BAMAKO by Aribert Raphael (smart books to read txt) 📖

Islamic radicals who will hide behind their faith to excuse their crimes…”
“Hold on a minute,” Talya cut-in impetuously. “Let’s not get carried away here. We’ve got to keep things in perspective. I’m going to Dakar to meet with Monsieur Hjamal hoping to open negotiations to acquire mining interests in his venture. I have no intention to antagonize him deliberately. If Monsieur Hjamal is able to provide some information leading me to your brother-in-law or Rheza, all the better, because as you both told me many times (and I agreed), we need to find Amadou Savoi to get the Kankoon application approved and clear Carmine’s name.”
Mohammed Fade nodded. “We’ve all agreed, it’s necessary for you to go to Dakar, but all we’ve ever wanted is to keep you safe, nothing else….”
“Thank you, Monsieur Fade. I’m grateful to the both of you”—she lifted her gaze to Hassan—“I can see that you care and I’ll promise you to keep in touch every step of the way.”
Hassan got off his perch, grabbed his jacket and turned to his friend. “I think it’s time for us to let you get back to work. We still have a few things to do ourselves. So, I’ll see you tonight, as usual?”
“Yes, Hassan. Inshallah.”

29
When the paperwork was done, the application finally filed and deposited in Monsieur Kane’s hands, and the Minister of Mines alerted of the fact, Hassan and Talya decided it was high time for Talya to meet his stepfather. For that, they needed to travel up-country to the heart of the Sahel. His residence wasn’t very far out of town, yet as soon as they would leave the city limits they would need to travel over a track road for 150 miles or so. In North American terms, 150 miles is a mere three or four hours’ trip, in the Sahel however, you’re looking at a half a day’s journey, depending on the road condition. Talya packed an overnight bag—just in case they didn’t make it back that evening.
Hassan asked her to be ready at seven o’clock the next morning and to wear something comfortable so that climbing in and out of his Jeep wasn’t going to be a problem. Talya was excited at the prospect of meeting people outside Bamako, and perhaps discovering some of Mali’s folklore. She knew Africa held many secrets and some of them were places more beautiful than one could ever imagine.
Abutting the southern rim of the Sahara, the Sahel stretches its immensity to the northern banks of the Niger River. Much like the Devil’s playpen, Mali is endowed with everything beautiful the Sahel has to offer, and everything treacherous it could bestow on its inhabitants.
Seven o’clock arrived soon enough, and Talya was looking forward to spending time with Hassan doing other things than dutifully completing forms. He was elegantly dressed. His jeans and cream shirt suited him to a T. He was smiling when he saw Talya come out of the hotel. She was wearing a comfortable pair of cotton trousers with flat shoes and a cotton shirt, long sleeved, to avoid any biting from hungry insects that would inevitably keep them company during the journey.
They drove through the city at a snail’s pace. Just a few miles out of town, they crossed the Niger on a very old stone bridge, a one-lane affair spanning quite low over large boulders that lined the riverbed. It lay so close to the water level, it would be impassable during the rain-season in June and July. When the fury of the monsoon descends upon the Sahel, the Niger bulges out of its banks to inundate nearby towns, villages and fields for weeks without respite; bringing fertility to the flooded earth such as a mother nurturing her children.
They stopped the car at the other end of the bridge’s one-mile stretch and walked down to the edge of the stream. The river was still at its lowest ebb leaving little puddles nestling in the larger stones. They shimmered in the sun like a myriad of small ponds strewn over the rocks. It was quite a sight. They talked a little. They jumped over the water gussets and simply had fun like two kids playing hooky.
They drove in silence for the rest of the trip. The past week’s toils began to take their toll. They were both too tired to talk. Distractedly, Talya watched the vastness of the Sahel opening up before her eyes. The hilly countryside was dotted with small green trees and bushes over an orange sandy-carpeted track winding its way under a deep blue sky. Often, devastating sandstorms will trace and retrace the Sahel’s nomadic routes making travel impossible for days. It is said that the spirit of the Sahel shapes the lives and integrity of everyone attempting to travel its paths. It becomes the master of one’s mind and existence. Once trapped in the Sahel’s enveloping magnitude there is no escape from the thralls of its sensuous desires and passion for adventure. Talya felt as if it had captured her.
She must have nodded off for a while because when they pulled up in front of the property gate, suddenly she was wide-awake, yet she felt as though she was still asleep, for the dreamlike picture before her seemed all too unreal.
