Sophie and the Locust Curse Read Free Page B

was doing press-ups, then scuttled off again. No one spoke.
    ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord,’ repeated the chief. ‘He knows why these things happen.’
    There was a quiet ‘amen’ from one of the elders.
    ‘Today,’ continued the chief, ‘we are celebrating the birth of Mariama, daughter to Amidou and Bintu. Now that the sun has set, let the dancing begin.’
    Sophie could not believe that they intended to go ahead with the dancing after what had happened. Never in her life had she felt less like dancing.
    Uncle Ibrahiim walked forward slowly, took off his sandals and stepped onto the musicians’ mat. He knelt down, positioned his hoddu and began to play.
    Ibrahiim’s music was melodious and mystical and it was a tune that Sophie knew well. Gidaado had played this song for her once before and she had been unable to get it out of her head ever since.
     
‘The desert rejoices and I with it,
Praise to the Creator.’
     
    The villagers sat motionless on the straw mats and listened. Sophie thought of how happy she had been when she had got up this morning. She had been so excited about the prospect of spending the day at Gidaado’s village and attending the naming ceremony. She had been singing this very song while she brushed her teeth, and had inadvertently sprayed toothpaste all over the mirror.
     
‘The desert rejoices and I with it,
Praise to the Creator.’
     
    The moon was rising now and cast a faint glow over the landscape. Without a word Gidaado’s grandmother got up off her mat, hobbled to the front and began to dance. She shuffled from side to side, swinging her arms gently to the music and humming to herself. Another elderly woman went up and joined her. Ignoring their audience, they shuffled and swayed, smiling as if at some private joke.
     
‘The desert dances and I with it,
Praise to the Creator.’
     
    One by one the villagers got up and began to dance among their ravaged crops. Sophie desperately wanted to join in but she felt heavy with the pain and disappointment of the day. Maybe tomorrow or the next day she would dance, but not tonight.
    Gidaado came out of nowhere and sat down beside her and in silence they watched the men and women of Giriiji moving in the moonlight. Finally, Gidaado spoke:
    ‘Sophie, you know how it is when you are sitting close to the fire at night and tiny sparks jump out and make little scorch-marks on your feet and legs?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Sophie.
    ‘We griots say that those sparks are like Suffering.’
    ‘Whatever.’
    ‘And you know how it is when you are milking a cow and tiny droplets of milk splash up out of the calabash and wet your face and arms?’
    ‘No,’ said Sophie.
    ‘Well they do. We say that those droplets are like Joy.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So nothing,’ said Gidaado. ‘Life is a mixture of the two, that’s all. Sparks and droplets. Suffering and Joy.’
    ‘You go and dance if you like,’ said Sophie. ‘I want to be on my own.’
    *
    It was gone nine o’clock when Sophie’s dad arrived on the Yamaha to pick her up. His eyes behind his motorbike goggles were large and troubled.
    ‘Sorry I’m late, darling,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Are you okay?’
    ‘I’m okay,’ said Sophie, taking her place behind him on the motorbike. ‘But the millet isn’t.’
    ‘They arrived in Gorom-Gorom, too. I had sauterelles splatting on my goggles all the way here.’
    ‘You know what the villagers call it?’ said Sophie. ‘The pink death.’
    Her dad nodded and held up a small screw-topped jar. Inside the jar stood a single locust, tapping its front legs feebly against the glass as if pleading to be let out. ‘I’m going to feed him to my desert flytrap,’ said her dad, ‘and see how long she takes to digest him.’
    ‘Good idea,’ said Sophie.
    Her dad kicked down savagely on the starter and the motorbike roared into life. Sophie put her arms around his waist as he opened up the throttle and sped off into the night. On the