Forbidden Love in Timbuktu: (Woman from Another Land)

FORBIDDEN LOVE

IN TIMBUKTU

(Woman From Another Land)

BRENDA SMITH

Copyright © 2016 by Brenda Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/27/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

738851

CONTENTS

Author’s Notes

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Titles by Brenda Smith

Insane Circumstances

Unforeseen Circumstances

Extreme Circumstances

Forbidden Love in Timbuktu (Woman from Another Land)

This book, like most of the work I have done as an adult, reflects the love, care, and concern given a small child with a wandering mind by my parents, the late Samuel E. Lane and Ona Belle Lane. They always told me I could do anything I wanted to do, even write.

A special thanks is given to my husband, Jerry V. Smith, and our sons, Brian and Justin, who tell me I can when I think I can’t write another line. From being the parent, I am becoming the child and taking advice for my literary efforts from those whom I nurtured. How awesome is that!

I pray my wonderful grandchildren—Kylie, Mackenzie, Brian BJ, Maddie, Breya, Sarah Grace, Rosalie, and Karys—will benefit from the example I continue to try to set for them. They are too young to read my musings now, but I hope they will enjoy my stories when they are of age.

My friend, Jacquie Harper, provides editorial assistance for which I am truly grateful. A retired English teacher, she works hard to keep my grammar and punctuation correct, which is no easy task. I write like I talk. I am Southern and country.

I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge my sisters and brothers—Blondie L. Manning, Samuel E. Lane, Elvis A. Lane, David R. Lane, and Gail L. Golden—and remember with a heart full of gratitude Oleta L. Davis, our sister who went home to be with the Lord on April 5, 2015. She told everyone she met about my stories.

There are others…my Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. sisters, members of Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church, the 2016 South Georgia Literacy Festival committee, and the list goes on.

I also

dedicate this book to the Delta Sigma Theta, Sorority, Inc., Valdosta Alumnae Chapter. Its Delta Book Club members, including Leah Baynard and Nicole Parker Gunn, read my books and review them and encourage my literary efforts. They always reserve a table for me at their annual Delta Renaissance.

Thank you for reading this book as well as ones previously written. You keep me writing and seeking new material to write about.

Forbidden Love in Timbuktu

(Woman from Another Land)

Author’s Notes

This story was born out of curiosity invoked when I read an AP article about a young woman in Timbuktu who had been punished for a crime: forbidden love. She had merely answered a phone, and her life forever changed because the man on the other line had gotten the wrong number. The writer told how the duo’s relationship flourished until the terrorists came and changed the rules for women in the city. The women who had obviously enjoyed many freedoms were told how to dress and how they should relate to men inside of and outside of their families.

While it was clear that both parties understood the new laws, their desire to be together trumped the law. They kept meeting. Although they exercised caution, the lovers were caught. He escaped, and she was jailed and given the ninety lashes for their crime before being returned to her family.

The reporter who pieced the story together did a good job in a short article about the two lovers. Yet I was left wanting. I wanted to know more about both of the protagonists—where they were from, what their customs were, and most importantly, where he went. Did he get caught? Why didn’t he come back for her? Or did he?

I decided I could only imagine the filler that made up the rest of the story, or I could do some research, and from this research, I could write an ending to this romance that might be feasible. To these ends, reality became this bit of fiction: Forbidden Love in Timbuktu (Woman from Another Land). As previously indicated, this reality fiction, in many places, is just what it is—a figment of my imagination. In equally as many places, it is real. It is based on research about Malians and their West African neighbors. I hope my readers enjoy the story.

PART I

In Timbuktu, West Africa

Chapter One

S he smelled him before she saw the man, his scent imprinted in her mind since the first day she had seen him, and she felt him before the prints on his fingers touched her clothed skin—the man affected her that way. A soft ruffling sound reached her, and the hair on her back stood as if commanded. The girl shook her head from side to side, attempting to remove daydreams from reality, drawing her right hand over the back of her neck. Kieta Toures was exhausted, as she was studying for her final exam and preparing for the law exam. Her whole grade was based on the outcome of this one test, and she was going to have to retain a good deal of what she was learning in this clinical course and other courses for the bar exam. She had too much to do. This was no time for daydreaming or messing around. Dang, I am so tired. She spoke more to the air than to her self.

