful flames leap up towards the sky.

  When the fire is blazing well, I notice a stray kora string and two small metal rivets lying on the sand. ‘Keep these as a souvenir,’ I tell the short-haired girl, handing them to her. ‘God does not want your music. He wants your heart.’

  That night, Redbeard visits the Djinguereber Mosque. He says he wants our platoon to go with him as bodyguards. He, too, is calling us the Ninjas. When the Tuaregs called us that, I got annoyed, but from Redbeard it’s all right.

  ‘Kok, kok!’ calls Redbeard when we arrive in the sandy courtyard of the mosque. ‘Anybody here?’

  Imam Karim emerges from his mosque and glares at us with undisguised loathing. ‘What do you want, Ould Hamaha?’ he says.

  ‘Peace be upon you, too,’ says Redbeard. ‘I have come to ask you for a favour. My men and I would like to use your mosque for Friday prayers.’

  The imam shakes his head. ‘Out of the question. There is no room.’

  Redbeard’s eyes darken. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I had forgotten. I hear that on certain days your mosque can be quite a crush.’

  Did he just say that? Did my master really just say that? I close my eyes and I am back there in an instant: the dust, the noise, the screams, the pressure on my ribs, the fight to breathe. That poor young garibou in front of me, big-eyed, blue-lipped: Wallam. Help me.

  I open my eyes and see the old imam clutching his heart and struggling for breath himself. ‘How dare you?’ he gasps. ‘How dare you?’ He stands there with watering eyes and quivering jowls, and then – I have seen many strange things, but none so strange as this – he gets down on his knees and spreads himself prostrate on the sand.

  It is Redbeard’s turn to be shocked, but he disguises his confusion with a laugh. ‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘God be praised, I am not sick,’ replies the imam. ‘Bogga!’ he calls. ‘Bring me cool water.’

  A mosque steward hurries to a clay pot on the edge of the courtyard and fills a large goblet with water. He offers it to the imam, who shakes his head.

  ‘Pour it on my head,’ says Imam Karim.

  The steward hesitates.

  ‘Do it,’ says the imam quietly.

  The cold water splashes over the old man’s beard and down his neck, making him gasp and shiver.

  ‘You’ve gone mad,’ says Redbeard. ‘Either that or you are possessed by a djinni.’

  The imam turns his face to the ground and starts to chant in Arabic. ‘O son! Seek refuge from anger in God. When you get angry, lie down! If necessary, pour cold water on yourself.’

  ‘Shameful,’ mutters Redbeard. ‘I would not pray in this mosque if you begged me to, not for all the salt in the Sahara.’

  Redbeard turns and stalks out into the street. With heavy hearts, we Ninjas follow him. We leave the ancient imam lying soggy and victorious in the middle of the courtyard of his mosque.

  I patrol Askia Avenue all through the night, hobbling up and down the empty street.

  Each time I pass the Djinguereber Mosque I think of the sodden imam on the sand, and each time I pass Kadi’s house I hear the sound of weeping from the roof.

  When midnight comes I wash my ears and feet and do Tahajjud, the optional midnight prayer.

  I pray in my own words, as Redbeard taught me to. I pray that God will forgive Redbeard for his rash words in the mosque, and that He will stop Kadi feeling sad. He can do that, I know He can. He can show her that she is better off without her instruments.

  On my way back to camp the next morning, Redbeard’s Land Cruiser stops and picks me up. I hop into the trailer to join my friends.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘Airport,’ says Jabir. ‘We are visiting Chief Litni.’

  It’s a real squash in the trailer this morning, because a huge machine gun has been mounted in the middle.

  ‘Gift from Libya,’ Omar explains. ‘We’ve got eleven of these things, enough for all the trucks.’

>   ‘Does anyone know how to fire it?’

  ‘Only Redbeard. He’s going to teach us when he has the time.’

  When we arrive at the airport, we see the flag of Azawad flying from the roof: a complex design of green, red, yellow, white and black.

  The chief is sitting in the car park, surrounded by advisors. They are reclining on wicker chairs, and three of them have teapots bubbling at their feet.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Litni,’ says Redbeard, getting out of the car.

  Chief Litni reaches forward, lifts the lid of his teapot and adds six cubes of sugar to his brew. Only then does he acknowledge Redbeard’s presence. ‘And you,’ he mutters.

  ‘I got the shopping list you sent me,’ says Redbeard. ‘Handgun rounds, machine gun cartridges, mortars, rockets. It seems you are out of almost everything.’

