The Laughing Cry, page 19
Daddy has come back to us, wéwé,
The famine must end . . .
Daddy has come back to us, wéwé,
The famine must end . . .
He cried thanks, thanks, thanks, really great thanks. He announced again the joy of a father rediscovering his children. He reclaimed and reaffirmed his roots. He said he had forgotten nothing, that he would never break the vows made on the night of his circumcision. And he made promises. His Minister of Finance frowned heavily. What matter! He announced, just the same, a new road, a new school, a college, a high school, a hospital to replace that old dispensary which was more like a latrine. Water, electricity, telephones, television, a modem stadium, a hotel, a factory, jobs . . . and he just couldn’t go on. His words were drowned in one great joyous sound. Drums, dances, ululations, hoarse shouts, wild cries . . . the organizer managed to restore a semblance of order with barrages of wollé, wollé, woï, woï. The Chief was conducted back to his seat and the gifts began to pour in: delegations from different parts of the Prefecture and its Sub-Prefectures presented, some, the tusks of elephants; some, freshly killed game; some, poultry or sheep with plumes or fleeces of the sacred colour; some, eggs; some, brilliantly-coloured fruit; some, objects of symbolic value. Each time, Daddy stretched out his hands to receive the gifts, but Protocol snatched them in an instant and handed them to Monsieur Gourdain’s henchmen for an examination which probed their length, breadth, and above all their depth, before whisking them off somewhere. The Chief of Protocol took careful note of the name of each delegation. Next day, any missing areas were called to account and required to explain their absence. The liberated schoolboys recited some complimentary verses and were quickly forgotten in the onrush of a group completely carried away by a well-known traditional dance. The women all advanced from one quarter, their breasts bare and their hips embellished only with a cord of vegetable fibres; the men faced them. At regular intervals, the two lines approached each other at a dance step, every dancer seeking to win over and attach a partner from the opposite rank. It was a long business, in which the sought-after girl generally didn’t allow herself to be convinced by the initial contortions. For a while, she put on the airs of a timid virgin, eyelids lowered and head held askance, playing hard-to-get. But see that other woman, breast extended and head at a conquering angle, who announces her self-possession right down her spine and into the wriggling of her loins. Wallai! At last, both ranks, with a common accord, threw themselves into a demonic rhythm, borne up by the drums; movements of love-making in the freest and most energetic styles imaginable, with a richness and variety of postures expressing the imagination of each couple. The crowd, tenderly recognizing these evocations of the supreme pleasure, as much as those of intimate foreplay, felt something slip free in its breast and congratulated the actors with unrestrained shouts and hurrahs of applause, a thousand times warmer than those which had acknowledged the speeches a while before.
I saw Daddy stoop to the ear of the Acting Prefect and point out a young dancer with firm breasts. The high regional official responded with intelligent movements of his head.
Another speech was needed to end the ceremony. This was the business of the most senior host, the Deputy of the region. Filled with the importance of this honour, he came solemnly forward, instantly recognizable among everyone by his black jacket and long tie covered in red spots.
“The ceremony is concluded.”
The crowd applauded, just like a bunch of kids greeting the recreation bell with a thousand cries. And while he was still orchestrating the last exchanges of wollé, wollé, woï, woï, a group came forward to unfold a certain situation to the President. He listened at first with an attentive expression, nodding his head repeatedly with an approving air, then suddenly exploded into the healthy laugh of a soldier on the spree.
“No joking? That’s not bad, then!”
Daddy, looking towards the most senior minister present, crooked his finger, as if pulling a trigger.
“You there, just listen to this. Go and tell him, now.”
The minister just managed a faint smile.
“Did you hear that?”
And Daddy became serious again, all of a sudden.
“Now then, no sentimentality. Let him be taken to the doctor so that he can be brought round. And immediately after that, second course. He must eat all of it. That little cunt must learn. Nothing for it but the methods of Indochina and North Africa. You’ll see. It’s excellent.”
Down there, the punished Prefect could no longer swallow the smallest sprig from the airstrip.
What finally happened to him? Radio grapevine reported that he had finally succeeded in swallowing all the prescribed grasses, had fallen sick thereby for several weeks, but survived. I would have doubted this had I not met the disgraced official later, many years later, in Moundié. But, even though I didn’t dare question him about it, I have some suspicion of trickery on his part, or on that of his “executioners”.
I’m certain I saw arriving at Daddy’s residence that evening, first the girl who served him drinks at our arrival, and later one of the dancers. I underline this detail only to demonstrate the high amatory performance of Daddy, not with any other motive. How would I dare? Up to a certain rank, all the members of the delegation had the pleasure of discovering under their mosquito nets, at the end of the day, a gift that was living, young, hot and firm, and which it would have been maladroit, nay insulting, to refuse. I have myself profited from this custom many times. This is a legacy from our ancient traditions which, moreover, the most intelligent of the Uncles have urged us to preserve scrupulously, to protect ourselves from the alienating and isolating influences of the modern world. My grandfather, who was of high rank among the Djabotama — hence the possessor of many wives — never missed an opportunity to gratify a guest in this manner, for the sweetening of his stay.
