beside him. He had named the camel after his own favourite food, chobbal, a kind of millet porridge.
Sophie stepped up into the saddle on the camel’s hump and rested her feet in the U of the neck. Gidaado jumped up behind her, raised his staff and clicked deep down in his throat. Chobbal’s back legs unfolded, rocking the children forward, and then his front legs, lifting them high up into the air.
‘Gidaado,’ said Sophie as they moved off, ‘what are sauterelles ? It says on the radio that sauterelles are coming to Gorom-Gorom, but I don’t know what the word means.’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Gidaado. ‘That fire finch over there probably knows more French than I do.’
Sophie laughed. She knew that Gidaado did not go to school and that her question had been a long shot. Even though French was the official language of Burkina Faso, not many people spoke it. Here in Gorom-Gorom everyone used Fulfulde.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Gidaado. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing interesting.’
Sophie was doubtful, but she tried to put it out of her mind. ‘Are you ready for the naming ceremony?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Gidaado. ‘The baby is my cousin so when I do the tarik it’s my own ancestors I’ll be singing about. Couldn’t be easier.’
‘Are you singing on your own?’ asked Sophie.
‘Probably not — the other Giriiji griots should be there too.’
Chobbal the camel went out of the gate and walked up the street towards the market. His movement rocked the children on his hump gently backwards and forwards. A town crier was walking down the road ahead of them, banging his tam-tam and shouting at the top of his voice.
‘RED SPECKLED COW!’ yelled the town crier. ‘LAST SEEN ON WEDNESDAY MORNING GRAZING NEAR TONDIAKARA! IF YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, CONTACT YUSUF DIKKO!’
Here in Gorom-Gorom Sophie heard criers almost every day. They announced naming ceremonies, weddings, funerals, and messages from the town authorities. If there was going to be a vaccination programme in town, a crier would let people know about it. If a serious crime was committed, a crier would go round appealing for information. But the most common job of a crier was to announce descriptions of missing cows. In Gorom-Gorom there were thousands of cows and every morning they would leave town and go out to the scrubland to graze. Every evening there were some which did not come home.
Gidaado was chuckling to himself. ‘Hey, Sophie,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference between a crier and a donkey?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hit the donkey and he’ll stop braying.’
Sophie did not laugh. ‘He is only doing his job,’ she said. ‘Let’s stop, Gidaado, I want to ask him what sauterelles are.’
‘It’s no good asking a crier something clever like that,’ said Gidaado. ‘He doesn’t even know if it is morning or evening.’
Sophie scowled. What made griots so great that they could make fun of people doing other jobs?’
‘ Excusez-moi, monsieur ,’ she said as they drew level with the crier. ‘Do you speak French?’
The crier stopped banging his tam-tam and turned to look at her. ‘Do I look like a schoolteacher?’ he said in Fulfulde.
‘No,’ said Sophie.
‘Or a schoolboy?’
‘No,’ said Sophie.
‘Then what would I want with French?’ said the crier.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie, embarrassed. ‘I just thought—’
The crier spread wide his arms. ‘Did my grandfather and my father’s grandfather speak French?’
‘No,’ said Sophie again. She could hear Gidaado chortling behind her, and elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. ‘Have you heard the news today?’ she asked the crier.
‘Yes. Yusuf Dikko has lost his red speckled cow, last seen on Wednesday grazing near—’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘I mean really bad news. Like something dangerous on its way here.’
‘I am a crier,’ said the crier. ‘I know about lost cows and found goats and new babies.
Sophie stepped up into the saddle on the camel’s hump and rested her feet in the U of the neck. Gidaado jumped up behind her, raised his staff and clicked deep down in his throat. Chobbal’s back legs unfolded, rocking the children forward, and then his front legs, lifting them high up into the air.
‘Gidaado,’ said Sophie as they moved off, ‘what are sauterelles ? It says on the radio that sauterelles are coming to Gorom-Gorom, but I don’t know what the word means.’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Gidaado. ‘That fire finch over there probably knows more French than I do.’
Sophie laughed. She knew that Gidaado did not go to school and that her question had been a long shot. Even though French was the official language of Burkina Faso, not many people spoke it. Here in Gorom-Gorom everyone used Fulfulde.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Gidaado. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing interesting.’
Sophie was doubtful, but she tried to put it out of her mind. ‘Are you ready for the naming ceremony?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Gidaado. ‘The baby is my cousin so when I do the tarik it’s my own ancestors I’ll be singing about. Couldn’t be easier.’
‘Are you singing on your own?’ asked Sophie.
‘Probably not — the other Giriiji griots should be there too.’
Chobbal the camel went out of the gate and walked up the street towards the market. His movement rocked the children on his hump gently backwards and forwards. A town crier was walking down the road ahead of them, banging his tam-tam and shouting at the top of his voice.
‘RED SPECKLED COW!’ yelled the town crier. ‘LAST SEEN ON WEDNESDAY MORNING GRAZING NEAR TONDIAKARA! IF YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, CONTACT YUSUF DIKKO!’
Here in Gorom-Gorom Sophie heard criers almost every day. They announced naming ceremonies, weddings, funerals, and messages from the town authorities. If there was going to be a vaccination programme in town, a crier would let people know about it. If a serious crime was committed, a crier would go round appealing for information. But the most common job of a crier was to announce descriptions of missing cows. In Gorom-Gorom there were thousands of cows and every morning they would leave town and go out to the scrubland to graze. Every evening there were some which did not come home.
Gidaado was chuckling to himself. ‘Hey, Sophie,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference between a crier and a donkey?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hit the donkey and he’ll stop braying.’
Sophie did not laugh. ‘He is only doing his job,’ she said. ‘Let’s stop, Gidaado, I want to ask him what sauterelles are.’
‘It’s no good asking a crier something clever like that,’ said Gidaado. ‘He doesn’t even know if it is morning or evening.’
Sophie scowled. What made griots so great that they could make fun of people doing other jobs?’
‘ Excusez-moi, monsieur ,’ she said as they drew level with the crier. ‘Do you speak French?’
The crier stopped banging his tam-tam and turned to look at her. ‘Do I look like a schoolteacher?’ he said in Fulfulde.
‘No,’ said Sophie.
‘Or a schoolboy?’
‘No,’ said Sophie.
‘Then what would I want with French?’ said the crier.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie, embarrassed. ‘I just thought—’
The crier spread wide his arms. ‘Did my grandfather and my father’s grandfather speak French?’
‘No,’ said Sophie again. She could hear Gidaado chortling behind her, and elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. ‘Have you heard the news today?’ she asked the crier.
‘Yes. Yusuf Dikko has lost his red speckled cow, last seen on Wednesday grazing near—’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘I mean really bad news. Like something dangerous on its way here.’
‘I am a crier,’ said the crier. ‘I know about lost cows and found goats and new babies.
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