You got this! A familiar voice broke her reverie. She turned in her seat at the library’s table, and there he stood. Doe was there, not in her dreams this time, but he was actually standing at the back of her chair, reaching his hand out to help her to her feet so they could properly greet each other. She drew her to him.

Doe, what happened? Where did you go? I missed you so much. She spoke into his open mouth, her words swallowed by his mouth on hers as he passionately kissed her. Lost in her mouth were the man’s mumbles. "I missed you too, cherie. I missed you more!" He held her with one hand and stroked her hair with the other. And she held on to him for dear life. She was not letting go this time. The young woman, locked in his impassioned embrace, pinched her left arm with her right hand, wincing when her nerves verified that she was not dreaming, that the reemergence of love lost in another land was indeed taking place.

They rocked each other soothingly until the man broke the hold they had on each other. Pack your things. Let’s get out of here, he commanded. Without hesitating, Kieta Toures shoved everything into her backpack and prepared to leave the library to take the man to the comforts of her on-campus apartment. There was much to be said … and done. Privacy of her space was needed now. Mahmoudou Doe Ibrahaim had a lot of explaining to do. Too many miles and several years had passed since she had seen him. Where had he been? What had he been doing? How had he found me? Kieta’s mind raced, its momentum accelerating like a race car, hers in the rear of the pack, trying to catch the other vehicles ahead of her. She needed more fuel.

His voice, the accelerant, propelled her. Come on, he said as he reached out and took the bag from her, noting for the first time that her expression had changed from surprise to almost pouting. Let’s go! When we have privacy, I will explain everything, he told her as he took her hand and led her through the building, down the steep steps, and onto the open campus.

The two of them proceeded quietly and quickly through the building, down the steps, and into the open air. A barely audible Okay! escaped from her lips. When they were at the bottom of the steps, both turned simultaneously toward their destination.

Few words passed between them as they began their trek. Each was left to their own thoughts. His were on catching up and taking up where they had left off on the streets of Timbuktu, and hers were of how he had gotten there and how he was heading in the direction of her one-bedroom apartment on the north end of the campus. The man had not asked where she lived, and the university student had not volunteered any information, but that didn’t matter. He was here with her in the United States. That was all that was important. Her beloved was here.

Kieta’s worst nightmares had not been realized. Doe had not been lost in the melee in their homeland or killed. The love of her life was alive and well. The only thing that was missing was the beard he had the last time she had laid eyes on him. He was clean-shaven, his appearance healthy, and his skin clear and as smooth as a baby’s butt. At least that was what she was thinking. In her dreams, Doe had been thinner, his appearance gaunt, and his skin ashen like many of the men she had seen in her last days in Timbuktu. Internal strife in one’s homeland had a way of doing that to soldiering men and those who refused to participate in the struggles.

A few yards into their trek, both parties sighed collective sighs of relief. Simultaneously, their hands reached for the other’s members. Their fingers intertwined, freely this time. No one was watching their every movement—at least that was what they were thinking. They took turns rubbing each other’s phalanges. He relished the softness and smoothness of her skin. She appreciated the bit of roughness on the fingertips that massaged the hand he refused to let go.

No sounds came forth as they promenaded hand in hand through the campus and by the cafeteria, the president’s lodging, the gymnasium, the bookstore, and on toward university housing for faculty, married couples, and finally, to the apartments where singletons without roommates resided. Quietude replaced the buzz generally heard there. Neither heard conversations of groups that milled around their sorority’s plots or in their neatly manicured yards or those leaving classes talking about assignments, grades, or next classes or the cars, motorcycles, and buses that transported the university’s thousands of inhabitants. They had ears for each other only.

