Chapter 1
‘Good morning,’ said Sophie’s dad, wandering into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my motorbike goggles?’
‘No,’ said Sophie, who was standing on tiptoes searching in a wall cupboard. ‘Have you seen the maize flakes?’
‘I was wearing them when I came back from my research trip, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I put them.’
Sophie’s father was a botanist who had come to West Africa to research carnivorous plants. For three years now they had lived in a country called Burkina Faso in a small town called Gorom-Gorom.
Sophie put her cereal bowl back in the cupboard and picked up a mango. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘where’s the fruit knife?’
‘Never mess with knives,’ said Sophie’s father, leaving the room.
Sophie found the fruit knife and began to peel her mango. She worked quickly, knowing that her friend Gidaado could arrive any moment. When Sophie and her dad had first come to Burkina Faso three years ago she had found it very hard to fit in, but meeting Gidaado had made things easier. One friend her age was better than none.
Today was market day in Gorom-Gorom so there was no school, and Gidaado had invited Sophie to come to his village for the naming ceremony of his newborn cousin. Sophie had never been to a naming ceremony here and she was very excited.
Sophie cut her mango into bite-sized cubes and popped them into her mouth. On the kitchen table a radio was burbling away — a young woman reading the news in French, the official language of Burkina Faso. Sophie was not paying much attention to the news, but when she heard mention of their town Gorom-Gorom her ears pricked up.
‘Gorom-Gorom is thought to be the next town under threat from sauterelles ,’ the newsreader was saying. ‘Last night they wreaked havoc in Djibo and Aribinda and this morning they are moving east towards Gorom-Gorom. On our early morning show, “Wake up with Fatimata”, General Alai Crêpe Sombo criticized the government for its “slow and inadequate” response to the unfolding crisis...’
‘Dad!’ shouted Sophie. ‘What are sauterelles ?’
Her dad’s voice from the study was faint. ‘I already found them, thank you,’ he said. ‘They were in the bath of all places.’
Sophie sighed. Perhaps the sauterelles were djinns, mischievous spirits of the desert. Or perhaps they were monsters, half-man half-frog. After all, didn’t the French word sauter mean ‘jump’? Sophie went to the window and peered out, half expecting to see a horde of jumping djinns or slavering monsters pogo-ing towards the house. But all she saw were a few fire finches and her dad’s sunflowers swaying in the breeze.
A sudden snort in the street outside made Sophie jump. A metal flap in the gate lifted up and a thin black hand came into view, fumbling with the bolt on the inside.
‘Dad!’ cried Sophie. ‘Gidaado is here! Don’t forget to pick me up from his village tonight, will you?’
‘No thanks, dear,’ came a faint voice from the study. ‘I’ve had two cups already this morning.’
‘ Salam Alaykum ,’ called Gidaado, leading his white camel in through the gate.
‘ Alaykum asalam ,’ said Sophie.
Gidaado was holding a long wooden staff and on his head he wore the traditional floppy cap of the griot clan. Griots were professional storytellers and musicians. They knew thousands of stories, riddles and songs, and they were also experts in family history. Whenever there was an important party, a wedding or a naming ceremony, a griot or two would be invited to come and sing about the host’s ancestors.
‘Did you pass the night in peace?’ said Sophie in Fulfulde, Gorom-Gorom’s local language. Having lived here for three years she was fluent in Fulfulde, although she still spoke it with a slight English accent.
‘Peace only,’ said Gidaado. ‘Did you wake in peace?’
‘Peace only. How is Chobbal?’
‘Peace only.’ Gidaado stroked the snowy neck of the camel which knelt
‘Good morning,’ said Sophie’s dad, wandering into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen my motorbike goggles?’
‘No,’ said Sophie, who was standing on tiptoes searching in a wall cupboard. ‘Have you seen the maize flakes?’
‘I was wearing them when I came back from my research trip, but I can’t for the life of me remember where I put them.’
Sophie’s father was a botanist who had come to West Africa to research carnivorous plants. For three years now they had lived in a country called Burkina Faso in a small town called Gorom-Gorom.
Sophie put her cereal bowl back in the cupboard and picked up a mango. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘where’s the fruit knife?’
‘Never mess with knives,’ said Sophie’s father, leaving the room.
Sophie found the fruit knife and began to peel her mango. She worked quickly, knowing that her friend Gidaado could arrive any moment. When Sophie and her dad had first come to Burkina Faso three years ago she had found it very hard to fit in, but meeting Gidaado had made things easier. One friend her age was better than none.
Today was market day in Gorom-Gorom so there was no school, and Gidaado had invited Sophie to come to his village for the naming ceremony of his newborn cousin. Sophie had never been to a naming ceremony here and she was very excited.
Sophie cut her mango into bite-sized cubes and popped them into her mouth. On the kitchen table a radio was burbling away — a young woman reading the news in French, the official language of Burkina Faso. Sophie was not paying much attention to the news, but when she heard mention of their town Gorom-Gorom her ears pricked up.
‘Gorom-Gorom is thought to be the next town under threat from sauterelles ,’ the newsreader was saying. ‘Last night they wreaked havoc in Djibo and Aribinda and this morning they are moving east towards Gorom-Gorom. On our early morning show, “Wake up with Fatimata”, General Alai Crêpe Sombo criticized the government for its “slow and inadequate” response to the unfolding crisis...’
‘Dad!’ shouted Sophie. ‘What are sauterelles ?’
Her dad’s voice from the study was faint. ‘I already found them, thank you,’ he said. ‘They were in the bath of all places.’
Sophie sighed. Perhaps the sauterelles were djinns, mischievous spirits of the desert. Or perhaps they were monsters, half-man half-frog. After all, didn’t the French word sauter mean ‘jump’? Sophie went to the window and peered out, half expecting to see a horde of jumping djinns or slavering monsters pogo-ing towards the house. But all she saw were a few fire finches and her dad’s sunflowers swaying in the breeze.
A sudden snort in the street outside made Sophie jump. A metal flap in the gate lifted up and a thin black hand came into view, fumbling with the bolt on the inside.
‘Dad!’ cried Sophie. ‘Gidaado is here! Don’t forget to pick me up from his village tonight, will you?’
‘No thanks, dear,’ came a faint voice from the study. ‘I’ve had two cups already this morning.’
‘ Salam Alaykum ,’ called Gidaado, leading his white camel in through the gate.
‘ Alaykum asalam ,’ said Sophie.
Gidaado was holding a long wooden staff and on his head he wore the traditional floppy cap of the griot clan. Griots were professional storytellers and musicians. They knew thousands of stories, riddles and songs, and they were also experts in family history. Whenever there was an important party, a wedding or a naming ceremony, a griot or two would be invited to come and sing about the host’s ancestors.
‘Did you pass the night in peace?’ said Sophie in Fulfulde, Gorom-Gorom’s local language. Having lived here for three years she was fluent in Fulfulde, although she still spoke it with a slight English accent.
‘Peace only,’ said Gidaado. ‘Did you wake in peace?’
‘Peace only. How is Chobbal?’
‘Peace only.’ Gidaado stroked the snowy neck of the camel which knelt
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