Page 12 of Never
The man disappeared into his limo and it drove off. The stevedores and the guards drifted away. The truck full of cocaine departed.
Abdul said: ‘I’m out of here.’
Doyle held out his hand and Abdul shook it.
‘You’re a brave man,’ said Doyle. ‘Good luck.’
***
For days Kiah agonized over her conversation with the white woman.
As a little girl Kiah had imagined that all European women were nuns, since nuns were the only white women she ever saw. The first time she came across an ordinary Frenchwoman, wearing a knee-length dress and stockings and carrying a handbag, she had been as shocked as if she had met a ghost.
But she was used to them now, and instinctively she trusted Tamara, who had a frank, open face with no hint of guile.
She understood now that wealthy European women did man-type jobs and so did not have time to clean their own houses, so they paid maids, from Chad and other poor countries, to do the housework. Kiah was reassured. There was a role for her in France, a life she could live, a way she could feed her child.
Kiah was not sure why rich women would want to be lawyers and doctors. Why did they not spend their days playing with their children and talking to their friends? She still had much to learn about Europeans. But she knew the most important fact: that they wanted to employ migrants from Africa.
By contrast, what Tamara had said about people smugglers had been the opposite of reassuring. She had looked horrified. And this was what was causing Kiah to agonize. She could not deny the logic of what Tamara said. She was planning to put herself in the hands of criminals; why would they not rob her?
She had a few minutes to reflect on these questions while Naji was taking his afternoon nap. She gazed at him now, naked on a cotton sheet, sleeping in tranquillity, oblivious to care. She had not loved her parents or even her husband as much as she loved her son. Her feelings for Naji had overwhelmed all other emotions and had taken control of her life. But love was not enough. He needed food and water, and clothes to protect his soft skin from the burning sun. And it was up to her to provide for his needs. But she would be risking his life, too, in the desert. And he was so little, and weak, and trusting.
She needed help. She could go on this dangerous journey, but not alone. With a friend, perhaps, she could manage.
As she watched Naji, he opened his eyes. He did not wake slowly, as adults did, but all at once. He got to his feet, toddled to Kiah, and said: ‘Leben.’ He loved this dish, cooked rice with buttermilk, and she always gave him a little after his nap.
While feeding him she decided to speak to her second-cousin Yusuf. He was her own age, and lived in the next village, a couple of miles away, with his wife and a daughter the same age as Naji. Yusuf was a shepherd, but most of his flock had died for lack of grazing, and now he, too, was thinking of migrating before all his savings were spent. She wanted to talk over the problems with him. If he decided to go, she could travel with him and his family and feel a lot safer.
By the time Kiah had dressed Naji it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was past its height. She set off with the child on her hip. She was strong, and could still carry him for considerable distances, but she was not sure how long that would continue. Sooner or later he would be too heavy and, when he had to walk, their progress would be slower.
She followed the shore along the edge of the lake, shifting Naji from one hip to the other every few minutes. Now that the heat of the day was over, people were working again: fishermen mending nets and sharpening knives, children herding goats and sheep, women fetching water in traditional jars and big plastic demijohns.
Like everyone else Kiah kept an eye on the lake, for there was no knowing when the jihadis might get hungry and come to steal meat and flour and salt. They sometimes even kidnapped girls, especially Christian girls. Kiah touched the little silver cross on a chain that she wore under her dress.
After an hour she came to a village like her own except that it had a row of six concrete houses, built in better times and now crumbling but still inhabited.
Yusuf’s house was like hers, made of mud bricks and palm leaves. She paused at the door and called: ‘Anybody home?’
Yusuf recognized her voice and replied: ‘Come in, Kiah.’
He was sitting cross-legged, mending a puncture in a bicycle tyre, gluing a patch over a hole in the inner tube. He was a small man with a cheerful face, not as domineering as some husbands. He smiled broadly: he was always pleased to see Kiah.
His wife, Azra, was breastfeeding their baby. Her smile was not quite so welcoming. She had a thin face with a pinched look, but that was not the only reason she looked forbidding. The truth was that Yusuf was a little too fond of his cousin Kiah. Since the death of Salim, Yusuf had assumed a protective air that involved him touching her hand and putting his arm around her more often than was necessary. Kiah suspected that he would like to be married to her as well as Azra, and Azra probably shared that suspicion. Polygamy was legal in Chad, and millions of Christian and Muslim women were in polygamous marriages.
Kiah had done nothing to encourage this behaviour by Yusuf, but nor had she rejected him, for she really did need protection and he was her only male relative in Chad. Now she worried that this triangular tension could threaten her plans.
Yusuf offered her a drink from a stone jar of sheep’s milk. He poured some into a bowl and she shared it with Naji.
‘I talked to a foreigner last week,’ she said while Naji slurped from the bowl. ‘A white American woman who came asking about the shrinking of the lake. I questioned her about Europe.’
‘That was smart,’ said Yusuf. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘She said the people smugglers are criminals and they might rob us.’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘We could be robbed right here by the jihadis.’
Azra put in: ‘But it’s easier to rob people out there in the desert. You can just leave them to die.’