As they approached the brick-veneered structures, Doe began to whistle a jolly refrain she had heard him emit on the streets of Timbuktu when she first met him. She smiled an inward smile. Happiness’s warmth permeating throughout her being, making her mellow, the woman was inebriated by the simple unfettered act. Her thoughts took wings like an uncaged bird. They went to her homeland, Mali, and to how she had met this remarkable man and what had transpired since the last time they laid eyes on each other.

~~~~~

Kieta Toures, a house servant, was sitting home alone, staring out the window, pondering her life’s journey: the trip from her home in the boondocks and her stay at the Soyinkas’ compound, serving the Malian family in Timbuktu while she was attending the local university and where she would go from here. It was her first year at the university, so the beginner did not fully know what she wanted to be, perhaps a teacher. Whatever her choice, she did know she wanted to work in her homeland to aid other young girls and boys like herself who were frequently left uneducated, unemployed, and shackled by their skins’ enslaving ways.

The woman let the dustrag she held in her hand fall to the floor and listlessly traipsed over to a wall mirror and looked at herself, a girly act that all young women her age did. Appearance was everything in this land. It affected lives in every way. She peered into the mirror, observing her full corps frontward; then turned, gazing over her shoulder to catch a rearview; and leaned in to get a better view of her visage. The girl brushed her cheek with her right hand and studied her features, comparing herself to the other women she knew or had known. Her brown tinge gave her solace. Despite the fact that she was not pink-skinned like some, she felt that her hue made her more acceptable than many of her relatives. For this reason, she had been offered a place in the Soyinkas’ house. At least that was partially the reason for her entering into service here. She sighed a sigh of relief as she returned to the place where she was dusting furniture.

The Toures girl was indeed fortunate because the Soyinkas paid their help better wages than most in her community. Her custom allowed for these wages to be withheld if her work did not meet her master and mistress’s approval. Kieta’s custom also allowed her to work from day to day without pay. Not only that, but her light-skinned master could also beat her with a camel whip if he wanted to with no reprisal; that was the law in her land. Nevertheless, she was freed from such vestiges because her employer, a businessman of Tuareg and Arab Moors ancestry, was Westernized and maintained many democratic principles held in these foreign lands. His employees received full pay, and if their work was not up to par, they were warned and retrained before dismissal was considered.

Her master had been abroad, studied in France and the United States. A former military man, Monsieur Soyinka had attended training in France and in prestigious military institutions in America—that was as much as the young woman knew of the family she had found herself serving. It was apparent that his wife, Madame Ruby to all who knew her, was equally as democratized as he was, if not more. Educated, the family spoke a mix of Tuareg, French, and English, so in the last couple of years, their servant had learned a lot of words frequently used by the adults and their children. And Kieta was becoming fluent in English through her university studies.

Most people from her village were not as fortunate as she. Kieta was one of the lucky ones. The Soyinka family treated her like she was one of their children, not as their slave. As previously indicated, the wages they paid for her services were never withheld, and she was never threatened with being turned over to the Islamist, a threat used in Timbuktu after the terrorists began their takeover. Her pay was more than adequate. She could use her earnings to purchase her wardrobe and the toiletries and parfums that she had come to appreciate and to keep her hair done or to get a pedicure and manicure at the mall on special occasions.

Her thoughts unencumbered, Kieta thought more about her state of affairs. She was a free person. She also saved money for her future. Although she served, she was not a slave. Slavery had been abolished in the sixties when the West African nation gained independence, and all people were considered equal under the law; nevertheless, when their rights were infringed upon, few considered seeking legal actions because of the way of life that had existed throughout generations. The girl hugged herself tightly, shifting where she stood, dustrag in hand while commiserating over a future that was certain to be bright. She found herself humming a gleeful tune.

Bzzzzz. An insect flew by, interrupting her thoughts, so she waved the annoying pest away with the dustrag and returned to thoughts about where she had come from and where she found herself at the present moment. Her thoughts turned to her infancy, from her early years to her childhood, adolescence she had just come through, young adulthood, and to the present.

