Blue Warrior

He glanced out of his doorway into the little village square. A half dozen mud-brick buildings just like his faced the old well, but his was the only shop. One hundred and seven people last count, mostly women, children, and old men like him. That made him the village elder, in deed if not in title. He wore that responsibility like the black tagelmust wrapped around his head and face. All of the young men were gone, shepherding their flocks or driving trucks in the south.

Or riding with Mossa Ag Alla.

If he was a young man, he’d be in the hills with Mossa, too. Both he and Mossa were Kel Tamasheq, were they not? People of the Tamasheq tongue? Not Tuaregs, as the outsiders called his people. Different classes, yes. Mossa of the Ihaggaren nobility, and warriors; Ibrahim of the vassal Imrad — traders and shepherds. But Chief Mossa cared not for such distinctions. Only his people. Imohar. Free people. It was the new way, and Ibrahim agreed with it. The world was changing, and it was the better way. Especially now with all of the troubles.

Ibrahim’s anxiety spiked. The misbaha prayer beads in his right hand sped faster through his callused fingertips as he touched an amulet unconsciously with his left. He detested the jihadist Ansar Dine, his own people, or so they claimed. But they cared for Mali more than the rights of the Imohar. The al-Qaeda Salafists cared for neither Mali nor the Kel Tamasheq. Indeed, they detested even the prayer beads. Ibrahim was glad the French had driven them out, and glad the French, too, had left again. All of them had come and now all had left, and that was a fine thing, he thought.

He stepped back from the doorway and glanced at the far wall. A yellowed French military map was pinned neatly to it, the ancient folds forming a grid. In the bottom right-hand corner in minuscule numbers and letters his dimming eyes could no longer read it gave its origin: Le Département du Armée de Terre, 1937.

Thirty years before, his wife had drawn a small red X on the map where she thought the village was located, in case a traveler ever wanted to know where he was standing. Ibrahim had laughed at her. Only Imohar and other nomads who knew of the well ever bothered to come here to water their camels and flocks, so they would already know where it was, he insisted. They yelled at each other for an hour over that one. But the X stayed, and so did the map. Ibrahim smiled. But that was a long time ago. At least the map was still here, and so was the X, and so was the village.

* * *

Ibrahim lit another cigarette and glanced at the clock-faced thermometer. The red hand pointed at 41c/107f. Not unusual for the desert this time of year, especially in this part of the region. The hottest time of the day. Soon it would cool again, as it should. A man couldn’t sleep when it was too hot. He glanced around the shop — really, just the front room of a three-room building where he and his grandson lived. Not like a real shop he’d once seen in Timbuktu, before the troubles. He wondered if it was still intact. He heard rumors that many shops in that fabled city had been burned to the ground by the AQS if they sold what was haraam.

The three wooden shelves screwed into the adobe wall were full. Toothpaste, razors, gum, canned goods — meat, milk, fruit. Even a red-and-white cartoon of Lucky Strikes, the brand the Chinese requested when they passed through two months ago. Ibrahim paid hard cash in Kidal for the expensive American brand, but the Chinese hadn’t returned. That was unfortunate. The Chinese had paid too much for the poor ones he had in the shop, and they didn’t bargain, which was a blessing. Just paid his price. He thought again about opening the carton and selling the cigarettes one at a time, the only way his friends could afford them. But perhaps the Chinese would return soon. Inshallah.

His grandson would be home soon from the government school in the next village. Eight years old and already doing higher math. Ibrahim was proud of him. The boy would someday make a fine shopkeeper. Tonight he would feed him, then send him to the widow’s house with her cell phone. It was on the shop floor connected to the car battery, charging. It wasn’t much money for the service, but every little coin still helped fill the purse. The cell phone couldn’t make a signal here near the well, but it could a half kilometer east outside of the village. The widow could still walk that far and back, and tomorrow was her regular day to take a call from her son working in Bamako and she wanted her phone fully charged. Life was good in Bamako, her son said. Many Chinese, and much money to be made. And peace.

Peace is better than money, Ibrahim thought. Like cold water from that well in the square.

He spun his beads, waiting for the boy.

Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park

Mozambique

“I’ve lost it, Johnny.”

“Lost what?”