Harmattan by Gavin Weston Page A

electoral commission. And who really trusts the so-called Union of Independents for Democratic Renewal?’
    ‘And yet you’ve applied to become a member of the Presidential Guard?’
    Abdelkrim shrugged. ‘He’s the president. That’s just the way things are for now. We have a parliament – of sorts. Some of us may not like how it came about, but there you have it. One day we will be able to vote again. And vote we will.’
    Abdel’s camion was indeed full, as Monsieur Youssef had predicted; not only with workers and travellers but with furniture, tyres, bundles of clothing, bedding, rugs, fuel canisters, water containers and food provisions, all coated in a veil of fine dust.
    Anything that could not be piled into the groaning truck’s cargo hold was tied to the side of the vehicle. Any passenger who could not find a place on top of this cargo would cling instead to the roof of the cab.
    It was not until Monsieur Youssef had fed and watered all of the passengers and they had prayed and toileted and begun to clamber back on board the creaking hulk, that I really began to believe my brother was leaving.
    ‘Who are all these people?’ Sushie said, as we stood next to the huge truck.
    ‘Where are they all going? Where have they been?’
    ‘All kinds of people,’ my brother said. ‘People like me, visiting their families. People giving up on rural life. Some of them will be illegal workers – returning from Algeria or Libya, perhaps. They’ll have no passports or papers and won’t have seen their families for a very long time. The camions travel right through the night, taking detours to avoid checkpoints.’
    ‘There is no room for you, Abdel!’ I said, staring up at the vehicle in amazement. It was the first time I had been so close to a camion .
    ‘There is always room on the camion ,’ he said.
    The French men came out of Youssef ’s shed and wove their way through the throng of travellers towards their Citroen. The bespectacled man nodded towards us as he passed. ‘A toute a l’heure,’ he said, cheekily.
    Abdelkrim scratched the back of his neck, but said nothing.
    ‘Monsieur!’ someone called from the peak of the truck’s cargo. ‘Pass up your baggage.’ Sushie lifted the kitbag and passed it to Abdelkrim and seconds later it was disappearing over the tailgate.
    Suddenly there was a spluttering from the vehicle’s engine. The truck shuddered as a great cloud of blue-black smoke belched from its skyward-pointing exhaust. There was a cheer from the top of the cargo and then, all too quickly, we were bidding Abdelkrim bon voyage.
    I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye as Abdelkrim squeezed my shoulder and rubbed my back.
    ‘Soon, Little One. Ça va? ’ He turned towards Sushie then and shook her hand.
    ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle… I…Thank you.’ Although the handshaking had stopped, they continued to hold on to each other. ‘You’re sure that you can find your way back to Wadata?’
    Sushie nodded. ‘I’ll keep to the piste , don’t worry. And I have my compass – and Haoua here.’
    Abdelkrim looked at me and grinned. There was the roar of another engine and the tooting of a horn as the French men’s Citroen pulled away from the camion post in a cloud of dust, its passengers saluting my brother and blowing kisses towards Sushie as they passed us. Abdelkrim sucked air in through his teeth but there was no time for words.
    As if in reply, the camion’s great klaxon emitted a series of loud blasts.
    Abdelkrim touched my face and then clambered like a lizard up the vehicle’s tailgate. Moments later the truck moved off and my brother was gone; no more than a waving speck on top of that strange, groaning, rattling, creaking hulk, moving wearily across the sands.
    ‘Let’s get into the shade again,’ said Sushie. ‘We’ve got a long wait ahead of us.’ I followed her under the canopy, all the while peering southeast at the diminishing cloud of dust. She sat down and leaned back