~~~~~

Kieta was simply born into servitude. Her parents and grandparents worked for the same extended Tuareg family in a village outside Timbuktu, so did her four brothers and four sisters. Everybody in the family worked; even the children had chores. For as long as she could remember, she would wake up before sunrise to fetch water and food for the donkeys and other small animals the family or the people who employed the Toures had. By the time she was twelve, she was tending to her family’s small animals. She recalled how her chores changed when she was a teenager. The girl pounded millet for lunch, cooked, fetched wood, and cleaned their housing area.

She assumed these new chores when her mother died, just before Kieta was a teenager. Normally, loss of a member would have disrupted a family’s life, but the loss for her people merely meant a shift in responsibilities. There was no time for pining and grieving. One just moved on. The Toures family continued their seminomadic existence, serving wherever their masters moved. Now the girl wondered if her destiny would have differed if her mother was still alive. Would she be here now, on mornings like the current one?

The young woman shook her head in negation and recalled how mornings would come when her father would wake them with a singular Let’s get moving! a task that was easy because they, like other nomadic families, did not own much—a blanket or two to spread on the ground if it was cold in the desert at night, a woven mat, and a metal trunk to store their few valuables, including their prayer rug and a change of clothes per family member. They also had some goatskin water bags and a sack with a handful of kitchen utensils. Up bright and early every morning, their toileting needs were taken out behind a dune. And as time passed, the Toures family dwindled down to a handful, including her.

Kieta had pondered her destiny at length after the passing of her mother. She was certain a change was coming but did not know precisely what the change would be. Nevertheless, by the time they reached the capital city, serving one Tuareg family to the next, the child was sure she would be a servant. At the appointed time, they left their parents’ house and went to work, never to return to the fold. Her brothers and sisters had inherited the family’s fate as they had matured, so she was certain the same fate would be hers but was not sure of the time. She recalled asking her father about this practice and his answer.

Her papa simply responded, At the appointed time, all must leave their father’s house and make a way for themselves. A mere child, she took her father’s word and did not question him further. All she knew was at the appointed time, whenever that was, she, like her siblings, would just leave the Toures family and go to work for others. Hers would come, but she was not sure when it would arrive. Her father or someone would surely let her know.

Needless to say, years, months, and days just passed as did the seasons. True to her thoughts, her appointed time came. One fall morning when she was just a teenager, she was awakened early, just as the sun was breaking the day, and told to make her belongings into a bundle. I am taking you into the city … You are strong enough and old enough to do work and make a life for yourself was all that she was told. No remark was forthcoming. She obeyed her father. The girl took her meager belonging and made a bundle from a piece of tattered cloth and made it luggage.

Her father beckoned for her to follow as they left their encampment to stand beside the road to wait for a passerby to stop and give them a ride into the city. It was too far to walk, and they owned no beast capable of bearing the two of them and her belongings. As they stood there, a couple of jeeps full of uniformed men passed by, kicking up rocks and dust. The girl coughed, her lungs filling with the residue spewed from the vehicles’ tailpipes. Her father waved away the fumes with an open hand. Somebody will stop in a minute, the man assured her.

His hitchhiking thumb gesturing at a truck or two, the Toures man soon begged a ride into the city on the back of a battered, slow-poking, noisy, aging vehicle. She and her father sat together in the back of a passerby’s old, beat-up truck, their backs against the sides, their rumps planted firmly on the vehicle’s bed as it bumped along the rough roads full of potholes until they got to the city and passed through it until they were at their destination. Little conversation took place between father and daughter as they took what ordinarily was an hour-long trip.

When the driver came to a rolling stop, the Toures man stood first and jumped off the truck’s bed. His daughter mimicked his fluid movements. After their dismount, her father reached over the side of the vehicle and retrieved her bundled belongs, beckoning with his head for her to follow him after he waved a thank you to the driver. The pair was near an open-air market, and smells from food vendors greeted them. Her stomach growled. I am hungry, she told her father. Can we get something to eat here? We did not break a piece of bread this morning.

