Blood & Ink Read online

  I tie my wraparound, fling a cotton shawl over my head and scarper down the tree-trunk steps, out through the mud-brick entrance arch, and across the street. As I approach, he clambers off the tyre and dons his shirt.

  ‘You’re back,’ I say.

  He nods. One eye is swollen closed, and there are cuts on his face and chin.

  ‘And are you going to have us lashed?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not enough witnesses.’

  So Aisha was right. I feel dizzy with relief, but I can’t tell him that. ‘You ruined our night,’ is all I say.

  He squints at me through his good eye and the corner of his mouth twitches. ‘You ruined mine.’

  ‘How did you find out about the wedding?’

  He shrugs. ‘You and I should not be talking.’

  ‘Do you want your phone back?’

  ‘Not if it means I have to talk to you.’

  I feel a jolt of anger, but I press on. ‘You sent me some texts last night,’ I say. ‘Who gave you my number?’

  ‘It was on a list at La Détente.’

  ‘You said you don’t want to see me get hurt.’

  ‘That’s right. I want to see you repent.’

  There it is again, that tell-tale quickening of my blood. I didn’t come down here intending to get angry again, but I can’t help it. ‘You want me to repent singing at a wedding? Do you really think that is a crime? Deep down, do you honestly believe God hates me singing at my friend’s wedding?’

  He winces and sits down on the edge of his tyre. ‘Here’s the thing, Kadi. Wherever music goes, sin follows. One minute you were singing, and a moment later you were wiggling your bottom in your boyfriend’s face. There’s a connection, don’t you see?’

  The blood in my cheeks runs hot. ‘That’s a traditional dance I was doing.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And he’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Like that makes it better!’

  I stamp my foot and wave his phone in his face. ‘If you’re such a saint, why have you been filming me and Aisha in secret?’

  He bites his lip and looks away.

  Got you.

  ‘Intelligence gathering,’ he says at last. ‘We take videos of troublemakers and share them with our colleagues.’

  I throw the phone on the sand in front of him and stomp back across the street. ‘You’re a toad!’ I shout back. ‘I’m glad they beat you up.’

  At two o’clock I go to the military camp with a calabash on my head. ‘Gift of milk for the mujahidin,’ I tell the sentry.

  ‘It’s prayer time,’ he says. ‘Wait here.’

  In the centre of the compound, the Defenders of Faith are arrayed in lines, facing east, with that awful Redbeard man at the front. Some have their own prayer rugs. Others use rice sacks or T-shirts.

  They stand and bow and kneel down, just like we do. They touch their foreheads on the sand, just like we do. Do they ever doubt themselves, these boys, or doubt their Arab master, or miss the love-drenched dhikr of their youth?

  I lay down my calabash, pick up a longish twig and pretend to stir my milk.

  The sentry is praying too. If his forehead were not on the ground, he would see that there is not a single drop of milk in my calabash – just a phone. I position the end of the twig above the CALL button and press down.

  Five seconds, four, three, two, one…

  A burst of hard Ivorian rap explodes among the praying boys. Come and swing your loppa-loppa! Swing your loppa all day long!

  Among the low curved backs a head pops up. The eyebrows arch. The mouth drops open.

  It’s saintly Ali, fumbling in his pockets. Not only did I change his ringtone, I set the volume as high as it would go. Come and swing your loppa-loppa! blares the rapper’s song.

  Redbeard unfolds. His eyes bulge, his beard quivers, and I have to press my veil across my mouth to stop myself laughing. This is even better than I’d hoped.

  Ali can’t get his phone out, not in that position. He jumps to his feet, treading on his neighbour’s fingers.

  ‘Ayeeee!’ his neighbour squeals.

  Come and swing your loppa-loppa! Swing your loppa all day long!

  Several of the mujahidin have burst out laughing. There’s hope for them yet, those boys. If ‘The Loppa-Loppa Song’ can’t make them laugh, what on God’s earth can?

  ‘Astaghfirullah!’ cries Ali. ‘God forgive me!’

  I’m guessing God’s forgiveness is the easy bit. Redbeard’s is another matter.

  As I walk home up Askia Avenue, I phone Aisha and leave a voicemail. I am desperate to tell her what just happened, but I’m crying with laughter and can hardly put two words together. I just laugh like a lunatic until my credit runs out.

