“Behold! O Ahamadou, our Sheikh! We are thy kinsmen, yet thou hast sent to attack us!” they exclaimed.
“Our kinsmen!” I cried, noticing that they wore the white burnouse of the north, with their haicks held around their heads by ropes of twisted camel’s hair. They wore no veils, and a Touareg is unrecognisable, even to his relatives, if his black litham be removed.
“Yea,” cried one, the elder of the four. “Lend us a veil, and we will show thee.”
A strip of black cotton cloth was thrust into his hand by one of the crowd, and he assumed it, twisting it deftly as only a Touareg can. Then he turned and faced the onlookers, who with one accord laughed immoderately, hailing him as Taghma, son of Ifafan. Then the other three assumed the veil, and were, one by one, recognised and received back by their relatives.
At the conclusion of this strange ceremony, Taghma turned to me explaining how long ago before Ramadan they had wandered afar with their flocks to the oasis of Ezirer, and were there taken captives by the Kel-Alkoum.
“But,” he added, “we have seen with our eyes the greatest wonder on earth. Allah himself hath come down from heaven!”
“What?” I cried, starting to my feet. “Thou liest!” The sensation caused by the man’s calm announcement was intense.
“If my tongue uttereth falsehood, O Sheikh! then let it be cut out,” he said. “I have seen Allah, the One. He guideth the Kel-Alkoum our enemies, and we are of a verity forsaken.”
“Ah!” wailed the old marabout Ajrab. “Did I not warn ye that because of your inattention to your devotions and your neglect to say the five prayers, the One Merciful would leave you to perish and be eaten by the vultures like the lame camel in the wilderness?”
“Loose not thy tongue’s strings,” I commanded quickly. “Let us hearken unto Taghma, who hath seen the One from above.”