  Litni takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights up. ‘As you know, we have fought hard.’

  ‘And you really have nothing left?’

  ‘A few handgun rounds,’ says Litni.

  ‘What about fuel for the vehicles?’

  ‘No problem. Fuel is the one thing we do have.’

  ‘Excellent,’ beams Redbeard. ‘In that case, you and your men will leave Timbuktu this afternoon.’

  Chief Litni takes two small tea glasses from a silver tray at his feet and rinses them out. When at last he speaks, his voice is tense.

  ‘We like Timbuktu,’ he says. ‘The streets are clean. The girls are pretty. The tea and sugar are free. We intend to remain here for a very long time.’

  Redbeard, still smiling, shakes his head. ‘You will leave by sunset.’

  The Tuareg chief leaps to his feet. ‘Who took Timbuktu? Who took the military camp, the radio station and the airport? One hundred and fifty Tuareg freedom fighters, that’s who, and only ten of your lot!’

  ‘We funded your godless group because you were useful,’ says Redbeard. ‘You are useful no longer.’

  ‘Then we will fight you,’ snarls Litni.

  ‘With no ammunition,’ shoots back Redbeard. ‘I look forward to that.’

  Litni’s jaw clenches under his turban. Hatred smoulders in his eyes. ‘We Tuareg have a proverb,’ he snarls, ‘When you drive out a mouse, be sure to cover all its holes. I will come back with many men, Ould Hamaha. More men than you can imagine.’

  ‘Men don’t win wars,’ says Redbeard. ‘Money does. Our mission has many rich backers in Saudi Arabia, and not one of them cares a fennec fart for Azawad. Fare well, Litni.’ He walks back to the vehicle and climbs in.

  Sitting next to me in the tray, Jabir pulls a fold of his turban up over his mouth. His shoulders are shaking, he’s trying so hard not to laugh.

  Redbeard starts to drive away, then stops and winds down the window. ‘One more thing, Litni!’ he shouts, pointing up at the roof of the airport. ‘When you get back to your sand dune, tell your wife to redesign the Azawad flag. Tell her it’s an eyesore. Too many colours by half.’

  Manuscript 2746

  One day, Imam Malik was asked forty-eight questions about God.

  He answered thirty-two of those questions with the words ‘I don’t know’.

  Five miles north of Timbuktu, a gnarled old rosewood tree stands in the desert. I am lying under the tree with my head in Aisha’s lap. A mellow fragrance emanates from the bucket at my side, which brims with oleander petals. It should be more than enough for a bottle of perfume.

  It has been a good morning. First we found the oleander bush and then, a few miles on, we found this rosewood tree and cut a handsome branch for the neck of Aisha’s new kora.

  ‘Do you think the kora will be ready in time for Tondi’s wedding?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Newborn koras are terrible at holding their pitch. Ten days might not be enough.’

  ‘You can retune the strings between each song, if you need to.’

  Aisha nods and twirls the rosewood stick between her fingers. ‘Whose yard should we use for the ceremony?’

  ‘I don’t know. The Defenders of Faith have eyes and ears everywhere. There’s not a single street in Timbuktu they don’t patrol.’

  ‘That’s that, then,’ says Aisha. ‘There’s no point making a new kora if your Fulani friend comes along and smashes it the minute I start to play.’

  ‘He’s not my friend,’ I snap. ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘He sent you a veil, didn’t he?’

  ‘Only one of those cheap, clingy ones.’

  ‘Will you wear it?’

  ‘Of course not. Marimba can wear it at night when the cold season arrives.’

  Aisha throws back her head and laughs, displaying the peculiar necklace across her smooth black throat. It is the string from her smashed kora, with two silver rivets hanging from it like tiny pendants.

  I reach up to touch it. ‘How long are you going to wear this thing?’

  ‘Not long,’ she says. ‘I’ll use it to slit the Fulani’s throat, and then I’ll stop wearing it.’ She reaches for a handful of oleander petals and crushes them in her palm. ‘The worst bit for me was when he started spraying petrol around. As if smashing the instruments to bits wasn’t enough for him.’

  ‘The worst bit for me,’ I say, ‘was the club being blown up. It happened so fast, and I was lying there with those great slabs of concrete falling all around me, terrified that one of them would fall on me.’ I gaze up at the pale triangular foliage above our heads and change the subject quickly. ‘My uncle’s sheep love rosewood leaves. We should gather some to take home with us.’

