Three Young Chadian Women

(Top Photo: Khadidja Petite)

(Bottom Photo: Malumah, Khadidja Grande)


Its 6:15am and I hear a sharp, loud thwack coming from just outside the hangar and closed door of my house. I'm already awake, staring at the wooden beams that cut across my ceiling, but that thwack gives me a jolt, and then again, and then again. That's Malumah. She's got her sandalled foot on a chunk of wood, and with the entire length of her muscular body she's raising and felling a steel tool, a poor excuse for an axe; and creating this harsh, rhythmic wake up call for the days work to begin. I picture her shrugging her headscarf back onto her shoulder, raising a finger to close off a nostril, and then I hear her blow a snot rocket, and then thwack, grunt, thwack, woodchips flying; that's Malumah.
And then a softer sound kicks in. A sort of shwift, shwift; the sound of reeds brushing sand. That's Khadidja 'Grande'. Tall, gangly, with her left foot slightly withered by polio, she shuffles along bent at her waist, a handful of reeds gently smoothing the sand floor of the concession. I know she's smiling and doing her own little jig as she trudges through this tedious chore. She's always kind of in her own place; that Khadidja Grande.
And then a shrill 'Khadidja' cuts through the morning, and the high pitched response 'Naam" (yes, I'm here), and little footsteps running across the halfswept yard. That's Khadidja 'Petite'. The youngest of the three women-children who live in the concession, and the only one who's an actual daughter of the parents, Ali and Fatimah. She's presently running to her mother, grabbing a 500 CFA piece, and heading down to the boutique to buy sugar for the morning's tea. As she passes my house she's adjusting her headscarf so that it covers all of her hair. She hears me opening my door and she yells over 'Salaam Alekum'! Everything about her, 15 year older than her actual age; that's Khadidja Petite.
These three young ladies are the rhythmic heartbeat of the concession. The thumpthumpthump, thumpthumpthump, in carefully spaced triplets that rises as all three simultaneously mash millet for the day's meals. Or the glug glug of the water as they poor bucket after bucketful into the concession's holding containers. Or the whit whit of a fan on the fire... or hsst fwap as a reed whips through the air to land on a young one's bare ass. They are the cooks, the cleaners, the babysitters, the shoppers, the gardeners, and the launderers. Heads covered, working steadily throughout the day, these are three of the sassiest, most capable young women I've ever met.
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Its 7:00pm and I've finished eating dinner with Ali and the boys of the family (or any male that happens to be hanging around). We're all lounging in my hangar, the younger boys fighting for turns to crank my 'crank-powered-shortwave-fm/am-radio'. We're listening to the one local Moussoro station (simply called 'FM') which broadcasts local news in Goran, Arabic, and French, as well as a crazy melange of music anywhere from marathon jam sessions of local drums and flutes to Kevin Lyttle singing 'Turn Me On'. Tonight, Ali (the father and patriarch of the family) has to visit friends across town. He leaves silently, but its as if a beacon's gone off. With Ali gone the girls see no reason to stay away, and they come running. Khadidja Grande run-trip-dances through my hangar curtain saying, 'Zach, Pappi-pappi...' (Pappi-pappi is this stupid techno type remix of a song, all in Spanish, that for some random reason has become unbelievably popular in Moussoro). I can't tell if Khadidja is asking me for the song (as if I control what they play on the radio) or is simply singing. She's got a goofy grin on her face, her body frozen in a pose that looks like she's either about to fall or breakdance, and she just stares at me waiting, smiling, shaking her head... and then she laughs hysterically and dances into the corner of the hangar. Khadidja is not all there mentally, she can't take on the same responsibilities as the others, but she's always smiling, always dancing. Khadidja Petite yells something at her older sister, shakes her head laughing and struts into the hangar. Head back, arms spread apart, fingers clicking, chest pressed forward, her look is striking. She could be 25 if she wasn't so much younger. She struts into the middle of the hangar. She doesn't ask for attention but she gets it. Malumah follows behind her and sits quietly on the edge of the mat. An out of control dancer steps on her headscarf which is trailing on the floor, she yells something and slaps him on the head, everyone laughs. She seems so serious, but then a song comes on, maybe in Goran, maybe in Kanembou, but she knows it and is up and dancing. Her step is serious, but also polished and fun. And then everyone is dancing (to some marathon drum and flute jam session), and Khadidja Grande is doing some wild dance that defeats all likelihood considering her stricken left foot, and Khadidja Petite has her eyes closed and is snapping, and Malumah is clearing her way with swift slaps... and suddenly everyone scatters. I have no idea how they heard it, but Ali comes walking into my hangar. Its just me and my radio, and a couple of boys sitting quietly by my side.
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Khadidja Ali Petite: (8 years old; Daughter of Ali Abdoulaye and Fatimah Suleyman)
Khadidja Ali Grande: (13 years old; Daughter of Fatimah's sister's daughter, Kuka, who is deceased and Adoum who lives in Nigeria)
Malumah Ali: (16 years old; Daughter of Fatimah's sister, Fatimah Suleyman 'Grande', who is deceased and Mahamat Youssouf who lives in the Lake Chad region to the west)