The Caliphate by André Gallo (books to read for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

his nose, mouth and neck were covered by a long indigo cloth. His eyes inspected them quickly but he did not put down the thin lance one end of which he rested on the ground. The woman wore a black turban and a loose sleeveless indigo overgarment with large openings for the arms.

     Kella yelled, “Thiyya!” and ran toward her. They hugged closely, speaking in rapid and joyous exclamations.

     Azrur was more reserved but his words welcomed Kella. Both were in their early fifties. Thiyya had an air of supreme self-confidence without the sharp edges of the dictator. Kella thought in another age she could have been an ambassador or led a salon in late seventeenth-century France—a Tuareg Germaine de Stael.

     Kella smiled, her eyes moist. Thiyya’s eyes were like dark brush strokes. When not speaking, her lips were pressed softly together. Her skin was the color of cinnamon batter. Kella wondered at the absence of wrinkles. Kella remembered Steve and introduced him as a group gathered around.

     Thiyya announced to all, “Kella is my cousin’s daughter. Her parents were killed by the army during the troubles. She is my blood.”

     Then she took Kella’s right hand and raised it for everyone to see the four black dots arranged in a diamond on the back of her hand. The women called out happily to Kella, while the men crowded closer to have a better look at her hand and throw looks of suspicion in Steve’s direction.

     Thiyya made tea and served biscuits with goat cheese. Later Azrur took Steve and Kella to the well at the edge of camp.

     “Azrur’s great-great grandfather, by the way, led a Tuareg Army that fought the French army at the Battle of Goundam in the 1890s,” Kella said. “I should have told you when we were there.”

     Knowing Kella was saying something about him, Azrur looked in their direction and his eyes were made narrower by what Kella knew to be a smile.

     “Tell him it’s an honor to be his guest,” Steve said. “What about your name, and Thiyya’s. Do they mean something in Tamasheq?”

     “Thiyya means ‘beauty,’ and Kella was the daughter of Tin Hinnan, a Tuareg queen.”

     “I’m impressed. Both of you were well named.”

     Later that night, after small talk, Kella and her cousin drew aside while Azrur and Steve stayed by the fire.

     Kella told her about the horrific scene she’d witnessed in Paris. Thiyya hung her head while the story unfolded. As Kella finished recounting the story and the reason she came to her cousin for comfort, Thiyya opened her arms and held them out to her. The young woman slid over to her and rested against her bosom as Thiyya’s arms folded around her and rocked her gently. Kella cried softly.

     “We Tuareg women have never let ourselves be dominated by the men,” Thiyya said. “When the Arabs came and imposed their religion, the Tuareg tribes fought them but there were too many. But we hang on to our culture. We Tuareg women are the equals of men, in some ways our situation is even better. We can decide whom to marry, and we can manage our own wealth. Our marriages are monogamous, unlike Muslim practice.”

     She guided Kella to a corner of the tent where some blankets were laid out.

***

On the evening of the next day, Kella’s cousins organized a tribal feast in her honor. Goat and camel steaks cooked on a wood and dried dung fire to eat, and for drink, they offered goat and camel milk. Steve had Atrar bring Gazelle beer from the cooler he had left in the Land Cruiser.

     The main event was the camel races. Steve seemed amused when Kella translated the good natured ribbing from her cousins.

     “They recall that I grew up riding camels and have insisted I participate,” she told him with an expression caught between amusement and dread.

     “Well, I’ll be cheering you on!”

     “I’ll wave to you so you can recognize me in my blue robe.”

     Steve pointed to his cameras, “You’ll be the star of my article.”

     Kella watched Steve and Atrar drive their car close to the starting line. Steve opened the sunroof and readied his cameras. There were fifteen contestants. Most riders, men and women alike, had sticks for riding crops, but only the men were veiled. Kella’s mount was easily the largest animal on the starting line. She assumed that her cousins were being the perfect hosts, or perhaps Kella’s noble lineage gave her certain rights.

     Men, women and children had lined up on the side of the ad-hoc racecourse. Kella guessed there must be at least a hundred people waiting, talking, with occasional ululations of jubilance from the women. Both men and women were in colorful billowing robes.

     Suddenly, the mounts were off. Both riders and watchers were in the moment. The excitement was palpable. Just about everyone was yelling and the riders encouraged their mounts by slapping their sticks against their sides.

     Kella did not have a good start and she was in the middle of the pack for the first fifty yards. But the long white legs of her camel gobbled up the ground and gained yard after yard on the leaders. Finally, the race was between Kella and another woman on a sandy-brown camel who used her stick with vigor. In a nose-to-nose finish, it seemed to Kella that she finished a close second.

     As the camel folded its ungainly legs and Kella dismounted, Steve hurried over to her.

     “Wow, that was close! This is serious competition. You looked a mile high up there on that beast. The way it was rocking and rolling I don’t know how you stayed on.”

     “This is not as easy as I remembered. Another fifty yards, though, and I would