  That afternoon, my uncle pays a visit. I love Uncle Abdel because he talks to me in the same tone of voice that he uses with the elders. He is always asking my opinions on difficult subjects and recommending manuscripts for me to read.

  ‘Good afternoon, Kadi,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘Did you hear the news? The United Nations are refusing to recognise Azawad as an independent state. In their eyes, Kidal, Gao and Timbuktu are still a part of Mali. What do you think of that?’

  ‘At least they recognise that Timbuktu is a real place,’ I say.

  My uncle’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he chuckles into the folds of his turban.

  ‘Seriously though,’ I say, ‘Azawad is irrelevant right now. I’d rather hear what the UN is saying about Redbeard’s lot.’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ he says. ‘Diplomacy takes time. Tell me something, Kadi, do you think the people of Timbuktu are doing enough to resist the occupation?’

  ‘Not nearly enough. We should all be creeping around at night, stealing the enemy’s weapons and putting sand in the oil wells of their Land Cruisers.’

  Uncle Abdel frowns as he considers this. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he says at last. ‘Perhaps God is waiting for us to take some risks.’

  ‘Don’t encourage her, brother!’ Baba arrives, waggling his finger like an old woman. ‘You know as well as I do that children who sneak out of their homes at night get devoured by the Great Djinni Al Farouk.’

  ‘There are no children in this house,’ replies Abdel drily.

  Baba and Uncle Abdel go into the house to talk, and stay there until the four o’clock prayer call. When they reappear, they both look strained and anxious. They shake hands under the porch, clasping each other’s elbows like members of some secret society.

  ‘Goodbye, Kadi,’ calls Uncle Abdel, waving. ‘Be careful with that perfume of yours.’

  ‘I will, Uncle. Goodbye!’

  As Uncle Abdel disappears into the rosy afternoon, Baba turns, looks left and right, then grasps my shoulders. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he asks.

  He looks so serious and conspiratorial, I have a crazy urge to laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak.

  ‘Your uncle is worried about the security of the Ahmad Baba Library,’ he hisses. ‘You know, after what happened there the other day. He says we need to move the manuscripts to a safer location, all ten thousand of them.’

  ‘Where can we move them to, Baba?’

  ‘To our vault,’ he whispers.

  The hour before dusk in Timbuktu is always magical. Mud-brick buildings glow rose-red and the sweltering heat is relieved by a hint of a breeze.

  A town crier is pacing the streets, summoning all of Timbuktu to Independence Square. The new regime is in need of a crowd immediately.

  We dare not stay away. We gather six deep round the edges of the square, men and women on separate sides. All of the women and girls are veiled. We exchange cautious greetings, identifying neighbours and friends from voices, hands and feet.

  Spotting Aisha’s diamanté veil and Coca-Cola flip-flops, I hurry towards her through the crowd. We embrace and I kiss her veiled cheek.

  ‘Sorry about my voicemail message,’ I tell her.

  ‘It was priceless,�
� she smiles. ‘Cheered me up no end.’

  We are interrupted by the arrival of the Defenders’ Land Cruiser, with the black standard streaming behind it. Ten armed and turbaned boys are perching on the back, and Ali is one of them – I recognise him by his swollen eye.

  Redbeard and Muhammad Zaarib get out of the cab and wave briefly at the crowd. Redbeard carries a megaphone and Zaarib a camel-hide whip. The townspeople stir uneasily. ‘Hasbi rabijal Allah,’ I whisper. Our defence is in God.

  ‘Timbuktu is built on Islam,’ announces Redbeard, ‘and only Islamic law applies in it. Bring out the evildoers!’

  The doors of the police station fly open and two veiled women are led out.

  ‘Halimatu Tal,’ calls Redbeard. ‘Sitting in the marketplace without a veil. Twenty lashes.’

  ‘No!’ I gasp.

  It’s Mama’s friend, the millet pancake lady, the one who gives us free pancakes every time we pass.

  Halimatu kneels down, shivering. Zaarib walks forward and stands behind his prisoner, his mouth a thin hard line.

  ‘Ya Rabbu rham,’ I murmur. Lord, have mercy.

  Aisha grabs my hand and squeezes it.

