Sophie and the Locust Curse Read Free

She sat and fumed silently.
    Perched behind her, Gidaado was singing under his breath. He’s practising the tarik, thought Sophie. I hope he forgets his lines in the middle of the ceremony.
    Chobbal pounded onwards, rocking the children backwards and forwards on his hump. The sun climbed higher and higher in the sky until the sand of the desert glared like an overexposed photograph. After a long while Sophie reached into her shoulder bag and took out her water bottle and a small tub of sun-cream. Gidaado reached round her and took Chobbal’s reins from Sophie so that she could smear the cream on her face and arms.
    ‘Are you still mad at me?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ she replied, hiding a smile.
    It was eleven o’clock by the time the children reached the fields of Giriiji, Gidaado’s village. Here the villagers’ crops stood tall and proud, thousands of millet plants, each plant bearing its precious cargo of crisp golden grains. Harvest time was not far away.
    At last they arrived at a small group of mud-brick huts. Next to one of these huts the men and women of Giriiji were sitting on straw mats in the shade of a large acacia tree. Sophie heard the clacking of calabashes.
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Gidaado.
    ‘What?’
    ‘They’ve started the tarik without me,’ said Gidaado.



Chapter 3
    ‘ BAHAAT-UGH! ’ cried Sophie, camel-language for stop .
    Chobbal skidded to a halt and Gidaado sprang off the hump backwards. He landed in a heap on the ground, got up, brushed himself down and ran over to the musicians’ mat where his three-stringed guitar was waiting for him. Sophie dismounted more carefully and went to join the spectators.
    ‘Amidou my brother, same father, same mother, flesh of my own flesh,’ sang the lead musician. Sophie recognized him as Gidaado’s Uncle Ibrahiim, the leader of the Giriiji Griots. He was flanked by Gidaado’s cousins Hassan and Hussein, who were bashing away happily on a pair of calabashes. Gidaado sat down behind them and began to pluck his hoddu .
    ‘Amidou, husband of Bintu the Beautiful, brother of Alu the Fearless,’ sang Uncle Ibrahiim. ‘Alu the Fearless who wrestled a lion and did lots of other brave and brainless things.’
    ‘That’s right!’ shouted Gidaado.
    Sophie noticed Gidaado’s grandmother sitting on one of the women’s mats. She had great long earlobes and her skin was as wrinkly as a walnut. Her eyes were half-closed and she nodded to the calabash beat.
    ‘Amidou and Alu, sons of Hamadou, son of Yero the son of Tijani,’ sang Ibrahiim.
    ‘That’s right!’ shouted Gidaado.
    ‘Tijani, whose camel Mad Mariama ran faster than the harmattan wind.’
    ‘That’s right!’
    It seemed to Sophie that Gidaado’s role in the tarik was slightly less glamorous than he had made out. Perhaps the best was yet to come.
    ‘Tijani son of Haroun.’
    ‘That’s right!’
    ‘Husband of Halimatu the Horrible, who could make music with her armpits.’
    ‘That’s right!’
    ‘Son of Salif, son of Ali, son of Gorko Bobo.’
    ‘That’s ri- ‘
    ‘STOP!’ shouted the chief.
    Uncle Ibrahiim stopped singing and blinked rapidly as if waking from a trance. The twins’ calabashes ceased their clicking and clacking. Gidaado laid down his hoddu and stared at the chief in amazement. A woman emerged from the nearest mud-brick hut, holding a tiny baby at her breast. She quivered with rage and pointed a long thin forefinger at the chief.
    ‘How dare you interrupt the tarik , you son of a skink!’ she cried.
    The villagers gasped. A skink was a large lizard and not a nice thing to call anybody, let alone a village chief.
    ‘Bintu,’ hissed a nervous-looking man in the front row of the audience. ‘Bintu, don’t talk like that.’
    ‘How am I supposed to talk? He has shattered the tarik and brought shame on the memory of all our ancestors.’
    The villagers gasped again. This was a serious accusation. All eyes now were on Al Hajji Diallo, chief of