Chapter 9
Brad seated himself on the cushion. He watched as Aahil waved his hand in a demonstration of how to rest one’s back lightly against the mud brick wall. As they settled in, Brad felt an exuberance at having been invited up on the roof of his new friend’s home to enjoy the cool evening with his two sons. The sun slipped under the painted green of the distant urban bridge and touched the darker leaf color of the riverside trees beyond.
He asked Aahil more about the other white men at the hotel. Near four weeks ago, Aahil said, since he drove them out in the countryside to look on the rice and peanut fields. They then toured along a preselected route of the streets of Niamey. Their official Asian guide seemed intent on impressing something upon them. How the price of rice had been rising higher each year; how there was not so much rice; how the Hausa were bringing their cattle closer to the river as the grasslands shrank. Aahil drove them last to the Minister’s office where the Asian took them inside.
“That curved government building?” Brad said. “Across from the Gaweye?”
“Yes, it is so.”
“Ressources Minières, father.”
Aahil nodded, approving his son’s knowledge.
The Caucasian tour group had not stayed long in the office building. Whether they did meet with the Minister or an assistant was difficult to know. When they returned to the Nissan, the Asian was speaking directly of the changing climate. In a manner similar to how those more educated Nigeriens spoke, Aahil said. Those living in Niamey who had been to university would say the situation was unfair, much as it had been with the Europeans of Niger’s past. The Asian insisted the white men pay attention to this in particular. Even at times the Asian alluded to how the Europeans and their North American descendants, who first came to Africa to colonize and to take resources, now were the ones who caused the desert to expand. The white men had been much more interested in the horse races. But the day of the week had been wrong.
“I will take you there.” Aahil’s eyes widened ever so slightly.
“A horse track. Sure.”
“Friday, in two days.”
Brad nodded. “Do the people of Niger talk of their future? How things will be with changing weather patterns and a dryer Sahel.”
“Some do, many do not.” Brad noticed Aahil’s shoulder shrug. His chin shifting forwards seemed to come more natural. “Many say Insha’Allah. It is the will of Allah.”
Aahil’s wife Hamina came up through the portico and Aahil rose to assist her. She brought them tea on a tray with a bowl of sugar and as Aahil took it from her and put it before them, he softly said “But we drink tea in our home now. We speak no more on business.”
Brad slowly picked up his steaming tea to sip. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” He found this man in the bright multi-colored jacket easily likable. He spooned more sugar into this tea cup and grinned watching it dissolve as he stirred. The man sat tall with his two sons respectfully beside as if there to learn. Brad spoke again. “So can I ask how many of you live here? In this house?” Aahil’s face softened at the America. “We are I and my wife Hamina, my sons here and our other children, my brother and his family, my sister and her husband; they have children, our mother and father, and then also our mother’s uncle. We are one family.”
Brad had realized before how important community would be in his speculated mountain valley. This model before him had miniature community written all over it, right here in one household. “Cool. And you get driving contracts for the government? And you run a restaurant?” Aahil nodded, telling how since his father’s thinking had slowed, his brother and sister and Hamina mostly ran the restaurant. All the children went to the school that was close along the same street. Everyone contributed of course to the camp—camp was a desert word, urban household now—everyone did something that was helpful.
They talked more of cousins, of relatives, of family. Brad told Aahil of how his Canadian wife had cousins living in the river valleys in the mountains of British Columbia, a province of Canada. His family lived in Washington, one of the states in United States of America. Where they lived, the border with Canada was very close and friendly to cross and the land varied from lush to near desert. Spokane was his city in Washington State.
“As Tillabéri father.” Aahil’s other son spoke. “A state, like a region.”
“Yes son,” Aahil said. “Tillabéri is the region that encloses Niamey. Our capital district.”
“In America our capital city is separate from all states.”
“As our capital Niamey,” Aahil said.
“Washington DC is our capital. Washington State, where I live, is a long ways from the capital, opposite end of the country.”
They both nodded.
Brad told of his wife’s village named Osoyoos, a native Syilx'tsn name but with the first O added by later settlers. “When Europe colonized.” The Osoyoos Lake valley crossed the border and was the north end of the Senora Desert stretching all across America from Mexico.
Aahil had more family to the east and a little north, up close to and in the Ayăr Mountains. Closer to the Ténéré, the true desert. “In French or English, you will hear them as the Aïr Mountains. We are Tuareg.” His eyes lit up. “We are desert people.” Some relatives lived in Agadez, but many lived still in the villages deep in the mountains. Where dates from the palms could be eaten with the meat and cheese of the goat.
“All Tuareg?”
“Yes, it is so.”
Brad listened closely as Aahil spoke of the times past when an Amajagh, a Tuareg man, was a freeman and a Tamajaq, a Tuareg woman was a free woman. “Tamajaq, the word for woman, is the same word for the language we speak.” Unlike many Muslims, women are important among our people. As you see, I wear the veil while my Hamina does not.” Aahil’s eyes glistened.
Brad nodded. He felt a warm peace sink in from more than just the tea. Many natives, the First People of the Pacific North West whose culture developed over millennia also had a great respect for women. That would certainly fit in as a trait to have in the model he envisioned of the future. A future his sons’ would inherit would be well served by the inherent affection of women.
Aahil motioned to a goat skin, hanging on the wall of the rooftop storage house, where a dark stained imprint read a poetically balanced script. “My father left the desert with his Tuareg story song.” Imidiwan ma Tennam. He pointed to each word in that title, reading and speaking the same in English. “What have you got to say my friends?” Aahil sighed. “The song written here speaks of how our people have left the dried up desert, how the power of ignorance now holds strong.” Aahil looked at Brad to explain. “That ignorance does not hold always true.” There had been a time when Tuareg and horses and grass and water all ran together with great pride. But, the song also says, Aahil told Brad, how green lands exist elsewhere.
They fell silent.
Brad followed Aahil’s practiced gaze to where it fell on the distant cloud free sky. As the blue darkened, the sparse scatter of street lights began their twinkle, illuminating the buildings and streets along the river bridge and out across the city. The sun dipped below the urban edge and as darkness settled in deeper, the touch of a cool breeze wafted in about them.
Aahil broke the moment of peace. “We have story of another way to make the desert green—not the president’s way.” Brad’s look swung over to the dark eyes of his companion. Aahil spoke softly. “Come. We will go below. This one will be our mealtime tale.”
They rose and Aahil waved him ahead as they made their way through the portico to the drifting aromas of food from the home cooking space. As he walked past Brad glanced at the song story written on the hanging goat skin. He would have to ask Aahil for a full translation.
As they descended, Brad wondered how it could be this extended family, this community of the Tuareg modeled here in Aahil’s house fit so well with the world. If there was a way he could transfer some of this, of what he saw before him to his mou
ntain valley community. The help-each-other-out and cooperative attitude would fit so well in any model he would want for his sons. And household incomes from whoever was employed at the time—no questions asked! What a blow away idea, but man, why not?