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and, nodding furiously, indicated that we should stand facing the cooling sun.
    When he was satisfied with our positions, he picked up the camera and proceeded to fiddle with its various buttons and dials, before lifting it to his right eye and pointing it at us. There was a smart click, followed quickly by another. I looked at Miriam and giggled foolishly. To our surprise, Monsieur Longueur then placed the camera on the table again and sat back down in his chair.
    We remained, uneasily, in our positions, wondering what might happen next.
    Monsieur Longueur rested his chin in one hand and looked at us, quizzically, then seemed to realise that we did not yet consider our business there concluded. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
    Once more Miriam and I both gestured towards the camera. ‘La photo,’ I repeated.
    Monsieur Longueur gabbled something incomprehensible. Then – in a frustrated flurry of Djerma, French and English – we all gabbled together. I wished that Richard was there with us.
    When at last the frenzy ceased, we heard a loud clatter of pots and pans from within the little wiki at the far end of the compound. Monsieur Longueur stood up and beckoned us to follow him towards the open door.
    Inside the house, an ancient, gnarled old woman was preparing food on a gas stove. The room was small with a very low ceiling, but enough light seeped in from the doorway and a long, narrow window to the left to reveal a display of locally carved masks. On the opposite wall, a beautiful and complex tapestry hung above the rickety table at which the old woman toiled. Mosque-like motifs and diamond patterns, in the colours of my country’s flag, had been worked onto a backdrop of thin orange cloth with painstaking care. Someone had obviously paid a great deal of money for this item. A sweet, unfamiliar scent lingered in the room, despite the heavier smells of cooking. Clearly, this was the home of the Peace Corps nurse. Smiling , Monsieur Longueur spoke to the woman, falteringly, his head cocked to one side to accommodate the ceiling. ‘Azara…,’ I heard – the same name as my mother.
    ‘… les photos…cadeaux…comprendre …’ Everything else evaded me.
    It was evident that Madame Azara, too, was struggling with Monsieur Longueur’s use of French. Her reply was terse, slightly agitated, but I guessed that she was quite used to such clumsy exchanges.
    At last she turned to us and addressed us in our own tongue. ‘Wadata girls, eh?’ We nodded. ‘Yes, Mother.’
    ‘He took your pictures – our Monsieur Longueur, no?’
    ‘Yes, Mother.’
    ‘And what else do you want from him exactly? He’s very busy, and so am I!’ she said, not unkindly.
    ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we were just hoping that he would give us the photographs now. Yesterday he photographed my brother and then gave him the picture straight away.’‘ Toh .’ She faced Monsieur Longueur again and explained what I had told her.
    Monsieur Longueur put his hands up and, looking at us apologetically, shook his head. ‘C’est different! C’est different!’ he said.
    The ‘magic camera’ belonged to Madame Garrison, the large African-American woman who had been on the ferry with Monsieur Longueur, Madame Azara told us. Both of them worked for an aid agency called Africare , which had its central office in Niamey. Madame Garrison had, it seemed, been delivering Monsieur Longueur to Goteye, to enable him to make a report on the needs of the village, but she had set off for the city again, earlier that day, taking her camera with her.
    ‘A good, kind-hearted lady,’ Madame Azara said, as if addressing herself, which was just as well, for by now I was only half listening. ‘She took my daughter with her in her truck. My poor daughter is pregnant. She will visit the hospital, buy some goods and see her husband who is working in Niamey. They have not seen each other for six months! I pray to God that Madame Garrison will find some work there