  The first harsh crack of the camel-hide whip resounds around the square. The kneeling woman gasps and flinches.

  I screw my eyes shut under my veil and lose myself to dhikr. Ya Rabbu rham. Ya Rabbu rham. Ya Rabbu rham.

  On the count of twenty I open my eyes. Halimatu has keeled over sideways and lies sobbing in the dust, her ribcage heaving.

  I’m glad that’s not me, I think, and straightaway I feel ashamed.

  ‘Ramata ag Ahmed,’ announces Redbeard. ‘Walking in the marketplace with a transparent veil.’

  I know Ramata too. She was one of Tondi’s bridesmaids the other night – a dark-skinned beauty, whirling in the moonlight. I remember the orange dress she wore, and the elegant cream sash.

  She is not whirling now. She is crouching down on the balls of her feet, as if she’s getting ready to milk a goat.

  One. Two. Three. The whip flies to and fro, but Ramata makes no sound. She reaches down and scoops up a palmful of sand from the ground.

  Four. Five. Six. Ramata’s knuckles whiten round the sand. By the tenth lash, her whole arm is trembling.

  The sand idea is common in Timbuktu. When a girl gives birth for the first time, her mother gives her a handful of sand to squeeze. As soon as the sand turns to oil, my dear, then you can cry out loud.

  It never does, of course.

  The cruel whip cuts Ramata’s veil into ribbons across her back, but she stays silent until it’s over. Unless she feels the slick sand-oil running over her fingertips, she will not even whimper.

  A murmur of appreciation runs through the crowd. ‘Good girl,’ whispers Aisha.

  I couldn’t do what Ramata is doing. I can’t cope with pain at all. Soft and sweet, that’s what Mama calls me. Soft and sweet like fresh-baked bread.

  Eighteen … nineteen … twenty.

  Zaarib scowls and raises his whip. He wants to carry on beating her until she cracks, but a word from Redbeard stops him.

  ‘Next,’ says Redbeard. ‘Ali Konana. Playing unholy music in public. Twenty lashes.’

  No. He can’t be serious.

  Ali hops down from the trailer and strolls across the square to kneel before Zaarib. He folds his arms across his chest and waits for the whip. There are murmurs of surprise and nervous laughter from the assembled crowd. Are the Defenders really going to punish one of their own?

  The first crack of the lash makes me jump. ‘It’s not his fault!’ I want to yell. ‘I changed his ringtone as a joke!’

  I stay silent, of course. I like the skin on my back. It keeps my insides safe.

  Ali remains quiet for the first twelve lashes, but on the thirteenth he emits a long drawn-out moo like a distraught cow.

  Blindly I push my way back through the crowd, away from the truck and the whip and the pain. I can’t bear it. I lift up my veil and bend low over a gutter, gulping great mouthfuls of air. I really can’t bear it.

  Manuscript 6749: the tariq of Sidi el Beckaye

  Towards the end of the fifteenth century, there was a drought in Timbuktu. The rain did not fall. The wells became dry. All of the seventy thousand people living in Timbuktu were in grave danger, and their animals as well.

  The chief of Timbuktu called a meeting of the city elders to ask for their advice.

  ‘There is a holy man called Sidi el Beckaye,’ said one of the elders, ‘who fasts all day and prays all night. Maybe he will help us.’

  ‘I will send the women and the children,’ said the chief, ‘and that will arouse his pity.’

  So the women and children of Timbuktu went to the house of Sidi el Beckaye, near the west gate of Timbuktu. They pleaded with him to pray to God for rain. ‘If we don’t drink today, we will die,’ they told him.

  Sidi el Beckaye was deeply moved. He burst out of his house and ran through the crowd like the Harmattan wind. He ran all the way out to the desert, west of the city, and there he lifted his foot and stamped with the strength of God. The desert shook from shore to shore, and all of Mali felt the tremors.

  That single stomp from Sidi el Beckaye produced a foot-shaped well, and from the desert’s adamantine bowels, fresh water bubbled up.

  The well was named Sababou, ‘Well of Destiny’, and still today it waters Timbuktu.

  Sidi el Beckaye, that hotheaded saint who ran and stamped, was given the name Tamba-Tamba, which means Fast-Fast. Every Friday evening, people gather at his shrine, to thank him for the water he provides.

