Dry season

Sunila NANAYAKKARA

Aminu was pushing a wheelbarrow over the rough surface of the path, avoiding the holes and ridges. Perched in the wheelbarrow was an old man, his twisted legs fitting into its curvature. His dark skinny arms held its edges and his eyes were fixed on the goats, lamb and donkeys that strayed away from their night shelters in search of something to eat.

"Good morning Ma." He greeted me with a broad grin. The set of white teeth glistened against his dark skin.

"Good morning. You are late today, aren't you?"

"Yes Ma. Today Grandpa had to be given his weekly bath. He has to be clean and look tidy today."

"Is there any particular reason for that?"

"Yes, The President is going home today. On his way to Zuru from Sokoto he usually stops at the place where grandpa and other elderly men spend the day."

"Ok. You drop him there and come to school without getting late."

With a smile and a nod Aminu pushed the wheelbarrow so hard, that it started racing down, the rough road. Looking back, I saw him running behind it, holding the two handles.

He took his grandfather to the shelter, by the side of the main road as there was no one to look after him at home. Passer by whether it was a civil servant or a high official of the state stopped at the shelter and helped the elders in cash or kind.

Aminu studied at the village school. On the first day that I reported to this school, I was given a Grade six class, to be in charge of and also teach Social Studies. As I walked in, the students got up, bowed and said "Good morning Ma."

I was a little surprised when I heard the word 'Ma'. Was it an abbreviation of the word Madam or of the word Ma'am? Later I learnt that it was a shortened form of the word Malama which was the Hausa word for madam.

I pushed the thought away from my mind and said "Good morning. Sit down."

There were about twenty students, all dressed in white long pants and shirts that fell up to the knee. They were of the same height except one. He was very tall, as tall as a student in an O-level class. As I marked the attendance register, I gathered that the boy's name was Aminu. During the course of the day, when I wanted more chalk or a map brought from the office he volunteered to go and get it.

During the months that followed Aminu acted as the class monitor.

Though I had decided bravely to accept the appointment offered to me as a senior master in a Secondary School in the Sokoto State in Nigeria, I found it rather difficult to get adapted to the new life.

I found the environment totally different from my country or to be exact from the suburb of Colombo where I had come from. The village in the northern part of the State was situated on the border of the desert Sahara. Only a narrow stretch of grasslands, the savannahs, lay in between. Water was a scarce resource, in Sifawa, the village I was posted to. Women and children walked long distances to the wells that were scattered in the area and trod back with pots of water on their heads. But the school and the teachers' quarters were supplied with water obtained from a bore-hole and distributed through pipelines at certain times of the day. So the water had to be connected. There were 1000 gallon zinc tins in every house. The water flowed into them through the ever-open taps. When the underground water was depleted there was no water to flow through the pipes. The only solution was going to fetch water from the wells.

There was no scarcity of water at the time I went to Sifawa, for it was the rainy season. The problem that cropped up was of a different nature. The Social Studies syllabus for the first year of the Secondary School began with a study of the 'Neighbourhood' of the school. Being a newcomer to the village, I did not know the details of its physical features nor its human activities. The text book could not provide the information for the obvious reason that villages in the sprawling state of Sokoto were varied in their characteristics. I wanted to make a good impression on my students too. There was no one to get help. The other Sri Lankans who came with me had been posted to schools hundreds of kilometres away.

So I thought of getting Aminu's help to get used to the environs of the village and also to speak to the people. Having obtained the Principal's permission we set forth on a Saturday. He showed me where he lived, a humble little wattle and daub dwelling, where his grandpa, parents and he lived. Like the other villagers Aminu's father was a farmer. They got only one corn harvest, at the end of the rainy season. The family had a small plot of land where some vegetables were grown and their donkey and two or three goats were tied at night. The family eked out an existence like most other families.

He showed me where the Village Chief lived; a wall-like fence made out of corn stalks ran round the house. I could see only its roof. The Village Chief sat on a bed like structure made of clay. Several men sat on the ground at his feet. The Chief looked old and frail. Aminu bowed low as we passed the Chief, who looked at me curiously. He said a few words in Hausa. The Chief smiled and shook his head.

"He has many children and hundreds of grandchildren." My guide told me.

We walked through the corn fields. In some, the harvest had been gathered; in others, the stalks were bent in all directions with the weight of the ripened grain. Aminu showed me the structure in which the villagers stored the corn. It was like the Wee bissa in our villages. The ridged gourd creepers and tomato plants were the most common in the village gardens.

It was mid-day. Aminu did not show any signs of fratigue, though I felt exhausted. Even so, the walk had provided sufficient data for my lessons.

"We'll go to the other parts of the village next week end," I told Aminu.

"Yes Ma you look very tired." "Thank you very much Aminu."

