Hassan Djiwa of Gorom-Gorom was a bad man. He was not all bad – he loved his mother and he hardly ever forgot to feed Haroun, his pet aardvark. But he was mostly bad – he would lie, cheat, steal and make pirate cassettes of copyrighted music.

Hassan was a businessman of sorts. He would buy cheap trainers and T-shirts at Gorom-Gorom market, and get his mother to embroider NIKE on them. Then he would walk to Bamako and sell them at high prices.

One day, Hassan was walking back from Bamako and he was feeling sad. He had not sold any T-shirts or trainers that day, and no one had even glanced at his stack of 'Ali Farkatouri's Greatest Hits'. And now he had to walk all the way back to Gorom-Gorom on an empty stomach.

Before he had gone far, he came across a dromedary, eating thorns off a tall acacia tree (camels really do eat thorns – that is yet another amazing thing about them). He gazed at it, thinking about how much quicker the journey home would be if he could ride this camel.

Hassan did not think for long. He took a run-up and leapt towards the camel. It stepped aside, and Hassan landed in the thorn tree.
'Zorki!' he shouted. That is a Songhai word but Fulani people use it too. It is very rude, so please don't say it if you are in Africa. But if you are in England, you can say it as much as you like and no one will tell you off.

Hassan leapt again, and this time he landed on the camel's back.
'Hup!' he cried, but the camel refused to budge. Hassan boxed its ears with all his might, and they arrived in Gorom-Gorom before sunset.

* * *

Hassan did not like his new camel very much. It was ugly and it spat at him whenever he came close. Also, his mother was unhappy about having the stolen camel in her yard – she did not object to defrauding large multinational companies, but stealing a valuable animal off another poor Fulani man, that was different. She served up nothing but baobab leaves every day, to show how peeved she was.

Hassan did not like baobab leaves one little bit, and he decided to sell the dromedary at the next market. It should fetch enough money to buy a whole cartload of blank cassettes, he thought.

But something happened which changed Hassan's mind. On market day he got up early, put on his paisley turban and fed Haroun, his pet aardvark. When he went to untie the camel, it launched a big glob of spit that landed in his left eye. But Hassan did not box the camel's ears; he did not even say 'Zorki' – he had noticed something with his right eye that made him gape in wonder.

In the dust beneath the camel, were clearly written three Arabic letters:

H-S-N. Hassan. His name.

As a young man, Hassan had trained to be a maribout, so he could read and understand Arabic quite fluently. But who had come into his yard in the night and written his name underneath the camel? This was a mystery which demanded careful attention. He would not sell the camel today. He would wait and see what happened.

The wind was high that market day, and the men of Gorom-Gorom leant forward as they walked, holding their turbans tightly over nose and mouth. Hassan went to market to haggle for white T-shirts, but he could not concentrate. He kept thinking about the writing in the dust under his camel. He returned home to look at it again, but the wind had already obliterated all trace of the letters.

* * *

The next morning, Hassan woke early, fed Haroun and put on his neon yellow turban. Then he went outside to look at the camel. There in the dust was written as clear as day:

Hassan's mouth dropped open in surprise, just as the camel spat. That is gross, so let us not dwell on it.

That night, Hassan did not go to sleep. Someone was playing a prank on him, and he intended to find out who.

There was a huge clay water pot in the corner of the yard. Hassan emptied out the water and bored a small peephole in the clay. Then he climbed inside and lowered the lid. It was cold in the pot, but Hassan did not mind. He would keep watch there all night if he needed to.

The camel knelt down to sleep, folding all eight knees neatly beneath it. It did not lay its head on the ground, but held it up high (that's how camels sleep). By the light of the moon, Hassan watched and watched and watched, until his eyes ached. No one came. The only sounds were from inside the hut, where his mother was snoring.

At four-thirty in the morning, the prayer call rang out from the mosque. The camel woke and stood up. It sniffed the air. Then it raised one hoof slightly off the ground and put its head on one side as if deep in thought. Hassan watched, agog.

The camel lowered its hoof and began to trace shapes in the dust beneath it. Hassan jumped, banging his head so hard on the lid of the clay pot that he blacked out.

When Hassan woke up, it was already afternoon. He climbed out of the water pot and ran over to where his camel was tied up. The name was still visible in the red dust:

This was inconceivably good luck. Hassan had a camel that could write. He would be rich. He would be famous. He would never have to record another Ali Farkatori cassette in his life. Better still, he would never again have to eat baobab leaves.

There was no time to lose - the camel's training regime must start immediately. He would have to cajole that animal and box its ears until he had it writing entire genealogies and ballads. Natural talent must be harnessed, said Hassan to himself.

Hassan started with something simple. He stood beside the camel, took a stick, and traced on the ground, from right to left, the following words:

(Hassan is great and generous and good).