Next day, there was a big meeting in the college. The tables were arranged in a U: the President at the base, the four deputies of the region beside him, the ministers a little further off, to the right of the Acting Prefect. After a brief introduction by the last-named, the doyen of the Djabotama parliamentarians (the one of the black jacket and spotted tie) spoke on behalf of everybody. He held his paper in one hand, while brandishing the forefinger of the other.
“Your Excellency!”The poignant silence of the villages fell.
“By the present intervention, oh! how much a message from us, it is my humble duty to relate succinctly to you all our sufferings which require an appropriate response, for many wait with abnegation, due to the aberrant tendencies which impede the free passage of our products and our writings towards Your Excellency in particular and to all those surrounding you in general.”
And the old one continued studiously, like a peasant indifferent to cruel mockery, a long speech larded with classic past tenses, subjunctives and allusions to the Pantheon of Ancient Greece.
Apart from myself, no one was really listening.
He was loudly applauded. Pwa, pwa, pwa. Pwa, pwa, pwa.
He stopped and folded up his paper. One might say that his nervous hands crumpled it. Looking from the nodding President to the silent hall, he threw his fist in the air and bellowed.
“Wollé, wollé?”
“Woï, woï!” replied the hall.
“Wollé, wollé?”
“Woï, woï!”
The Deputy resumed his seat amid the applause of a satisfied audience. Another man now rose, breast adorned with a diagonal scarf in the Party colours. Another elected leader, no doubt. But a murmur ran through the hall, now blossoming into smiles. As the man approached, I read an inscription on his scarf. He came to a halt just in front of Daddy, to whom the Acting Prefect slipped a piece of paper.
The newcomer presented himself:
“Jim Ngwalessa, called Misadventure, C.E.O., elected by the business leaders and money-lenders of the Libotama community.”
The crowd broke into peals of laughter and loud applause. My neighbour whispered to me that this was a former orderly of the administration, since retired, and now running the most popular bar-cum-shop in the Prefecture. Daddy, who had just finished mouthing through the Acting Prefect’s note, smiled rapidly. I managed to decipher the inscription on the scarf. It was the exact title with which Jim Ngwalessa had just introduced himself.
“Speak Kibotama, ko.”
The room was suddenly like a punctured tube. It struggled to restrain its impulse to laugh, but finished by letting it out, little by little. The man continued in the same vein.
“Leave off that foreign tongue, dé.” Speak Kibotama now, ko.”
“Kibotama, Kibotama! What sort of incitement is that, eh? You think you’re the only one who knows how to knock that lingo with his tongue?”
“Ah, talk Kibotama, you too!”
“Okay. Shit! Just listen.”
And bending his right arm with a theatrical flourish, he began in perfect alexandrines:
O combien de marins, combien de capitaines
Qui sont partis joyeux pour des courses lointaines,
Dans ce morne horizon . . .
And suddenly, like a kite which has decided to fly, he was off, reciting the famous verses of Hugo amid a reverent silence:
. . . de vieux parents, qui n’avaient plus qu’un rêve,
Sont morts en attendant tous les jours sur la grève
Ceux qui ne sont jamais revenus!
The crowd broke out in respectful and sincere applause. Jim was at attention in front of Daddy. He made a little Japanese style leap, then returned to his place, his neck filled with pride, like a player who has just hit the mark. Just before sitting down, he paused, gazed at the representatives of Libotama and hurled at them:
“Your mother’s cunt!”
The laugh that greeted him confirmed that there was no ill-will towards the old man.
There were several more orators to make their contributions, beginning with “as you have so justly remarked”, or some such phrase, and who strove to impress upon Daddy that they, at least, had well understood the Chief s lecture, but that it would be a struggle to get it across to their fellow-citizens.
Daddy replied to all of them in one go, emphasising that he was pleased with this family discussion; that he loved the frankness of it; that it was not good to harbour evil thoughts deep in the heart; that by bringing them into the open one created the occasion for clearing up any misunderstandings; that he had not been insensible of his brothers in the bush; but that problems shouldn’t be posed in terms of regions and that he, Daddy, was the father of all regions and all tribes, so . . . And he began to take issue with the Honourable Deputy. He shook him a bit with his words, certainly, but with discretion for, as the elders say, when one beats one’s own child one softens the blows. And he went on to a fresh enumeration of all the promises he had made at the previous day’s meeting. He was clapped all over again. I was not following at this point. I kept looking back towards Jim.
Daddy’s conclusion was a recapitulation of his promises, during which the Minister of Finance kept nursing his chin, careful to ignore any looks in his direction.
“At the beginning it was action! An end to unkept promises. A promise is a debt! I’m not a blabbermouth, you see. In truth, I say to you that you can make the comparison between Polépolé and me, and you will regret nothing. My ministers will return here only to lay the first stones, and I for the inaugurations.”
