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Azacha Azacha is the first village we approach. Alagie doesn't know exactly where it is and it appears on no maps, so even after we leave the highway we must stop and ask the direction whenever we see someone. The landscape is brown and dry - no rain for seven months and none expected for two months more. Our lips and those of all we meet are cracked. Though I have drunk three litres of water this morning I have yet to urinate and do not feel the need. It is over 40 degrees Centigrade. The wind coming through the car windows is as hot as the breath of a furnace. The old Peugeot we have rented for this trek has a loose front fender and salutes every bump in the dusty dirt road with a dry rattle. This is the Sahel, a flat landscape south of the Sahara dotted with occasional small trees and parched farmlands.Next |
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"That must be it," says Alagie, pointing towards a small cluster of round thatched houses in the distance. When we have reached the first house we stop and get out of the car. Alagie asks me for the photographs of the almudos. Our arrival has brought out about 10 children and a middle-aged man. Alagie exchanges greetings and explains that we are here looking for the families of street children we are working with in the city. He shows the first photo. "Ayee, Salifu!" exclaims the man. The photo is of his ten year old son, whom he has not seen for two years. When the man calms down, Alagie explains that we are here to talk to parents because we want to understand why their children are begging on distant city streets.We are seated outside Salifu's father's house on a long bench of small logs burnished by many bodies before us. The sun is nearing the horizon and the villagers continue to gather as they return from the day's work. Everyone comes to greet and welcome us. The reaction of Salifu's father is repeated a half-dozen more times. |
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Having found the parents, we no longer need the photos of their children. One mother wraps the photograph of her son carefully in a bit of cloth but repeatedly unwraps it for another look every three or four minutes. Before our questions can be asked we must answer theirs - pressing inquiries about their children's well-being. They have heard of our project to help the almudos (their children) and gratitude and welcome shine out of their faces. "We must stay here tonight," says Alagie. "They are preparing food." A group of children race past in wild pursuit of a bony rooster. It is brought to us a few minutes later for our inspection. We nod appreciatively. I am hungry now that the sun has set and it is a little cooler. Cooking fires have been kindled and delicious smells are carried on the night breeze. I am glad that we have brought with us a little rice and oil for every family - everyone here is thin. This is the 'hungry season.' By this time of year, most of last year's harvest has been consumed and several months remain before new crops will yield more food. Everyone here is hungry, but we will all eat well tonight.We dine with Salifu's father and we are fed first, a huge bowl of 'benachin' - deliciously spiced rice - topped with the chicken. I know that all the food for this compound has been set before us and no-one else will eat until we have had our fill, so I eat sparingly and quickly from the communal bowl, so the women and children will not have to wait too long. This proves to have been a lucky decision since platters of food for us soon arrive from other compounds and we must eat at least a little from each. |
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When we finish eating, a small boy brings a basin of water for us to wash our hands. Then we are visited by all the parents of the almudos and must again assure them of their children's health and safety. The photos of Umaru, Jibi, Musa, Salifu, Abdou and Alieu are passed from hand to hand and generate endless conversation, remarks and questions. Light is provided by the moon, a few kerosene lanterns and a flashlight passed from hand to hand with the photos. When the parents find that I actually know their children, know their personalities and relationships with the other almudos, I am deluged with questions. Alagie translates placidly, a little proud I think, that the villagers have recognized that I am genuinely fond of their children. "Have Umaru's other teeth come in?" "Is Salifu really this tall?" "Is Musa still as mischievous?"
I reply, "Yes, yes and yes," to these and many other similar questions and am happy that I have anecdotes about each child. Umaru's small brother falls asleep in my lap and most of the other young children are also passing out in other laps. Everyone agrees to meet in the morning to answer our questions. Salifu's father has given me a room and a bed but I lie on the outside bench to gaze up at the stars. The straw thatch is silvery in the moonlight. Several teenage boys sleep on the bench, too kind to leave me alone but too tired to stay awake. I rouse them, send them sleepily off to their compounds and retire, feeling more at peace and comfortable than in any five star hotel. |