A day in the life

under the khyme vi Sabualla

It is what I call half dawn, when the sun is not up but the local menagerie is. I open my eyes in the faint light, stirred into consciousness by the sweetly tart smell of homemade yogurt. My grandmother Aicha rocks a goatskin attached to the tent, dripping with cultured cow’s milk. The tent fabric gently pulses overhead in rhythm with the liquid sloshes.

Lazily, I turn to my right and am nose to nose with my little sister Khadijetou. Just before sunset last night, she had held my ankles while Teitta applied henna to my calloused feet. Just after sunset, she kicked my ankles in her sleep while Teitta snored gently on the platform beside us.

More awake, I turn to my left and look across the compound. I am just in time to catch the first rays of sunlight spill over the horizon and witness the first barnyard conquest. After snagging a feathered bride, a rooster cackles triumphantly, alerting the other livestock to reply in turn. Three feet from my head, a shockingly white, newborn lamb bleats desperately for milk. I rub the sand from my eyes; time to wake up.

No sooner do I swing my legs off the platform, Teitta is on her knees peeling away plastic bags and scraping henna from my feet. The warm morning breeze is cool on my damp, pruned skin. On a normal morning, I would retreat to my kebine to wash up, but my henna is too fresh. Soap and water would wreak havoc on the delicate patterns on my toes and heels. Instead, I gingery pad into my room and throw on clothes, now two days worn. With a pang of guilt I mourn my forsaken hygiene, but quickly rationalize: the heat and humidity have fallen over the past week. Cold fronts are only relatively cold here; nevertheless, the recent respite is forcing locals into long sleeves and imported down coats. I revel in the temperature as Sabualla shivers: it’s a balmy 80 something. I decide my clothes are not yet pungent enough to wash.

I greet my brother Muhammed Lemine, his small frame bundled in a Starter jacket, and join my family on the platform. Khadijetou sqiire inherits the goatskin, Aicha stirs yogurt, and Teitta bubbles over my henna. It is so beautiful, zeyne hatte, she says, handing me a kaar of milk fresh from a sheep in the compound. Greedily, I drink the full liter, warm and frothy. The sour yogurt smell is replaced by smoky charcoal as Teitta begins the first of three cups of mint tea. I slam back three kaas before running to class, well-hennaed, mildly fragrant, full of milk, and – as usual – late.