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August 21, 2005

Peace only

I pass Bukari Hassan and Mawna Belko on my way to the market, and as always I stop to greet them. They are sitting in wicker chairs on the left side of the street in the shade of Bukari Hassan's hut, as they do every morning. In a few hours the rays of the sun will reach their feet and they will call a child to move their chairs to the other side of the street, to the shade of Mawna Belko's hut. There they will sit until the mosquitoes come out at dusk.

'Jam waali?' I say (Did you pass the night in peace?).
'Jam tan' (Peace only), replies Bukari Hassan, squinting up at me. He is sitting forward on his chair and leaning some of his weight on a wooden staff.
'Did your household wake in peace?' I ask.
'Peace only.'
'How is your family?'
'There are no problems, God be praised.'

This is not entirely true. I know already from my neighbours that Bukari's granddaughter died during the night and that he and the rest of the family were up before sunrise to bury her at the cemetery. It is part of the greeting ritual to proclaim peace where there is no peace, and Bukari is playing the role as best he can.

'I heard about Amnata's child,' I say. 'Alla hoynu.' (May God make it easier)
'Amen,' he says quietly, fingering a string of prayer beads.

Mawna Belko pulls up a small wooden stool for me, and we sit in silence. Donkey carts lurch past with loads of wood and fertilizer. From the yard behind me come the low syncopated spurts of a cow being milked. People pass by on foot or bicycle and some of them call out 'Jam waali?'

'Jam tan!' calls back Mawna Belko. 'They are on the way to the Red Cross,' he tells me in a low voice, pointing at the empty rice sacks that some of the passers-by are holding.

Bukari Hassan and Mawna Belko will not be going to the grain distribution themselves. They have entrusted their identity cards to younger members of the family who will claim on their behalf. Perhaps today they will get lucky or perhaps they will wait in vain.

A small boy comes out of Bukari's yard bearing three small glasses of tea on a metal tray.

'The second pouring,' says Bukari. 'Bitter and sweet - like hope.' He offers me a glass, his hand trembling.

'Bismillahi' (In the name of God), I say, taking it.
We drink. In three short sips my glass is empty. The strong China tea clears my head and makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The old men are watching me to see if I will wince. I thank them and put the glass back on the tray.

Mawna Belko sighs. 'God be praised,' he says. 'If on the day the babbatti came last year you had told us that we would still be drinking tea in August, we would not have believed you.'

Babbatti.. The word has never been far from our lips since 27th September last year when the pink cloud came from the north. At first people thought it was an approaching dust storm, but then the cloud turned into millions of tiny dots, pink and flickering and strangely beautiful. The dots swarmed towards the fields and began to dive, and for an hour the air was thick with legs, wings and mandibles. The babbatti ate everything and left.

Now rainy season is here again, and the fields are again filled with ranks of almost-millet. Everyone knows how precious the crop is, and how precarious. One month to go, and then the millet can be harvested. A repeat of last year's locust invasion would be catastrophic.

A man on a bicycle stops to greet Bukari and pass on his condolences. The man's turban covers his forehead and chin, and his eyes are surrounded by deep crows' feet. He is holding an empty rice sack.

'Ko jemma boni fuu, weetu,' says the stranger. The Fulani have many proverbs about patience and endurance, and this is one of them. 'Even if the night is bad, morning will come.'
'A haali goonga' (You have spoken truth), says Bukari.
'Alla wan' nyallen e jam.' (God grant us to pass the day in peace)
'Amen.'

The man gets back on his bicycle and peddles away towards the Red Cross. Mawna Belko and I watch him disappear into the distance. Bukari Hassan looks down at his feet and he grips the head of his staff so hard that his knuckles go white.

Posted by sahelsteve at August 21, 2005 09:59 PM