Beyond a low, white painted fence, there were four or five cottages tucked in among the trees and the pink laurels that surrounded this obviously vast estate. These whitewashed houses were topped with red-slated roofs. Their green louvered doors and shutters married the brightly coloured garden. Red and pink bottlebrush poked their heads amid scented jasmine bushes, skirting multicoloured bougainvillea, which climbed some of the corners of every house. The light breeze, brushing against the jasmine heightened the freshness emanating from the place. It was a remarkable display of hues and teasing scents—in the middle of the Sahel.
“This is amazing. This place is wonderful. I can’t describe it.”
“You don’t need to describe it, Talya, just enjoy it.”
They left the Jeep where it stood and walked toward what seemed to be the main house. A man came out from under the front veranda’s awnings. The sun was blinding him. He hesitated. Then, putting a hand over his brow, he took the few steps separating him from seeing his visitors plainly. Once he did, and he recognized Hassan, he practically bellowed.
“My son! What did I do to deserve your presence here on this wonderful day?”
As he reached them, Talya was amazed. The man looked ancient but as strong as an ox. He was tall, handsome, his head adorned with grey, wavy hair. His coffee colour skin had the velvet sheen of the outdoors. He looked like a mythical god plucked out of a Greek History book. His smile was magnetic. He was dressed in a white embroidered cotton mishlah (or cloak) thrown elegantly over a grey thawb. His appreciative gaze didn’t leave Talya’s face as she walked beside Hassan toward him. He hugged Hassan in a warm and paternal embrace.
He peered into his eyes. “My son, you have chosen well. This woman is beautiful. Her hair is the colour of the sunlight at dawn and her eyes are as blue as the sky.”
Tout flatteur vit aux dépends de celui qui l’écoute.
Talya knew the rules. Unless this man spoke to her directly, she wasn’t supposed to utter a word. After all, this house, this piece of paradise lost in the Sahel was his home, and he was the master in it. He could accept and welcome anyone anytime he pleased, even though in the desert, it is customary to offer any visitor water and shelter for three days whether the person is friend or foe.
Hassan turned toward Talya and said to the old man, “Father, I want you to meet a very dear woman and a friend of mine: this is Talya Kartz.”
“Hello, Talya Kartz. Welcome to my house, welcome to my family. The gods have blessed you with beauty and I sense with intelligence, too. Yet, were you a toad or a raven, if you were a friend of this man, you would be welcome here. My humble abode is your home now.”
Hassan turned to her. “This is Yves Sandros, Talya, known also as ‘The Grand Lion’, and please don’t laugh, it is what we have named him, only because, as people miles around would tell you, he’s a proud man with the strength of a lion and the integrity of the beast. He has honoured me for many years by raising me as his son, which care and title I have tried to repay and honour for as long as I can remember.”
That was Talya’s cue; she was permitted to speak. “I’m delighted to meet you. I cannot say that Hassan has talked much about you, because that would be untrue, but if I may be allowed to say, I’m very happy to be here with him. I thank him for bringing me to your home, and I thank you, Monsieur, for your hospitality. I hope to be worthy of your goodness.”
Now that the formalities are over, I can go back to being me. Had she not been herself until then?
“Come in, both of you. I will ask Melinda to make some tea to celebrate your arrival. I have what you Americans call herbal tea. Would you like some?” A broad smile lit up his face.
Although Talya didn’t particularly fancy herbal tea, she didn’t want to refuse. “Yes, I would love a cup of tea—jasmine is my favourite,” she replied without much hesitation.
“So, jasmine tea it shall be.” The Lion nodded with marked pleasure.
As they stepped onto the veranda, Hassan said, “Talya, if the Lion would allow us, I’d like to show you the house and the gardens.”
“Of course, my son—where are my manners? Please both of you come with me,” the Lion rejoined, stretching an arm in a welcoming gesture, and preceding them in their visit.
The house was decorated with taste. From the porch, they entered the living room. It was spacious. You could put two of mine in there. Three chairs and a sofa covered with rugged woven cloth were facing floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered a view of the front garden. As they walked through the house, Talya noticed an agreeable coolness, probably emanating from the slate floor—a nice feeling on a hot day.
Separating the living room from the dining room, a massive fireplace had been erected using the same huge boulders as the ones they had seen in the river. This is an impressive piece of work. In most areas of the Sahel, temperatures drop below ten degrees Celsius at night, and it is quite common to find a fireplace in many of the wealthy proprietors’ homes.
In the dining room, the effect was striking. The hand-made wooden table and chairs, the wood-carvings and woven carpets hanging sparingly on the stone walls, the heavy brass chandelier suspended from the high-ceiling over the table, and the enormous sideboard standing imposingly along the far wall, all reminded Talya of a medieval tavern. The furniture was heavy, and shone from years of careful polishing.
With pride in his eyes, the Lion told Talya how he had constructed the house stone by stone while making sure every item used in the building of his home was from Mali. “…From my country,”