Si Mohamed Makes a Deal

Blind Kinza sat in the doorway of her hut and lifted her small face to the sunshine. It was Thursday, and on Thursday Kinza went to work. She was two-and-a-half years old now and quite old enough, in her stepfather’s opinion, to earn her living like the rest of them.

She sat still and patient, her weak legs folded under her, her hands clasped quietly in her lap. It was quite early, and Hamid, who carried her to her job, had taken the cow to pasture and would not be back for a while. In the meantime she was free to enjoy herself, and Kinza enjoyed herself quite a lot in her own way.

As long as the sun shone and the weather was fine, she was, on the whole, a happy little child. Since she had never seen the light, she could not miss it, and there were many good things to feel. There was the warmth and shelter of her mother’s lap, the clasp of her brother’s strong arms, and the wet noses of the goat kids when they nuzzled her hands. There was the touch of the sun on her body and the wind on her face. Sometimes she was allowed to sit by her mother as she sorted the corn, and one of Kinza’s greatest treats was to pick up handfuls of worn husks and let them slip through her fingers.

There were lovely things to hear, too, and she knew now that Hamid was coming toward her, from the particular sound of his bare feet on the dry mud. She held up her arms and gave a delighted squeak. Hamid picked her up and tied her firmly on his back.

“Market day, Little Sister,” he announced. “Have you had some breakfast?”

Kinza nodded. Half an hour ago she had drunk a bowlful of sweet black coffee and eaten a hunk of brown bread. It was the best breakfast she knew, and she had really enjoyed it.

“Come, then,” said Hamid, and they set off together, keeping under the olive trees to begin with, because, by nine o’clock in the summer, the sun was blazing hot. But very soon they left the trees behind them, and the path to market ran between wheat fields ripe for harvest, where the air smelled of poppies. The sound of the wind rustling through the corn made her sleepy, and Kinza laid her head on her brother’s shoulder and shut her eyes.

There were many people on the path that morning, and as they reached the marketplace the crowds became thicker. It was an area of burnt yellow grass, shaded by eucalyptus trees, and the sellers sat cross-legged on the ground with their goods piled up in front of them while the buyers tramped around them. Kinza hated it. She hated the jostling and the jolting and the noise, the dust that made her sneeze, the flies that crawled over her face, and the fleas that bit her legs. Most of all, she hated the moment when Hamid left her in the care of the old beggar.

But Hamid, to make it easier for her, had worked out a plan. During the week, he tried to beg, borrow, or steal a small coin. He would exchange it in the market on Thursday morning for a lump of sticky green candy, covered with nuts. Licking that candy was the biggest treat Kinza knew.

Hamid knew the marketplace very well and made his way to the patch of sand where Kinza and the beggar sat side by side. He made sure he got there before the beggar to give him time to settle Kinza and let her eat the green candy. Hamid took a few secret licks himself first, and then handed it over, warm and wet, to his sister. She clasped it in her right hand, loving its sweet stickiness, and began to lick it all over, going around and around it with the tip of her little pink tongue. In her left hand she held tightly to the hem of Hamid’s tunic, in case the roaring crowd should pull him away from her.

They had not been there long before the old beggar came shuffling toward them with a colored drum in his hand. He was amazingly dirty and old, and his patched coat was falling to pieces. Hamid kissed his hand politely and received the coin that was paid to his stepfather each week for the loan of Kinza. But instead of dismissing him crossly as he usually did, the old beggar spoke to him.

“When your father comes down to buy,” he growled, “tell him I have business with him.”

Hamid nodded, freed himself gently from Kinza’s grasp, and ran off. Kinza, finding herself left alone, started to cry, until the old beggar noticed and slapped her for it.

Her work was not very difficult during the early part of the day. All she had to do was sit with her small face lifted to the light so that everyone could see she was blind, and hold out her hand. The old beggar sat beside her, thumping his drum to make people look at her, and chanting and swaying. Many people felt sorry for the tiny white-faced child and gave her coins, which she handed to her master. So they sat until noon, and the sun rose higher, and the dust and the flies grew thicker. The crowds wandered around them and the stray dogs sniffed them. Sometimes people tripped right over her.

At noon, Kinza’s master gave her a piece of dark rye bread and a cup of water, and because she had collected quite a lot of money during the morning he gave her a squashed plum. It was delicious. She sucked all her ten fingers in turn so that she didn’t lose one drop of juice.

The afternoon was harder than the morning, for by two o’clock Kinza began to grow sleepy. Her dark head, tied up in its cotton cloth, began to nod heavily, and her eyes just would not stay open. She longed for her mother’s lap, but all she could do was lean against the old man’s rags to rest her weary head.

But only for a few minutes. He saw what had happened and angrily jerked her upright. Feeling dazed, she rubbed her knuckles in her eyes, stretched herself, and tumbled forward. Once again he jerked her back, slapped her, and propped her up against him. So, with her outstretched hand supported by the other, she sat begging, half-asleep, until the beggar suddenly got up and she fell over sideways.

He sat her up with an impatient bump. “Bad child!” he growled. “Sit and beg till I come back.”

He had got up because, on the outskirts of the crowd, he had seen the tall figure of Kinza’s stepfather looking about for him. The farmer would not wish to speak to the beggar in the open market, so they met behind a huge eucalyptus tree and stood talking.

“You wanted me?” asked the farmer.

“Yes,” said the old beggar. “I’m leaving the village. The country people are growing greedy and are giving less to honorable beggars, so I’m going to the big town on the coast, with my wife. The great feast will soon be here, and they say beggars grow rich in the streets of the town. Now this is what I want to say. Give me that blind child of yours. You are not a beggar, and you can never make use of her, but she makes a lot of money for me. My wife will look after her, and I will pay you a good sum for her.”

Kinza’s stepfather hesitated. He knew that he was plotting a very wicked thing, but he needed money badly. His cow had strayed into a neighbor’s cornfield and had been put in the cows’ prison. He had to pay a lot of money to get it back again. His harvest was poor this year, and Kinza, while she earned a little, was and always would be an extra mouth to feed.

Si Mohamed refused to listen to his conscience. After all, Kinza was not his child. Hamid was eleven, almost a man, and could soon be left to earn his own living, and Rahma could be married off in three or four years. But this might be the first and last chance he would ever have of getting rid of Kinza.

“How much will you give me?” he said at last.

The beggar mentioned a small sum. The farmer said that was not nearly enough. The beggar shouted back, and they bargained angrily for some time. Nobody took much notice, for that is the way prices are fixed in that country. They finally agreed on a price that was exactly halfway between what both had asked in the first place.

“Right,” said the beggar at last. “I’ll be leaving the village at dawn on the first day of the week. When you hand over the child I will hand over the money, and it shall be done in the presence of witnesses.”

Though neither showed it, both were pleased. The old beggar fought his way back to Kinza, hoping she had managed to collect some coins while he had been away. But she had done nothing of the sort. She had crept into a patch of shade and lay fast asleep, curled up in a ball like a tired kitten.