  Shirtless I recline beside the shrine of Tamba-Tamba, watching videos on my phone, alone. Even lying on my front like this, my back still stings. If anything, it’s getting worse.

  Aside from the physical pain, there is the question which has bothered me all afternoon. Why didn’t I simply tell Redbeard that Kadi changed my ringtone?

  ‘Peace be upon you, Loppa-Loppa!’ calls Jabir. He and Omar are heading my way through the deepening dusk. Jabir holds a tin of paint and a blackened brush. Omar’s water bottle is slung over his shoulder, and he carries a large glass jar of something dark.

  I stop the video. ‘Peace be upon you too,’ I say. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Censoring,’ says Jabir. ‘Blotting out pictures on billboards and walls. Men, women, cows, that sort of thing. Pictures are against God’s law.’

  ‘You missed my punishment.’

  ‘We heard about it,’ says Omar. ‘We brought you some honey.’

  My back hurts so much I can hardly think straight, and it takes me a second or two to remember what honey is. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘It’s not for eating,’ says Omar. ‘It will reduce the swelling and stop your stripes getting infected.’

  Omar hangs his water bottle on one of the rodier palm bundles that protrude from the wall of Tamba-Tamba’s shrine. He kneels down beside me and opens the glass jar. My lash wounds prickle and smart as he drizzles the honey across my back.

  ‘Al-Nahl verse sixty-nine,’ whispers Omar. ‘There issues from the body of the bee a liquid of varying colours, wherein is healing for mankind.’

  There are tears in my eyes, but not of pain. ‘Thank you, Omar. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Jabir picks up my phone. ‘What were you watching?’ he asks.

  Before I can stop him, he presses ‘Play’.

  ‘Give me that!’ I reach across to grab the phone, but I’m too late. The video is playing.

  ‘Two hundred francs? We could get a bag of real white men’s ears for that!’

  ‘Nice!’ whoops Jabir. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘It’s those girls from La Détente,’ says Omar, craning his neck to look. ‘Why were you filming them, Ali?’

  ‘Because they’re troublemakers.’

  Jabir whistles. ‘They certainly are,’ he says. ‘Hey, you should show this to Zaarib. They’ll get twenty la
shes for walking in the marketplace unveiled.’

  ‘I filmed it ages ago,’ I lie. ‘These days they both wear veils.’

  Jabir returns the video to the beginning and presses ‘Play’ again. ‘Veils were first ordained because of girls like that,’ he says. ‘Makes you crazy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Avert your gaze from all forbidden things,’ quotes Omar. ‘Perhaps we should not be watching.’

  ‘Of course we should,’ says Jabir. ‘We need to recognise the troublemakers.’

  ‘Really?’ Omar gets to his feet. ‘And how will you recognise them, now that they’re wearing veils?’

  ‘By their voices,’ says Jabir. ‘I will make them repeat the phrase white men’s ears three times.’

  ‘Come on, you idiot. It’s time for sunset prayers.’

  Omar and Jabir go off to find their prayer mats, leaving me alone.

  How will I recognise her if she is wearing a veil?

  I will recognise her jaunty walk, I will recognize her oleander scent and I will recognise her bubbling high-pitched laugh like the chirp of a bronze-winged mannikin.

  Of course I don’t want Kadija lashed. If you lash a girl like that, you lose her for ever. This way she has got a second chance. By having mercy on her I have proved to her the rightness of our cause.

  I have purchased her soul for God.

  The sunset prayer call is blaring from the many minarets of Timbuktu.

  God is patient with the sick. He who cannot stand to pray may sit, and he who cannot sit may lie. The important thing is to commune with God.

  I wash my hands and close my eyes, force Kadija from my mind and start to say my prayers. Halfway through Al-Fatiha, I am interrupted by the voice of an old woman.

  ‘Tamba-Tamba, we beseech you!

  Cows must drink and sheep must wash,

  The little donkeys must quench their thirst,

  Tamba-Tamba, send the rain!’

  By Tamba-Tamba’s tomb she stands, veiled in black and chanting witlessly.

  I lift my head. ‘Who let you in?’ I ask.

  ‘Do not fear,’ croaks the woman.

  ‘I’m not afraid, I’m repulsed. Who let you in here?’

  The old woman cups a hand over her ear. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘The sentry.’