shelter a lamp in a wind. She would feel the flutter deep inside her—a stirring, a striving—and that too would whisper: Keep walking, don't stop.
CHAPTER 32
My Dearest Henry,
Please do not endanger our endeavour. We must not give up! I understand with fullest appreciation that the hardest part has been keeping this wonderful news secret. But trust in the goodness of life and you will be rewarded! Utmost secrecy at this stage Mr. Curtis! As soon as the money has been transferred and you have taken your percentage, you may celebrate in high style with your wife and loved ones. Why not take them on that cruise you have always dreamed upon? I have heard so much about your kind nature from Miss Sandra and Victor.
I only wish I could be there to see your wife Helen's face light up when you reveal the truth!
Perhaps some day we can meet and toast our friendship face to face.
With great happiness,
Lawrence Atuche, Professor of Commerce
CHAPTER 33
On the far side of the sky: a slash of lightning, crack of bone.
Thunder without rain. It woke her from her sleep, brought with it the memory of other storms, more violent than this. Memories of lightning that snapped like a whip, hitting the Sahel repeatedly as a rider might in final gallop.
One such storm had left trees burning across the plains like torches; it was a memory so vivid it might not have been real, may have been fostered in folklore instead, in stories told and repeated until they became truer than memory.
Another flash of lightning, veining the night sky. The nights were cooler and better for walking, but the taboo was still strong within her. Women who are with child mustn't walk after dark. And just as well. The roads weren't safe. She had heard loud voices patrolling the highway, had seen the sweep of headlights. They weren't looking for her, just looking. But the threat was the same.
There were no burning bushes on this night, only bruised skies and a clouded moon. I don't know if I can go on. She whispered this to her belly. It was all she could do to sit up, to unwind the goatskin from around her legs. The harmattan dust fountained off her.
Keep walking.
It took her three tries to get the jerry can onto the folded cloth atop her head, three more to make the first step. She could see the curve of asphalt running through the hillocks, and as she walked down to meet it, she heard the scurry of something small and afraid in the underbrush.
At the blacktop she saw no sign of the night patrols, or slumbering truck drivers either, so no scraps of food to pick through. Only asphalt and—to the south—her destination. Zaria.
She had been able to see the city, low along the plains, for several days now, had been walking toward its minarets and mosque, had been laboriously rolling it toward her, trying to bring it near. But it never seemed to draw closer, always seemed to hover out of reach, an illusion born of wavering heat and a walking that grew slower and less sure with every passing day. The globe was getting more and more difficult to turn underfoot. As the sun crawled its way back up the sky, Zaria city appeared again, then disappeared, slipping behind distant hills and scrubland trees, lost to a foreground of thorn bushes and acacia.
The road brought her suddenly to an army checkpoint, and she caught her breath, steadied the jerry can. It was still early and the road was quiet. She started past the barrier the soldiers had rigged up—planks bound by hemp rope, laid across cement-filled oil barrels—treading softly, eyes down. On the roadside, a single army lorry, painted a camouflage green better suited for the jungles of the Delta, was parked at a haphazard angle. Soldiers were sleeping on mats in the back.
She might have made it past, save for a young soldier who was squatting beside a small stove, boiling his morning coffee. He was startled by the sight of her and
CHAPTER 32
My Dearest Henry,
Please do not endanger our endeavour. We must not give up! I understand with fullest appreciation that the hardest part has been keeping this wonderful news secret. But trust in the goodness of life and you will be rewarded! Utmost secrecy at this stage Mr. Curtis! As soon as the money has been transferred and you have taken your percentage, you may celebrate in high style with your wife and loved ones. Why not take them on that cruise you have always dreamed upon? I have heard so much about your kind nature from Miss Sandra and Victor.
I only wish I could be there to see your wife Helen's face light up when you reveal the truth!
Perhaps some day we can meet and toast our friendship face to face.
With great happiness,
Lawrence Atuche, Professor of Commerce
CHAPTER 33
On the far side of the sky: a slash of lightning, crack of bone.
Thunder without rain. It woke her from her sleep, brought with it the memory of other storms, more violent than this. Memories of lightning that snapped like a whip, hitting the Sahel repeatedly as a rider might in final gallop.
One such storm had left trees burning across the plains like torches; it was a memory so vivid it might not have been real, may have been fostered in folklore instead, in stories told and repeated until they became truer than memory.
Another flash of lightning, veining the night sky. The nights were cooler and better for walking, but the taboo was still strong within her. Women who are with child mustn't walk after dark. And just as well. The roads weren't safe. She had heard loud voices patrolling the highway, had seen the sweep of headlights. They weren't looking for her, just looking. But the threat was the same.
There were no burning bushes on this night, only bruised skies and a clouded moon. I don't know if I can go on. She whispered this to her belly. It was all she could do to sit up, to unwind the goatskin from around her legs. The harmattan dust fountained off her.
Keep walking.
It took her three tries to get the jerry can onto the folded cloth atop her head, three more to make the first step. She could see the curve of asphalt running through the hillocks, and as she walked down to meet it, she heard the scurry of something small and afraid in the underbrush.
At the blacktop she saw no sign of the night patrols, or slumbering truck drivers either, so no scraps of food to pick through. Only asphalt and—to the south—her destination. Zaria.
She had been able to see the city, low along the plains, for several days now, had been walking toward its minarets and mosque, had been laboriously rolling it toward her, trying to bring it near. But it never seemed to draw closer, always seemed to hover out of reach, an illusion born of wavering heat and a walking that grew slower and less sure with every passing day. The globe was getting more and more difficult to turn underfoot. As the sun crawled its way back up the sky, Zaria city appeared again, then disappeared, slipping behind distant hills and scrubland trees, lost to a foreground of thorn bushes and acacia.
The road brought her suddenly to an army checkpoint, and she caught her breath, steadied the jerry can. It was still early and the road was quiet. She started past the barrier the soldiers had rigged up—planks bound by hemp rope, laid across cement-filled oil barrels—treading softly, eyes down. On the roadside, a single army lorry, painted a camouflage green better suited for the jungles of the Delta, was parked at a haphazard angle. Soldiers were sleeping on mats in the back.
She might have made it past, save for a young soldier who was squatting beside a small stove, boiling his morning coffee. He was startled by the sight of her and
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