father was playing off of people’s fears that without Jaa, our world would crumble back into corruption. They followed him because he promised to keep things as they were.
In a matter of months, Kwàmfà had a chief, my father. And only a few months later, after throwing a lot more money around, flashing his pretty smile, making sure he had the right people on his side, making even more promises, and silencing Jaa’s most devoted devotees with money or indirect threats, my father succeeded in making many changes to Kwàmfà.
My mother said that before, when Kwàmfà was Jaa’s town, everyone learned how to shoot a gun, ride a camel, take apart and rebuild a computer. My father made it so that only the boys got to do these things.
“Women and girls are too beautiful to dirty their hands with such things,” he told the people with a soft chuckle. The women and girls blushed at his words and the men agreed with them. My father also thought us too beautiful to be seen, so he brought back the burka.
He cut off several food and housing programs, which left many starving and destitute.
“Soon we won’t need such programs,” he told the people with a wink. Most people backed him in his iron-fisted fight against even the smallest crime. Kwàmfà was safe, but no place is free of all crime. My father wanted absolute perfection. Soon there were public whippings, hands cut off, and in the rare cases of murder, public executions. All was in the name of Jaa, he constantly said, although Jaa would never have approved of these things.
He was so confident in himself that he didn’t fear Jaa’s wrath, so sure he was that she would never return. My mother watched him become a different man. It must have been most painful when, to top it all off, he started marrying more wives. The better to look the part of the “big man.”
He was like one of those wild magicians who goes astray in the storyteller’s stories. Talented, self-righteous, and power-drunk. He used the shadowy magic and spells of politics to pull together a mountain of power. But like every magician of this kind, it was all bound to come back to him.
It’s no wonder Sarauniya Jaa wanted to cut off his head.
Even before she returned, everyone knew the legend of Sarauniya Jaa, Princess of the New Sahara. On clear nights when the full moon made streetlights useless, the storyteller would come out of his hut and sit under the ancient monkey bread tree and wait for the children to gather around him. As he waited, that tree would tell him what stories to tell; or so my mother said. He usually recited Jaa’s tale last. And he told it in Hausa, not English, and spoke loud enough for his voice to echo high up into the Aïr Mountains. By this time, I was always tired and the story was like a vivid dream.
She isn’t the daughter of the prophet as her name suggests.
No, no. “Fatima” was just what her parents named her. Her true name is Sarauniya Jaa, Queen of the Red. She is the dreamer. Simply call her Jaa. Whenever she storms into the cities and towns here in Niger, she’s draped in a long red dress and a red silk burka so sheer that you can see the smile on her face.
Her sword is thin as paper and strong enough to cut diamond, and it bears the scent of the rain-soaked soil. It’s made of a green clear metal that has no earthly name because it doesn’t come from earth, but from the body of another place called Ginen, where Jaa often travels to when her Sahara queendom is calm. Years ago, she left our town to go there.
Jaa is always accompanied by her two wild and sword-swinging husbands, Buji and Gambo; ask me for their stories and I will give them to you on another day. Jaa is a tiny woman, small like a worldly child. But size is deceptive. You do not want to be the enemy of her sword.
Her voice is high-pitched and melodious. Sometimes when she speaks, red flowers fall from the sky. Legend has it that when she was a young woman, she was stolen by a group
In a matter of months, Kwàmfà had a chief, my father. And only a few months later, after throwing a lot more money around, flashing his pretty smile, making sure he had the right people on his side, making even more promises, and silencing Jaa’s most devoted devotees with money or indirect threats, my father succeeded in making many changes to Kwàmfà.
My mother said that before, when Kwàmfà was Jaa’s town, everyone learned how to shoot a gun, ride a camel, take apart and rebuild a computer. My father made it so that only the boys got to do these things.
“Women and girls are too beautiful to dirty their hands with such things,” he told the people with a soft chuckle. The women and girls blushed at his words and the men agreed with them. My father also thought us too beautiful to be seen, so he brought back the burka.
He cut off several food and housing programs, which left many starving and destitute.
“Soon we won’t need such programs,” he told the people with a wink. Most people backed him in his iron-fisted fight against even the smallest crime. Kwàmfà was safe, but no place is free of all crime. My father wanted absolute perfection. Soon there were public whippings, hands cut off, and in the rare cases of murder, public executions. All was in the name of Jaa, he constantly said, although Jaa would never have approved of these things.
He was so confident in himself that he didn’t fear Jaa’s wrath, so sure he was that she would never return. My mother watched him become a different man. It must have been most painful when, to top it all off, he started marrying more wives. The better to look the part of the “big man.”
He was like one of those wild magicians who goes astray in the storyteller’s stories. Talented, self-righteous, and power-drunk. He used the shadowy magic and spells of politics to pull together a mountain of power. But like every magician of this kind, it was all bound to come back to him.
It’s no wonder Sarauniya Jaa wanted to cut off his head.
Even before she returned, everyone knew the legend of Sarauniya Jaa, Princess of the New Sahara. On clear nights when the full moon made streetlights useless, the storyteller would come out of his hut and sit under the ancient monkey bread tree and wait for the children to gather around him. As he waited, that tree would tell him what stories to tell; or so my mother said. He usually recited Jaa’s tale last. And he told it in Hausa, not English, and spoke loud enough for his voice to echo high up into the Aïr Mountains. By this time, I was always tired and the story was like a vivid dream.
She isn’t the daughter of the prophet as her name suggests.
No, no. “Fatima” was just what her parents named her. Her true name is Sarauniya Jaa, Queen of the Red. She is the dreamer. Simply call her Jaa. Whenever she storms into the cities and towns here in Niger, she’s draped in a long red dress and a red silk burka so sheer that you can see the smile on her face.
Her sword is thin as paper and strong enough to cut diamond, and it bears the scent of the rain-soaked soil. It’s made of a green clear metal that has no earthly name because it doesn’t come from earth, but from the body of another place called Ginen, where Jaa often travels to when her Sahara queendom is calm. Years ago, she left our town to go there.
Jaa is always accompanied by her two wild and sword-swinging husbands, Buji and Gambo; ask me for their stories and I will give them to you on another day. Jaa is a tiny woman, small like a worldly child. But size is deceptive. You do not want to be the enemy of her sword.
Her voice is high-pitched and melodious. Sometimes when she speaks, red flowers fall from the sky. Legend has it that when she was a young woman, she was stolen by a group
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