I took a two-Naira note and offered him for coming with me, "Keep this for pocket money."

He shook his head." My grandpa gives me money whenever I want."

I begged him to take it. He would not.

He said "No Ma, no" and ran away.

That year the dry season started earlier than in previous years. The farmers gathered their harvest of corn with no hindrance of sudden showers. Aminu was absent for several days. There were many boys who did not come to school at the time. During the break, when all the teachers gathered in the staff room, I mentioned about this to Mrs Mohan, a teacher from Kerala who had been in the school for a number of years. She explained "The boys get absent at this time. Every year it happens. Their parents get help from their children, however small they are, in the farm work. The males cut the corn, bundle it and the women and children carry the bundles home on their heads."

I saw Aminu one evening leading a donkey, with bundles of corn on its back. Its pace was very slow. Obviously, the weight was too much for the animal. Amidu looked at the window of the room, where he knew I spent the evenings. He smiled, bowed and said Sannu Malama.

"Are you coming to school tomorrow?"

He nodded and hurried the donkey to reach home before night fall.

The dry season held sway longer than in other years. The grass and corn stalks took on a golden colour and then turned to fine dust. The wind, on its way South from the Sahara Desert, lifted the dust and spread it over all the surfaces and made it even creep into cupboards and drawers. The sound of the bore-hole machine tapping the underground water was not heard as frequently as before.

The daily flow of water through the pipelines stopped. Every other day or as days passed, once in two or three days, the bore-hole worked and water was distributed. One had to be extra careful in the use of water since no body knew when the bore hole would function again.

"Yesterday I used only three buckets of water for my bath." Mr Mohan declared.

"We might have to use even less that, if the dry season continues," said Mr Chaudarry from Bangladesh. Both of them had come with their families. The drought was particularly a trying time for them.

As days passed, the temperature soared. During the day, the villagers sat under the Nim trees or slept many hours under their shade. The women walked long distances with pots on their heads, in search of water. Only very deep wells had water; that too was right at the bottom.

When evening came, the heat of the day was rapidly lost as there was no cloud cover. A cool wind brought some solace. With Aminu's help I took the frame of a Vono bed to the inner yard, kept it on four big Nido tins and placed a mattress. There I slept soundly under the stars. Towards midnight it became quite chilly. And I could even wrap myself in a sheet!

The days passed with no sign of rain. No one ventured out mid-day. The walk from school was tolerable because of the shade of the Nim trees that lined the gravel path. One day I asked Aminu going home after school "Has it been like this earlier also?"

"Ma, you mean the drought?" "Yes".

"Every year it has been like this. This year the dry season is continuing far too long." And then he asked.

"Ma do you have enough water?"

"No. I have only a little."

The evenings were also beginning to be as warm as the afternoons. One evening I was sitting in the inner yard, fanning myself and looking at the azure blue sky which did not have even a wisp of a cloud. I heard a knock at the zinc door.

"Who is it?" I asked in a raised voice.

"Aminu Ma."

I recognized his voice and opened the door. Aminu was standing there with a large bucket of water on his head. Behind him stood a line of boys with smaller buckets of water perched on their heads.

"Can we come in Ma?"

"Of course"

They marched in single file, walked up to the containers and poured the water. "Thank you, all of you" "This evening there will be special prayers at the mosque. The prayers will continue for a few days. Then there will be rain Ma.'"Aminu said with a certain degree of certainty. I felt relieved. The water my students brought took away the anxiety.

The temperature rose further. The students as well as the teachers could not bear the heat as the day advanced. We took the classes outside. The shade of the Nim trees was welcome. The bottles of water we took in the morning sustained us during the school hours.

What Aminu said was true. For days the echo of the prayers spread over the village and the parched savannah lands, from evening up to midnight, or on some days till the early hours of the following day. It was as if the whole village was waiting.

There was nothing else to be done.

Another week started. On Wednesday, the messenger came with a notice from the Principal. He wanted to hold a staff meeting. "Why so suddenly?" We asked each other.

We gathered in his office. He said "The director wants the schools in this area closed and the hostellers sent home on Friday. We will inform you of a date of reopening. It would be when the drought ends."

On Thursday work continued in the classes. The hostellers packed their few belongings getting ready to leave. Another day was over.

That night the heavens opened, as it were. The rains came down. The storm gripped the village. Every second was marked by a flash of lightning and peal of thunder. I listened. There was a loud crash. "A branch or a tree falling down or the asbestos roofing of a building carried away by the wind falling somewhere?" I asked myself, while curling under the sheet to have the rare comfort of falling asleep with the sound of a thunder storm raging outside. I did not know how long the storm lasted.

The following morning when walking to the school assembly Aminu smiled with a didn't I tell you so look.

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