exhilarating but terrifying climb. He flew over djinns, dunes, camels, wadis, and a whole convoy of menacing Nissan vans.
"
Réveillez-vous,
" said a voice. "Wake up and come with me."
Jake opened his eyes and saw a man crouching at the foot of his bed. Right away he recognized the goatee beard and the two dangling locks of hair that framed the intruder's face. It was none other than Sheikh Ahmed. The sheikh had changed into a green robe with intricate embroidery down the front, and he wore a pair of dark glasses, unusual for this hour of the morning.
"I thought they took you away," stammered Jake.
"They did," said the sheikh. "And now I am back, to help you with your
maquillage.
"
"What is
maquillage?
"
"Makeup," said Kas, sitting up. "And you may have fooled my brother, Yakuuba, but you can't fool me. Your stomach's hanging off."
Yakuuba Sor chuckled and adjusted the cords around his waist. "Come with me," he said. "Your makeup awaits you."
The sun had not yet risen, but a swath of gray and indigo in the eastern sky indicated that the night was nearly past. Jake and Kas crawled out into the invigorating morning air and shook hands with Yakuuba. The stubby upward-pointing branches of the baobab tree loomed above them like the crenellations of a wizard's castle.
Paaté and Mariama were waiting for them in the Needle Hut, where two sets of fine clothes hung from a ceiling beam. The workbench was covered with lotions and potions.
Yakuuba lifted up one end of a rickety wooden bench so that its cargo of cotton, scissors, plastic bags, clothes hangers, foam, sequins, and zippers slid off onto the floor. "Sit down," he said to Kas, "and listen carefully. Your name is Kadija Zabri and you are a Tuareg princess from the Niger delta. You are traveling to Ouagadougou with your personal praise singer, Bobo Nuhu, played by Paaté here. Also traveling with you is Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita and your idiot brother Ali."
"Hey!" cried Jake.
"I'm sorry, Ali," said Yakuuba, "but your French accent is terrible. You will attract less attention if you simply gibber in some made-up language of your own."
"I've never gibbered in my life," said Jake. "I wouldn't know how. And you can shut up laughing, Kas."
"You don't need to gibber," said Yakuuba. "Just don't talk at all, if you would prefer that."
"Why Tuaregs?" asked Kas.
"Tuareg nobles have long noses," said Mariama, "and their skin is lighter than other Africans."
"As light as my skin?"
"Of course not," said Mariama. "In this part of Africa, only djinns are as pale as you are. But don't worry. We have a tub of moringa pulp here somewhere. By sunrise you will both look more Tuareg than
tuubaaku,
I promise you."
Sure enough, over the course of the next hour the children of the British ambassador were transformed. Paaté shaved Jake's head bald and plastered moringa pulp over his whole head and face, even on his eyelids and the insides of his ears. In addition to its skin-darkening effect, the pulp felt cool and soothing across his sunburned nose and cheeks. He was sorry when the time came for it to be washed off.
When he was able to open his eyes, Jake saw that his sister was well on the way to becoming a Tuareg princess. Her skin was a shade darker and her earlobes were decorated with rows of tiny silver rings. Her hair, parted down the middle, was woven through with silver coins and amber beads all the way from Mali. Three short black lines adorned her cheekbones, lending her the untouchable air of a warrior queen.
"How do I look?" she said.
"Scary," said Jake. "What about me?"
"Undead."
The clothes were exquisite. Kas got a long indigo dress, lavishly embellished with white braid. Across the top of her head she wore a black shawl inlaid with strips of silver. Jake got a pair of baggy green trousers, a blue turban, and a white robe that reached all the way down to his knees. For Paaté there was an orange cassock and a floppy black and white beret.
"Almost
"
Réveillez-vous,
" said a voice. "Wake up and come with me."
Jake opened his eyes and saw a man crouching at the foot of his bed. Right away he recognized the goatee beard and the two dangling locks of hair that framed the intruder's face. It was none other than Sheikh Ahmed. The sheikh had changed into a green robe with intricate embroidery down the front, and he wore a pair of dark glasses, unusual for this hour of the morning.
"I thought they took you away," stammered Jake.
"They did," said the sheikh. "And now I am back, to help you with your
maquillage.
"
"What is
maquillage?
"
"Makeup," said Kas, sitting up. "And you may have fooled my brother, Yakuuba, but you can't fool me. Your stomach's hanging off."
Yakuuba Sor chuckled and adjusted the cords around his waist. "Come with me," he said. "Your makeup awaits you."
The sun had not yet risen, but a swath of gray and indigo in the eastern sky indicated that the night was nearly past. Jake and Kas crawled out into the invigorating morning air and shook hands with Yakuuba. The stubby upward-pointing branches of the baobab tree loomed above them like the crenellations of a wizard's castle.
Paaté and Mariama were waiting for them in the Needle Hut, where two sets of fine clothes hung from a ceiling beam. The workbench was covered with lotions and potions.
Yakuuba lifted up one end of a rickety wooden bench so that its cargo of cotton, scissors, plastic bags, clothes hangers, foam, sequins, and zippers slid off onto the floor. "Sit down," he said to Kas, "and listen carefully. Your name is Kadija Zabri and you are a Tuareg princess from the Niger delta. You are traveling to Ouagadougou with your personal praise singer, Bobo Nuhu, played by Paaté here. Also traveling with you is Sheikh Ahmed Abdullai Keita and your idiot brother Ali."
"Hey!" cried Jake.
"I'm sorry, Ali," said Yakuuba, "but your French accent is terrible. You will attract less attention if you simply gibber in some made-up language of your own."
"I've never gibbered in my life," said Jake. "I wouldn't know how. And you can shut up laughing, Kas."
"You don't need to gibber," said Yakuuba. "Just don't talk at all, if you would prefer that."
"Why Tuaregs?" asked Kas.
"Tuareg nobles have long noses," said Mariama, "and their skin is lighter than other Africans."
"As light as my skin?"
"Of course not," said Mariama. "In this part of Africa, only djinns are as pale as you are. But don't worry. We have a tub of moringa pulp here somewhere. By sunrise you will both look more Tuareg than
tuubaaku,
I promise you."
Sure enough, over the course of the next hour the children of the British ambassador were transformed. Paaté shaved Jake's head bald and plastered moringa pulp over his whole head and face, even on his eyelids and the insides of his ears. In addition to its skin-darkening effect, the pulp felt cool and soothing across his sunburned nose and cheeks. He was sorry when the time came for it to be washed off.
When he was able to open his eyes, Jake saw that his sister was well on the way to becoming a Tuareg princess. Her skin was a shade darker and her earlobes were decorated with rows of tiny silver rings. Her hair, parted down the middle, was woven through with silver coins and amber beads all the way from Mali. Three short black lines adorned her cheekbones, lending her the untouchable air of a warrior queen.
"How do I look?" she said.
"Scary," said Jake. "What about me?"
"Undead."
The clothes were exquisite. Kas got a long indigo dress, lavishly embellished with white braid. Across the top of her head she wore a black shawl inlaid with strips of silver. Jake got a pair of baggy green trousers, a blue turban, and a white robe that reached all the way down to his knees. For Paaté there was an orange cassock and a floppy black and white beret.
"Almost
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