  ‘I’m too tired,’ Aisha murmurs, stroking my hair. ‘Besides, we’re not going back to Timbuktu. We’ll stay right here all day and all night.’

  ‘Really? What will we eat?’

  ‘We’ll eat your oleander petals.’

  ‘Ha! Do you know how poisonous they are? We’ll be dead before sunrise!’

  ‘So much the better.’

  She is talking crazy, but I do know how she feels. Here in the desert we can walk unveiled without fear of arrest. We can laugh, we can sing, we can do anything. We are free.

  I scramble to my feet.

  ‘Fire ants?’ asks Aisha.

  ‘No, I’ve had an idea. We’ll celebrate Tondi’s wedding right here. We can make as much noise as we like and no one will disturb us.’

  ‘Are you serious? A wedding in the desert?’

  ‘It will be romantic.’ I stride out into the sunlight, imagining the scene. ‘The wedding hut will be over there, and we can play our music right here under the rosewood tree.’

  Aisha claps her hands. ‘Tondi will love it!’ she cries. ‘And my new kora will love it too. She will sing all the sweeter if she knows her mother-tree is listening.’

  That night I lie on my mat on the edge of the roof, peering between the limestone balustrades. A lonely figure is making his way along the road towards our house. I recognise him by his limp when he is still a long way off. It’s the Fulani fanatic, the one who burned our instruments. The one who Aisha wants to kill. The one she called my friend.

  Some friend. I don’t even know his name.

  He wends his painful way towards the tractor tyre, his favourite spot for passing the night. I cannot help wondering what he will do tonight to while away the hours.

  Some nights he writes and recites.

  Some nights he plays with a lemon-shaped ball, tossing it from hand to hand.

  Some nights he takes a small knife from the sheath on his belt, and whittles bits of wood into rice spoons or writing boards, sticking his tongue out as he concentrates.

  Some nights he exercises with his toes braced under the rim of the tyre. Sit. Lie. Sit. Lie. The muscles in his abdomen flex and pop with every repetition.

  Some nights he performs Tahajjud. He must know that these midnight prayers are optional, but he does them all the same. Perhaps he senses that he is being watched.

  The night of Tondi’s wedding has arrived, and I am standin
g under the rosewood tree, preparing to get possessed. To my left is the wedding hut. To my right are Aisha and the band. Before me is a crowd, mostly teenagers, desperate to party. Above me, rosewood leaves and stars.

  Imam Cissé has lent us an amplifier and four microphones from the Sidi Yahya Mosque. Al Haji Maiga lent us his cattle lorry to transport the guests and he said we can use the lorry’s battery to power the amp. All of Timbuktu is praying that the wedding will go well. This party is the only resistance movement we have.

  Our very first song will be ‘the political song’, ‘Alla La Ke’. It tells the story of two princes in a kingdom called Tumana. One brother stole the chieftaincy from the other and banished him from the land. Eventually the rightful heir returned and the chieftaincy was given back to him. The song is part of Mali’s soul, and tonight it will speak to our spirits more than ever before. Hold fast, the song urges. You cannot force God’s hand. A dark regime cannot last long. The reign of the wicked prince will pass.

  Aisha sits with the kora between her knees and starts to pluck the intro. Raoul the drummer pounds the rhythm on a Fulani wedding drum, an upturned calabash gourd on a tray of water. The deep wet thud of the water calabash mingles with the twang of virgin kora strings and makes my skin tingle with pleasure. Then Yusuf’s new ngoni comes in, crisp and rapid, loaded with cheeky cross-rhythms. Alpha’s balaphone completes the tapestry of sound. It shimmers everywhere, subtle and mesmerising. Each note glows.

  I open my mouth and ‘Alla La Ke’ rises from my abdomen.

  ‘Man asks but God arranges.

  God wanted it this way.

  You can’t change his laws

  You simple mortal.’

  A performer at the Festival of the Desert once gave me a piece of advice about singing. ‘Let the music overtake you,’ she said. ‘If you don’t let it possess you, what chance does it have of touching anyone else? Sing like a minstrel. Dance like a dervish. Feel the rhythm of the balaphone in your toes and your pelvis and in the roots of your hair and along each fingernail. Don’t worry how you look or sound. Just stand up there and get possessed.’

  A girl sails out of the madding crowd and twirls a path across the sand towards the calabash. Her orange dress and creamy sash whirl and flick round her form. Her flashing eyes and floating hair are splendidly unveiled.