Free Tears of the Desert by Halima Bashir Page B

the risky animal-stealing raids.
    Whenever I saw the
Ahrao
approaching I would recognize them by their light skins, their pointed features, and their beards. The very sight of them made everyone fearful, and in the months of the dry season no one went out alone. After the theft of Grandma’s goats my father sat me down and told me all about the
Ahrao.
We Zaghawa, together with the other black African tribes, had to resist them, he said. Otherwise, they would push and push and push until we had lost our villages, our fields, and our very identity.
    “Never trust the
Ahrao,
” he warned me. “They smile on one side of their face, but behind that smile they hide another face.”
    How horribly prophetic my father’s words would prove.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The Cutting Time
    Shortly after the
Ahrao
’s raid on our goats, my luck almost ran out. Mo, Omer, and I were playing a game of chase in the market. An old man stopped me, and I presumed he was going to complain about all the noise we were making. Instead, he bent down to inspect my face.
    “You’ve something caught in your eye, little one. It must be a piece of grass . . .”
    In an instant his hand shot out and grabbed hold of my white eyelash. As he tugged I felt a searing pain in my eyesocket, and my vision went blurry with tears. Omer launched himself at the old man and started to beat him around the legs. I tore myself away from his grasp and raced home to my parents. But the whole of the side of my face was in agony, and I felt the muscles around my eye going into a series of spasms.
    By the time I reached home my left eye had closed over completely, and my father practically had a heart attack. He got my mother to bandage me up, and then all three of us set off for the hospital. I was in so much pain that all I could think of was how a tiny white eyelash could cause me such agony. It was only a little hair, after all.
    As soon as we reached the hospital my father rushed me in to see the white-coated eye specialist. He pried apart the swollen mess, shined a little light into it, and announced that I would have to undergo surgery. The only solution was to have the white eyelash removed, he said. But my father refused. Instead, we drove across town to see a Chinese doctor. My father hoped that he could help save my white eyelash, and our family’s good fortune.
    Of course, I had never seen anyone looking even remotely like Dr. Hing, the Chinese physician. He was a little, wizened man with yellowish skin, wispy hair, and odd, slanting eyes. He took me into his examination room and listened intently as my father explained what had happened. Every now and then he peered at me with his bright, beady eyes. When my father had finished speaking he asked if he could take a look at my eye. I told him that he could, but it was very painful so would he please be careful. Dr. Hing nodded and smiled and said that he wouldn’t hurt me at all. Strangely enough I felt quite at ease with him. Gently, he pried apart my swollen eyelids and peered inside. He took a good look and then he straightened up, a faint smile creasing his oddly serene features.
    “Ah, this is a very lucky one,” he announced, softly. “Very, very lucky.”
    Did he mean that I was lucky in that my eye wasn’t too badly damaged, I wondered? I hoped that he did. I allowed myself to relax a little. I had been worried for my sight in my left eye, as much as for the survival of my white eyelash.
    “What exactly d’you mean, doctor?” my father asked.
    “Your daughter—she is very lucky,” Dr. Hing repeated. “You know, she has the
white eyelash.
In Chinese culture white eyelash very lucky. Very, very lucky . . .”
    Dr. Hing busied himself at his desk, preparing some powders and some potions. He asked me to stick out my tongue, so he could examine it. He studied it for a few seconds, making some notes on a chart, and then he turned to speak with my father again.
    “White eyelash very special,” he announced,