Tuareg. Alberto Vazquez-Figueroa
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hanging there, motionless, suspended in the sky, despite the fact that he had not felt a breath of wind cross the plains that day.
The vehicles, which must have been motorized vehicles due to the speed at which they were travelling, cut a trail of dirty smoke and dust through the clean desert air.
Then came the faint rumbling of their engines, that soon turned into a roar, upsetting the wood pigeons, the fennecs and the snakes, followed by the screech of brakes, loud, impatient voices and harsh orders as they stopped in a cloud of dust and dirt, no more than fifteen meters away from the settlement.
Every living creature stopped and turned to look at them. The Targui and his wife, his children, his slaves and even his animals all had their eyes fixed on the cloud of dust and the dark brown, monstrous machines, then the children and beasts drew back terrified and the slaves scurried off into their tents, well out of sight of the strangers.
He approached them slowly, his face covered with the veil that distinguished him as a noble Imohag and that was part of an ancient tradition. He stopped half way between the new arrivals and the largest of his jaimas as if to indicate, without actually saying so, that they were not to advance any further unless they were given permission to do so as his guests.
The first thing he noticed about them was the dirty grey of their uniforms, covered in sweat and dust and the menacing metallic glint of their rifles and machine guns. The smell of their crude, leather boots and belts filled the air. His gaze fell on to a tall man wearing a blue djellaba and a dishevelled turban. He recognised him as the Imohag, Mubarrak-ben-Sad, who belonged to the spear people and was considered to be one of the most skilful and meticulous trackers in the desert, almost as famous in the region as Gazel “the Hunter” himself.
‘Metulem, metulem,’ he greeted.
‘Aselum aleikum,’ Mubarrak replied. ‘We are looking for two men. Two foreigners.’
‘They are my guests,’ he replied calmly. ‘They are unwell.’
The official who appeared to be in charge of the group moved forward a few steps, his medals shining on the cuff of his sleeve, then tried to walk around the Targui, who moved again to block his path.
‘They are my guests,’ he repeated.
The other man looked at him in surprise, as if he was unable to understand exactly what he had said and Gazel realised straight away that this man was not from the desert and that his mannerisms and the way he looked belonged to other, distant worlds.
He turned to face Mubarrak who had understood and then turned to face the official again.
‘Hospitality is a sacred thing for us,’ he pointed out. ‘A law that is more ancient than the Koran.’
The military man adorned with medals hesitated for a moment, as if unable to believe the absurdity of what he had just heard, then continued forward.
‘I represent the law,’ he said sharply. ‘There is no other.’
He had started to walk past him again, but Gazel grabbed him by the forearm brusquely, forcing the man to look him in the eyes.
‘It is a tradition that is some one thousand years old and you are barely fifty years of age. You will leave my guests in peace!’
Following a signal from of one of the military man, the sound of ten rifle bolts clicking into place suddenly filled the air and the Targui realised that all ten guns were pointing at his chest and that any further resistance would be useless.
The military man pushed the hand that still held him back away roughly and continued on towards the largest tent.
He disappeared inside it and a few seconds later a dry, bitter shot rang through the air. He came out and gestured to the two soldiers that were walking behind him to go back into the tent.
When they reappeared they were holding the old man between them, who was sobbing profusely as if he had been woken up from a long and gentle dream only to be confronted with this harsh reality.
They walked straight past Gazel and got into their vehicles. From the cabin the official stared at him severely and hesitated for an instant. For one moment Gazel feared that the prophecy of Khaltoum had been wrong and that he would be killed there and then in the heart of the desert plains. But the man just nodded to the driver and the lorries drove off in the same direction that they had come from.
Mubarrak, Imohag of the spear people, got into the last vehicle, his eyes fixed on the Targui until he disappeared behind a column of dust. In that brief exchange, however, he had seen enough to know what was going through Gazel’s mind and what he had seen in his eyes had scared him.
It was never advisable to humiliate an inmouchar of the veil people. It was not advisable to humiliate him and leave him alive.
But nor would it have been right to have killed him there and then, as it would only have unleashed a war between brother tribes and meant the spilling of more blood, just to avenge the blood of someone who had only tried to respect the ancient laws of the desert.
Gazel remained very still, watching the convoy as it moved further away until the noise and the dust had completely disappeared from view. Then, slowly, he turned away and walked towards the largest jaima, which his children, wife and slaves had all gathered in front of. He did not need to go in, to find out what had happened inside it. The young boy was in the same place that he had left him in after their last exchange, with his eyes shut as if he was still fast asleep, the only difference in his appearance being the small red circle on his forehead. He looked at him sadly and angrily for a long time and then called Suilem over.
‘Bury him,’ he said. ‘And get my camel ready for me.’
For the first time in his life Suilem did not do what his master had ordered him to and an hour later he went into his tent and grabbed his feet, trying to kiss his sandals.
‘Do not do it!’ he begged. ‘You will achieve nothing by it.’
Gazel pulled his foot away in disgust.
‘You think I will just allow for such an offence to go unchallenged?’ he asked angrily. ‘Do you think that I could go on living at peace with myself, having allowed one of my guests to be assassinated and the other taken away?’
‘There was nothing else you could have done,’ he protested. ‘They would have killed you.’
‘I know, but now I must avenge the insult.’
‘And what will you achieve by doing that?’ the black man asked. ‘Will that bring the dead man back to life?’
‘No. But I will remind them that they cannot offend an Imohag so impertinently. That is the difference between your race and mine, Suilem. The Aklis allow themselves to be offended and oppressed and you are satisfied with your role as slaves, you carry it in your blood, from parents to children, from generation to generation and you will always be slaves.’
He paused and stroked the long saber that he had just taken out of the large chest, where he kept his most precious belongings. ‘But we the Tuaregs are a free, warrior race, who has remained that way because we have never given in to humiliation or insult.’
He shook his head. ‘And we are not about to change.’
‘But there are many of them,’ he warned. ‘And they are powerful.’
‘That is true,’ the Targui admitted. ‘And that is how it is. It is only a coward who challenges the weaker side and that kind of a victory will never make a nobleman of you. And only a fool fights with his equal because only luck will decide who wins that battle. The Imohag, the real warriors of my race, will always take on someone who is much more powerful than they are because if victory smiles on them, their efforts will be rewarded a thousand times over and they can be proud of what they have achieved and carry on.’
‘And if they kill you? What will become of us?’
‘If they kill me, my camel and I will make a straight run