Then Hamadou puts his hand in his pocket and brings out a pack of playing cards.
‘Aztec?’ he says.
‘Okay.’
‘You will be destroyed,’ he says.
‘We shall see.’ He is probably right, but it does not do to show weakness.
We sit opposite each other on the mat and Hamadou shuffles the cards dextrously. ‘My wife gave birth today,’ he remarks conversationally.
‘Peace, I hope?’
‘Peace only. There were no problems.’
‘God be praised. Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Where is Wadda now?’
‘Inside.’ Hamadou nods towards the hut. ‘I have called Jeneba.’
Jeneba is a neighbour who has been helping Hamadou’s wife to pound the millet this week. She is a large, cheerful woman with a good repertoire of pounding songs.
‘Congratulations, Hamadou’ I say. ‘May God write blessings.’
‘Amen.’ Hamadou is sorting his cards into suits. Then he picks a card, raises it high above his head, and whips it down onto the mat between us. Two of clubs.
‘Fii!’ (Play!) cries Hamadou.
Hamadou is a not by nature an impatient man; I have seen him standing on one leg for hours on end, gazing at the horizon while his cows graze. But put seven cards in his hand and he becomes more time-conscious than a Swiss train-driver. Flustered, I lay down the six of clubs and we replenish our hands from the deck.
I play the king of diamonds and glance at the doorway of the hut. ‘Is Wadda okay in there?’ I ask.
An ace lands on my king with a crack that almost makes me jump. ‘Nyaami maa,’ (Ate you) says Hamadou, and follows up quickly with another ace.
Jeneba is approaching the hut, accompanied by a younger woman who I think is her cousin. They are each bearing a bar of soap. It is customary to bring soap as a gift to a woman who has given birth.
I nod in greeting. ‘Did you pass the day in peace?’
‘Peace only,’ says Jeneba, ‘How are your family?’
‘Peace only.’
‘Fii,’ says Hamadou.
‘You are in good health?’says Jeneba.
‘Peace only, God be praised.’
‘Fii!’ says Hamadou again, glaring at me over his cards.
I throw away a card and the women duck through the low doorway. Assorted greetings and blessings can be heard from inside. Then Jeneba’s voice, declaring, ‘It looks like a piglet.’
‘No,’ the cousin’s voice this time, ‘it looks more like a djinn. You have given birth to a djinn with no nose.’
Insulting babies is one of the most exquisite pleasures of Fulani social life, but it serves a useful function too. Many people are terrified of the harmful effects of the evil eye, and the first suspects are always jealous women. By pouring scorn on Wadda’s baby, Jenaba and her cousin are assuring her that they feel no jealousy and that they wish the little thing no harm. I am told that this phenomenon is not unique to Fulani culture – Tamasheq and Songhai people do it too. In fact, all across the Sahel, women are falling over themselves to denigrate each other’s offspring.
Hamadou and I play on. He makes one contract and then another and finally beats me ‘atout dizaine’. This is a very specific situation which occurs when the ten of trumps is beaten by the ace of trumps, and it is equivalent to thirty-two normal wins. If a Fulani man trounces you in this way you are expected to buy him a big box of sugar cubes and a bag of China tea. Atout dizaine should never happen if you are paying attention and making a mental note of the trumps as they get played. But the game of Insult the Baby being played indoors was something of a distraction.
I ask Hamadou when his wife gave birth, and he tells me it was not long ago. ‘Wadda said her stomach hurt and she went into the hut to lie down. Five minutes later I heard a baby crying, and I called Jeneba. Then you arrived.’
Even taking into account that my friend is probably exaggerating, this has been a very quick and straightforward home birth. If Fulani men play cards fast, it seems that Fulani women give birth even faster.
‘Salaam alekum,’ I say, getting up from the mat.
‘Alekum asalaam,’ replies Hamadou.
I head towards the market. My shopping list is short - a box of sugar, a bag of tea and a couple bars of soap.