the night-halt, on a handful of cassava. And all the time, the metal halter chafed his neck and his feet bled.
One scene from that long trek was forever to stick in his mind. They had been walking for hours ever since dawn and the time had come when he could no more feel or see anything. His face was turned to the ground, but even so, the haze of the vertical scorching sun filled his brain and numbed his senses. He was aware of nothing other than of being pulled blindly forward. Then he heard his pet name, Jaja, as a gurgle in his mother's throat. He opened his eyes to catch sight of his mother's legs buckling at the knees and straightening up again, almost a reflex movement. It happened again moments later. The third time it happened there was no recovery and the feet trailed lifelessly along the ground, dragged by the forward motion of the column.
Why did he take so long to raise his eyes to his mother's head as it lolled over the side of the cleft pole? Was it because of what happened to the other women? His mother's eyes were rolled up so far that only the white could be seen, and her big yellow teeth were exposed by the drawn-back lips.
The column halted. He watched the white robed Arab dismount from his white horse to untie his mother's hands and quickly push her head from between the crossbars. As she fell like a sack to the ground, the man gave the order to move on.