You will get something to eat where you’re going, the man said as he led the way away from the food court. His thoughts were of how he wished he could afford to give her one last meal before she was on her own and serving a family thereabouts. However, he didn’t have a dime to his name, not even a penny. Otherwise, he would let her journey with him a bit longer. Besides, he was hungry too.

In a minute, the man recognized the driver of another truck and called out to him, asking him for a ride into the neighborhood just outside the city limits where the Soyinkas resided. His acquaintance readily agreed. Hop in. The door is unlocked. He encouraged them to get in on the passenger side.

A sigh of relief flew from her lips. She was excited about the notion of fleeing from the scorching noonday sun, which was taking no prisoners at the present moment. Kieta’s quickened step was shortened by her father’s hand on her shoulder.

No, we will ride in the back, the Toures man pivoted her toward the tail of the truck. His refusal of shade of the truck’s cab offered them drew her ire. It truly disturbed Kieta. Her father? His pride catapulted the man to the bed instead of the cushioned comforts of the Chevy’s seat. He reached out to pull his daughter up by the hand. Noticing a shift in her attitude, he admonished her. If you hurry up, we will be there soon! he told the hungry child stumbling behind him, her mind on food and water. We’ll be there in a few minutes, he reiterated.

The driver turned in his seat to see if they were onboard. Hearing the thud of the bundle first and their shuffling to be seated in the truck bed, he looked at the passengers from his rearview mirror, adjusting it for accuracy. He noticed that the girl looked as if she would faint, so he took a bottle of water he had purchased from a vendor at the market from the seat, got out of the truck, and handed it to the man. Here, take this. It is awfully hot outside today!

Both drank sips from the bottle as the truck took off, she first then her father. Just as he told her, they were at their destination in a flash. Before they had ingested all the cool beverage that tasted like liquid gold to her and to her father, the vehicle was slowing down.

The driver stopped at the place his friend desired, and Toures asked him in their native language. Can you wait here for me? My business here will not take long, he said before turning his attention to the huge gate. He pointed out the entrance to the Soyinkas’ compound.

"Sure. I will be here when you return, mon ami, the driver replied as he turned the ignition off. The man headed to the gate, but his daughter waited for his command, Come on! before she was in motion, walking on his heels, her eyes cast down with uncertainty. Her father had not adequately prepared her for this moment. She shook in her sandals. Any child in her circumstance would be afraid. Her thoughts slowed her progress, and she found herself two yards behind the man approaching the gate. His stride was long. He didn’t want to keep his ride waiting and did not want to have to walk or hitchhike back to his encampment. Hurry along!" he spouted, his voice causing his daughter to skip a few steps to catch up. She walked hurriedly behind the man who spoke to a guard who let them pass through the gate once he made his business known.

Inside the compound, it took only a few minutes to cross the yard and go around the big house to find the door the guard pointed out to them. Kieta’s mouth fell open. The gawking girl’s gaze fell on and rested on the neatly pedicured yard with a few trees, some green grass, and a few budding, colorful flowers, the likes of she had not seen in the area. She noted the building was tall and looked for stairs on the outside where one could enter. Her father stopped suddenly. He emitted a sneeze that brought her back to the present. If he had not been affected by the flora, she would have walked on his heels. As it was, they were at the back door of the edifice. She walked up to his side.

Kieta’s father rapped on the huge wooden door with his knuckles several times before he received a response. The woman who answered it remarked before she saw the child behind him. You old fool. You can’t remember to use the bell right beside the door. You know I work all over this house, and I don’t know how you expect me to hear you. She reached around him and punched the doorbell, punctuating each word as she accosted him. "See (ding)? You see (ding ding) how simple that is (ding, ding, ding, ding)? What you need? Some practice on how to ring a bell before you know what to do?"