Unforgettable departure from Libotama. It was by road. Same festivities as at our arrival. They accompanied us as far as the ferry over the river which meanders along the borders of the Prefecture. The line of Land Rovers embarked upon the raft by means of heavy steel ramps, while the villagers on the Libotama bank sang songs and danced in a way to stir the most intimate chords of the Chief’s heart. First he sketched the steps of the dance in response to the farewell, then he spoke to the orderly officer in a tight voice.
“Lieutenant, give me a bundle.”
Opening the attaché case that he always carried, the lieutenant offered, in a clumsy manner meant to pass for discretion, a bundle of banknotes in glazed paper. Daddy, with big, nervous and dramatic gestures, tore off the elastic band and began to throw into the wind, in the manner of a seedsower, copies of his effigy which spun like propellers before settling on the surface of the river. Immediately, the children began to plunge into the water, quite forgetting the power of the spirits that normally inhabit it. Then the adults. Everyone swam with desperate strokes towards the sodden notes. In the spouts of water, one could make out the wild movements of one person and another tearing feverishly at this manna fallen from the skies. There were, no doubt, quite a few punches exchanged. Daddy began laughing and went on throwing notes into the wind and the water. How many of them were recovered intact, how many torn, how many carried away by the swirling river? Daddy laughed, laughed in fits, laughed and laughed again.
Daddy, like the Guinarou, was standing in his place hurling oaths at the sky, shaking the furniture, the windows, and the mirrors. As frightful as the Guinarou, really. I had a problem even to keep the tray steady on my hand.
“Just look at that!”
Chin up, eyelids beating like the wings of a butterfly.
“Just read all this filth . . . those white swine!”
The office was carpeted with newspapers.
“Afraid that I’ll become a communist! Because I talk about national resurrection and pay homage to our Chinese comrades. Always that racism of theirs. Although Papa de Gaulle himself used to talk about national independence. As if what I saw over there does not deserve any praise. And they begin to insult me. Like a nobody! Like a barbarian! Barbarians themselves, no? Just read this. Gavroche Aujourd’hui” (grimace of disgust). “Look at this cartoon. Have I got the head of a startled monkey, eh?”
He unfolded another.
“And this one calls me ‘the black king’. Is that not racism? Their mother’s cunt!”
As for me, I wanted to read everything, peacefully.
“And this one, just look at it. Look! It claims, it actually has the nerve to claim, that I pay for my trips with foreign aid — his mother’s cunt! — with the aid pennies, instead of paying off our debts. Do you get that? Get it? And if The Southern Cross would dare to slight their President Pierre Chevalier, you’d soon enough see that miserable ambassador of theirs running to demand an audience and explanations.”
“Even apologies.”
It was the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had entered the room without being announced. He was always bursting in on the President without any precaution or scruple. Daddy nodded.
“All right, get Aziz Sonika, right away!” The smile of a malicious child.
“Our ambassador in Paris had better beat the table, too.” This was again the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“Orders already given,” (careless quip over the shoulder).
“Already carried out, respected President.”
“Yes”(grumbling tone), “but those bandits only receive my ambassador with some petty official of their Quai d’Orsay. My am-bas-sa-dor” (punctuated with movements of his finger). “Do you hear? But do you really hear?”
The eyelids continued to flutter like butterflies.
“The whites are the whites. They always treat us like tramps. Just wait.” (He stuck out his chin.) “They think I don’t know them because I’m black. Whereas, l myself am a French citizen. I know their mentality, yessir. They’ll just see.”
He jumped up and began walking, still nodding his head. “Can’t let it pass just like that. Let them see who is Bwakamabé Na Sakkadé, son of Ngakoro, son of Fouléma, son of Kiréwa. Bandits! Things!”
His finger pointed at the notebook of the young compatriot Cabinet Secretary.
“Take a note. Inform the Minister of Propaganda that I’m going to make an important statement which must be broadcast in the mid-day bulletin. Bunch of swine, fuck off!”
He began pacing up and down with hands on hips, puffing his chest, like an athlete after a race. The young compatriot Cabinet Secretary jumped up in his turn.
“Respected Daddy, have you got any instructions to give me for the wording . . .”
“No, no. Already done that myself. I must read a note that corresponds with the rhythm of my breath. No long phrases today, no big French. No Molière, if it’s really Molière that I’m going to send them. Niggers’ balls in the language of de Sévigné. Yessir. They’ll see . . . Take away all this rubbish.”
I hastened to help the young compatriot to gather up all the French papers.
What a tirade! Especially against the Gavroche Aujourd’hui. He abused it, all right, but in a manner . . . to make one put one’s hand to one’s mouth. I used to show it to Elengui, who opened her mouth and then hid it behind her hand. Mam’hé!
I must admit that, even if the Uncles have a different mentality from us, a mentality often difficult to understand, I admire the way their leaders allow themselves to be satirized in the papers . . . In our country, for a lot less . . .
A long afternoon. Boubeu hasn’t come. There was, however, some question of an aperitif with the woman in white of the Hibiscus. Strange how her face troubles me. Neither beautiful nor ugly, but with a power of penetration. Beauty of intelligence, beauty of character. Fierce like lightning. A piercing face. But whose, then? In another life?