'Copy that as neatly as you can,' he said to the camel, and with the stick he rapped its knees one by one. The camel turned and spat carefully into Hassan's left ear. This was going to be hard work.

* * *

Gorom-Gorom is a small town where everyone knows everyone, and when two market days passed without an appearance from Hassan, people began to wonder what he was up to. One man in particular was getting anxious. Yero Askula, the town troubadour, had not sold any blank cassettes for a long time, and the continued absence of his best customer perplexed him. Tabaski, the feast of Abraham, was approaching, and Yero Askula needed money to buy a new robe and a nice fat sheep. He decided to pay Hassan Djiwa a visit.

'Salaam Alekum,' called Yero Askula, standing at Hassan's closed gate and clicking his knuckles anxiously. (The closed gate was unusual in itself. In Africa, people always leave their gates open during the day.)
'Alekum Asalaam,' came Hassan's voice from behind the gate. 'Is that you, Yero Askula? Peace, I hope?'
'Peace only,' called Yero Askula. 'I have brought you some fine C90's with the long thin labels you like so much.'
'Very kind of you, Yero Askula, but I do not need C90's today, or indeed – Zorki!'
Yero Askula stood on tiptoes and tried to look over the wall into Hassan's yard, but he was too short. He clicked his knuckles harder and harder.
'What are you doing in there, Djiwa Hassan?'
'I will show you,' came Hassan's voice, 'on the day of Tabaski. On the day of Tabaski I will show the whole town!'
Yero Askula returned to the market-place dejectedly. Robe or sheep. Thanks to Djiwa Hassan's curious, antisocial antics, he would have to choose one or the other.

* * *

Tabaski dawned at last and countless small children rushed hither and thither in great excitement. Some of them went from door to door, wishing people a blessed feast and asking for sweets. Some of them went straight to the market-place to get in place for the day's festivities. Various activities were planned, but there was one thing in particular which the children did not want to miss. The whole town was talking about the special something which Djiwa Hassan would be unveiling that day.

Inside his yard, Djiwa Hassan rubbed his hands together gleefully. For the fourteenth consecutive time that morning, his camel had accurately reproduced the sentence they had been working at:

(Hassan is great and generous and good).

Three weeks of painstaking work had paid off. His prodigy was ready to face its audience. Today Gorom-Gorom, tomorrow the world.

* * *

The Tabaski festivities followed their normal course. There was the usual three-stringed guitar contest, won by Yero Askula. There was the usual calabash race for women, won by Mad Mariama of Yengerento, followed by the usual debate amongst the judges as to whether it was acceptable to bewitch the calabash. There was the usual shooting contest, won by blind Gorko Bobo (with an impressive score of sixteen vultures). He won the pouring tea from a horse competition, too, and no one knew how he managed it.

But throughout it all, there was an extra special buzz in the air. What would Hassan Djiwa show them that was so wondrous? They were soon to find out.

'Salaam Alekum,' cried Hassan, leaping out from behind a mango tree. He was wearing his purple polkadot special-occasion turban.
'ALEKUM ASALAAM!' roared the crowd in a state of ferverish excitement.
'I have something to show you,' cried Hassan, 'which will make your eyes bulge like bullfrogs.'
'Show us now!' roared the crowd.
'CATULLUS!' cried Hassan, 'Come on down!'
The crowd parted and a camel loped down the aisle to join Hassan at the front. It was wearing Rayban sunglasses, and a baobab-leaf cigar stuck out between its teeth.
'Camel,' said Hassan quietly, 'in your own time…'

The camel chose an area of sand on a slight upwards slope, in full view of the people. He smoothed it gently with a hoof, and then began to write. There was a collective gasp followed by an awed hush.

Hassan picked up a calabash and moved up into the crowd, murmuring, 'Donations, please' and 'Even gifted camels must eat.' By the time he looked over at what the camel was writing, it was already too late.

The camel had diverged from the agreed script. It was writing fast and fluently, a frown of intense concentration on its face.

Hassan was overtaken by rage. He ran through the crowd to where blind Gorko Bobo was standing. He seized Gorko Bobo's rifle. He took aim.
'Stop him!' someone cried, but to no avail. Children screamed. Women fainted. Men Zorki-ed. And the camel keeled over in mid-sentence.

After that, everyone went quiet. Yero Askula, Mad Mariama, and all the people of Gorom-Gorom (except those who had fainted) stared at the shapes in the sand. Most of those present did not understand Arabic - they just felt sorry for the camel which had made such beautiful lettering. The few who did understand Arabic felt a deeper sorrow.

Hassan is a thief and he dresses badly.
Please take me back to the house of Diallo Munnyal in Bamako.
By the way, the hundredth name of God is