At the terse sound of the woman’s voice, Toures’s daughter stepped backward and grabbed hold of her father’s hand. Fear was attempting to grip her in its fist. Her movements were noticed by the woman who looked first at him and the youngest daughter they had talked about a few years earlier, back when his wife was living, when he had dropped an older daughter off at the Soyinkas’ compound. The man coldly shook his baby girl’s hand from his with his free hand and pushed her toward the woman. And he pushed her belongings into open arms she had thrown up for rescue. Even in her culture, children turned to their parents for love, nurture, and support. All he said was Here, Ms. Kesa. She belongs to you all now.

The old woman kept fussing. I ain’t got time for no mess. If she ain’t ready to go into the service, you carry her right on back where you brought her from. I can’t wean no babies off their mama’s tits, their daddy’s neither. If she ain’t a worker, you take her with you!

She is a good worker, he recommended his daughter without reservations. She took up the cooking and other duties when her mother done passed, still kept up with the watering of the animals, searching for sticks for the fire, any chores anybody around the camp asked her to do. Kieta here is a good girl. He looked downward into wanting eyes, showing in his demeanor that she would be better off in this house. I ain’t never had a minute’s trouble out of her. Never even had to scold her!

Kieta looked up at her father, noting his eyes, like the rest of him, were devoid of emotion but resolute in what was transpiring at the present moment. She let out a sigh of resignation. There was no help for her there. And then he began his departure. His leaving was mechanical like something that one would see at a theater. No visible emotion showed on his face. Kieta’s visage showed a shocked resignation as he pivoted on his heels and headed across the yard toward the guarded gate. She was on her own now that they had completed their journey and were in Timbuktu on the outskirts of the city.

The remaining parties observed each other. Only a minute was spent sizing each other up. Kieta saw a round-faced, big-boned woman with wide thighs dressed in a dull colored gray outfit with a scarf covering her head. The woman was just a head taller than she. Wakesa observed a gaunt-faced, smelly, bony, malnourished waif with bright-brown eyes free of emotion, her face streaked with dust and grime and her eyes questioning. The woman tried to put the new girl at ease. Bienvenue! Entrez-vous! Come on in! I am glad to have you here. There is so much to do in the Soyinka household. The older woman steered her into the house, shutting her past out.

The woman’s voiced sentiments received little attention. Kieta was mesmerized by the house she had just entered. Her every gaze and thought was on its magnificence. She was not used to seeing the opulence her eyes beheld.

In Timbuktu, one could find a few tall buildings, but apart from those, most houses in Mali were small and modest. The typical Malian home was small and was either made of crude cement bricks or the typical building material for Mali—mud bricks. But this home was different, so Kieta could only guess that some well-to-do people lived there. Homes of wealthier people and expatriates in the Malian city were larger and usually had a garden and a swimming pool. At least, that was what she had heard from her camp’s inhabitants who periodically did day labor in town—gardening, assisting in kitchens, and serving at parties in households where their relatives had permanent employment. She was anxious to see more of the beautiful house.

Chapter Two

C ome with me! Wakesa commanded the frail girl who was dropped off by the Toures man, transporting her from reverie to reality. This was the second or third girl he had left there. The others had learned well and fast, so they went to live with other families needing their service when she had trained them. Generally, she had her charges bathe as soon as they were dropped off—they always reeked of dust and smoke from the fires fueled by camel, goat, and sheep dung—and put on new clothes before she took them around the compound, but another worker in the house needed her at the present moment. Cleansing would have to wait.

The older woman strode rapidly up a set of stairs with the girl on her heels. Without turning, she barked at her new charge, Don’t touch a thing! Your hands nasty, so don’t put them on one thing in this house until we get you cleaned up! You hear me! She understood that children Kieta’s age with limited exposure explored with their fingers all their eyes saw.

The new girl jerked her fingers from the rails she’d fingered since the first step of the staircase and held them together in front of herself. She thought about how smooth the wooden rails were. Their smoothness was so different from the roughness of wood and limbs from Balanzan trees, which had sometimes left splinters in her hands. Her thoughts could do no harm. Hands in front of her, she took the remainder of the steps as easily and effortlessly as the woman she followed.

