‘Mami Fanti, hei, Mami Fanti,’ he called unheeded. Then he looked down at the child in his arms.

Allah, tch, tch, tch. Now, O holy Allah. Now only you can rescue me from this trouble, since my steps found this house guided by the Prophet, but Allah, this baby is dead.

And he looked down again at it to confirm his suspicion.

Allah, the child is breathing but what kind of breath is this? I must hurry up and leave. Ah . . . what a bad day this is. But I will surely not want the baby to grow still in my arms! At all . . . for that will be bad luck, big bad luck . . . . And now where is its mother? This is not good. I am so hungry now. I thought at least I was going to earn some four pennies so I could eat. I do not like to go without food when it is not Ramaddan. Now look – And I can almost count its ribs! One, two, three, four, five. . . . And Ah . . . llah, it is pale. I could swear this is a Fulani child only its face does not show that it is. If this is the pallor of sickness . . . O Mohamet! Now I must think up something quickly to comfort the mother with.

‘Hei Mami Fanti, Mami Fanti!’

‘Papaa!’

“Come.’

She danced in from the doorway still wringing her hands and sucking in the air through her mouth like one who had swallowed a mouthful of scalding-hot porridge.

‘It is dead, is it not?’ she asked with the courtesy of the insane.

‘Mami, sit down.’

She sat.

‘Mami, what is it yourself you are doing? Yourself you make plenty noise. It is not good. Eh, what is it for yourself you do that?’

Not knowing how to answer the questions, she kept quiet. ‘Yourself, look well.’ She craned her neck as though she were looking for an object in a distance. She saw his breath flutter.

‘Yourself you see he is not dead?’

‘Yes,’ she replied without conviction. It was too faint a breath to build any hopes on, but she did not say this to the Mallam.

‘Now listen Mami,’ he said, and he proceeded to spit on the child: once on his forehead and then on his navel. Then he spat into his right palm and with this spittle started massaging the child very hard on his joints, the neck, shoulder blades, ankles and wrists. You could see he was straining himself very hard. You would have thought the child’s skin would peel off any time. And the woman could not bear to look on.

If the child had any life in him, surely, he could have yelled at least once more? She sank her chin deeper into her breast.

‘Now Mami, I myself say, you yourself, you must listen.’

‘Papa, I am listening.’