Sophie and the Locust Curse by Stephen Davies Page A

modestly and shot an adoring glance at the General’s daughter.
    ‘No, he’s not!’ cried Saman, stepping forward. ‘He’s not even a proper griot any more. He’s just a crier messing about with a hoddu .’
    ‘What is this boy saying?’ asked the General.
    ‘I’d rather not translate that if you don’t mind,’ said Sophie. ‘It was not very polite.’
    The General glared at Saman and then continued. ‘Last week,’ he said, ‘I launched my election campaign to become President of this country. I have great support in Ouagadougou and in the south, but I also need people here in the north to vote for me. People must understand that I am the man who will solve all their problems and give them hope for the future.’
    Sophie translated for Gidaado and he nodded enthusiastically as if he really believed it.
    ‘In the old days,’ said General Crêpe-Sombo, ‘a man who wanted to become chief would hire a griot to be his praise-singer. The griot would follow that man wherever he went and sing about what a fine fellow he was. What I need for my Gorom-Gorom campaign is a griot like that.’
    As Sophie translated the General’s words into Fulfulde, she suddenly understood what this was all about. General Crêpe-Sombo was about to offer Gidaado a job as a praise-singer, the highest honour for any griot. And all because of that daft cassette they had recorded together.
    Saman had also understood. ‘Choose me, choose me!’ he cried, hopping from foot to foot and waving his hands in the General’s face. ‘I am a griot. I sing, I play the hoddu , I dance. I was born in this town, I know everyone here. I won the camel race. People here like me. People will listen to me. If you choose me, you can’t not win the election.’
    The General stared at him in bewilderment.
    ‘What is this impudent boy trying to say to me?’ he asked.
    Sophie looked down and shuffled her feet in the sand. ‘I would rather not translate it,’ she said.
    ‘I order you to tell me,’ said the General. ‘What did the boy say to me?’
    ‘All right,’ said Sophie, ‘but I want you to know that Gidaado and I do not agree with the things he said.’
    ‘ Tell me ,’ said the General, breathing heavily through his nose.
    Sophie sighed deeply and said in her best French, ‘Go home. Go home. You smell like a dead skink. Your medals are probably stolen. Get out of our town and take your camel-faced daughter with you. No one here likes you. No one will listen to you. Crawl back into your hole, you can’t possibly win the election.’
    The General’s mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged. He gave a roar of anger and turned to his bodyguard.
    ‘POUGINI,’ he bellowed. ‘SEIZE this impudent boy and do to him what you did to Lieutenant Aladad last Thursday.’
    The giant pulled the truncheon out of his belt and advanced on Saman.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ cried Saman. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘He says you don’t scare him,’ said Sophie sweetly. ‘He says you’re a brainless baboon.’
    The bodyguard roared and reached out to grab Saman.
    Saman did not wait to be grabbed. He dodged the giant’s outstretched hand and scampered away as fast as a meerkat, shrieking as he went. The bodyguard dashed after him, waving his truncheon in the air and yelling horrible threats in French, including many words that Sophie had never learned in class.
    ‘Back to business,’ said the General briskly. ‘Monsieur Gidaado, I want you to be my praise-singer for the next six months. I want you to sing songs and dance dances and speak speeches that will make people love me. Do you think you can do that?’
    Sophie turned to Gidaado. ‘Do you want to work for this man?’ she asked him in Fulfulde.
    ‘Are you crazy?’ said Gidaado. ‘Of course I do!’
    ‘He says it depends,’ said Sophie in French, turning back to the General. ‘He wants to know how much you’re offering him.’
    ‘Twenty thousand a month,’ said the General.
    ‘He says