Since a worker had need of Wakesa, Kieta got something few people got on their first visit to the Soyinkas’ compound—a tour. The older woman went upstairs and conferred briefly with another worker in private then took the newest staff member on an abbreviated circuit of the house and environs. The Soyinkas’ homestead was a walled compound with an open courtyard in the center. The house had two stories. Several bedrooms were on the top floor. A second sitting room was also there, and access to the rooftop was on this level. On the bottom floor, there was a public toilet, but each bedroom had a private one en suite.

How many rooms were there? Too many to remember! Kieta shook her head.

The Toures girl did not have time to count the rooms but thought she would do that later while they served the family. She looked up at the ceilings. They were high. They looked like they could reach the sky and meet the stars where they hang. However, this was with purpose. The novice was unaware that desert dwellers did this so heat would rise, leaving inhabitants cooler than they would be with lower ceilings. All the ceilings had rotating fans with wooden blades, and like the walls in the compound, the ceilings were white. The girl grew mesmerized with the movement of the fan and stopped dead in her tracks, moving again only after Wakesa called her a couple of times. Girl, girl, stop gawking! Move your feet. Let’s get moving. Ain’t nobody got time for your foolishness. There is work to be done around here!

The rustling of one fan drew her attention away from the older woman, who looked upward this time, pointing and still yelling, her railings leaving the girl wondering if her volume was always on high. Girl, you act like you ain’t never seen a ceiling fan before. She fussed at Kieta for failing to attend and keep up. I know your papa has carried you in one of those shops in the village. Just about every shop has one of them ceiling fans now! So don’t be standing there looking at that fan like you ain’t never seen one. And shut your mouth before a bug get in it.

The impressionable girl shook her head. No, madame, this is the first time I have seen one of those contraptions. She admitted that while she had been in the village with her father, she stayed outside and waited until he was through with shopping for their meager belongings.

Wakesa shook her head, thinking about ignorance that would have to be overcome before this girl could move on. Tsk, tsk! Keep up! she warned her. I don’t have time to be telling you the same thing over and over. The mentor slapped her beside the head with open palm, snatched her by the shoulders of her sagging clothes, and shook her. You can’t be as stupid as you pretending. Your other sisters weren’t that way. They were smart and quick on their feet. I’m glad you the last one they got! I don’t know how much more I can take or how many more servants I can train before I keel over and die! The woman’s frustration as well as her age showed. She was fit for retirement, but no retirement was in sight. The workers either got sick and died or just died.

Sufficiently warned, the new girl kept up, stopped when her mentor stopped, spoke when she was spoken to, and acknowledged other compound’s workers as introductions were made, most with a simple bow. She did not hold on to any names the first day. Her attention was on the lodging, its largess, and the comforts it must offer its occupants and on Wakesa. It was apparent that she didn’t take any mess.

~~~~~

Kieta rested unaware, but this house was a bit different from traditional Muslim homes. Its spaces were shared by men and women. Most large compounds had specific areas for men and women, the men’s areas being in the front of the house and the women’s and children’s in the rear of the edifices. This home, more modern than other, reflected the owners’ values. The Soyinkas were more liberal than many of the other families in the area. They were well-traveled. This family was also among the small percentage of Malian families who observed Catholicism. While many people thereabouts celebrated tribal customs in addition to the religions brought by missionaries from other countries, this family had freed themselves from local traditions.

After the tour, Wakesa gave her a morsel of bread and water, she had heard the rumble coming from her insides, and showed her charge the room in the servants’ quarters behind the kitchen that they would share. The older servant also made the new girl bathe, wash her hair, and dress in the attire provided for the servants—a dull gray dress and scarf. And she gave her a new pair of sandals for her feet. She also gave Kieta a sack in which to place the garments she had worn there (that and the couple of articles of clothing in the bundle her father handed her when he handed over the girl) for disposal. Cleansing done, she took her around the perimeter of the compound, telling more servants and guards who she was.

Kieta took note of the number of guards in and around the compound and wanted to know why this family needed such protection and wondered why her father would leave her in a place that was not safe, why he had not