Chobbal the camel swayed back and forth as he walked, and Sophie held onto the reins tightly. She had sat on a camel before but never gone as far as this. They were out of Gorom-Gorom now, and all around them were the flat sands of the Sahara, dotted here and there with little acacia bushes.

Sophie was worried. She was on the edge of one of the biggest deserts in the world and in her shoulder bag she had only a bottle of water and a bunch of bananas. Not only that but her travelling companion was a strange boy called Gidaado who didn’t even go to school. He had said it was not far to his village but already they had been travelling for two hours.

What would Dad say if he could see her now? Would his glasses steam up, like they usually did when he was angry? Would he shout? Would he give her that lecture about Fatimata Tamboura getting lost in the Sahara? She had ended up having to chew acacia roots to survive, poor girl. ‘Never mess with the Sahara desert,’ her dad often said.

Then again, maybe Dad would not be angry. These last few days he had been completely engrossed in his experiments on carnivorous plants of the desert. When Sophie had left the house that morning, Dad had been standing next to his desert flytrap, dangling a sand-slug above it.
‘I’m going to the market,’ she had said.
‘Thanks, love,’ he had replied, not looking up. ‘Milk, two sugars, please.’

No, her dad was not like other parents. So long as Sophie was home by bedtime, he might not even realise that his daughter had been away. Sophie sat in the saddle with her feet resting lightly in the U of the white camel’s neck. Gidaado was perched precariously behind her on the back edge of the hump. Since they had left Gorom he had not stopped chattering.
‘I have had Chobbal since he was a calf,’ he was saying. ‘When he was born, his own mother refused to give him milk, because he was so funny-looking. I had to give him milk every day from a calabash.’

Sophie thought of the calabashes at home that Dad studied. A calabash was a big round fruit, a bit like a watermelon but with a very hard shell. Calabashes were not at all nice to eat, but if you cut one in half and scooped all the insides out, the empty shells made great bowls for keeping milk or grain in. They made good drums, too.

‘He’s a fine camel,’ said Gidaado. ‘Look at those big strong teeth.’
Sophie did not fancy trying to look at Chobbal’s teeth whilst riding on his back. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she said.
‘Fast, too,’ Gidaado went on. ‘I’m thinking of entering him in the Oudalan Province Camel Race this year.’ He whirled the wooden staff round and round in his hand and cried, ‘Hoosh-ka!’

The camel started to trot, then gallop, faster and faster. Sophie shrieked and doubled her grip on the reins. Chobbal lurched wildly as he ran, rocking from side to side, spit flying out of the sides of his mouth. Sophie bounced up and down on the saddle like a cowgirl in a rodeo.
‘Stop him!’ she shouted. ‘I’m going to throw up!’
‘What’s that, Sofa?’ shouted Gidaado. ‘You want to speed up, you say? HOOSHBARAKAAA!’

The camel lowered its head and strained forward, its hooves pounding the sand so hard that great clouds of dust flew up behind. The Saharan air blasting in Sophie’s face felt like an enormous hairdryer pointed straight at her. She could hardly breathe. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the upright wooden prong which formed the front of the saddle. The bananas in her shoulder bag flew out of the bag and out of sight.

‘BANANAS OVERBOARD!’ yelled Sophie. ‘STOP!’
‘Bahaat-ugh!’ cried Gidaado. Straight away Chobbal lifted his head and began to slow down.
‘I’ll get you for that, Gidaado,’ said Sophie, as Chobbal slowed to a walk. ‘Turn him around and we’ll fetch my bananas.’
‘You turn him around, you’re the one with the reins,’ said Gidaado, grinning at her.

Sophie scowled and tugged the reins to one side. Chobbal looked round and raised an eyebrow.
‘Be gentle with him, Sofa,’ said Gidaado.
‘My name is Sophie,’ said Sophie.

Ten minutes later they were back on track. The sun was not so strong now, and there was a slight breeze.
‘Tijani, my great-great-grandfather, was a camel racer,’said Gidaado, peeling a banana. ‘He won the Oudalan Province Camel Race three times with Mad Mariama.’
‘Mad Mariama?’ said Sophie, laughing.
‘Never was there a camel so utterly barmy. She bit off two of my great-great-grandfather Tijani’s fingers.’
‘Eew, that’s gross.’
‘Yes, well, Tijani wasn’t thrilled about it, either. But Mad Mariama was the fastest camel in Oudalan so he put up with her bad behaviour. He got a gold nugget for each race Mad Mariama won. He entered her in the Oudalan Province “Pouring Tea From the Hump of a Camel” Competition as well but she was no good for that. Far too twitchy.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Sophie. She had seen people in Gorom-Gorom practising for that competition; it required a very steady hand and a very calm camel.

‘Nice bananas,’ said Gidaado.
Sophie gave him another, and took one for herself too. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘That man at Gorom-Gorom market said that six camels have been stolen in this area recently. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who do people think the thief is?’

Gidaado looked around him and then leant forward and whispered in Sophie’s ear, ‘The thief is Moussa ag Litni.’
‘Who is he?’ whispered Sophie.
‘A Tuareg bandit,’ whispered Gidaado.
‘We’re in the middle of the desert,’ whispered Sophie, ‘so why are we whispering?’
‘Sand has ears,’ whispered Gidaado, and looked around him again.

Is he putting it on, thought Sophie to herself, or is he genuinely scared? ‘Tell me about Moussa ag Litni,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ said Gidaado, ‘but don’t blame me if it gives you nightmares.’
‘It won’t,’ said Sophie.