The Laughing Cry, page 5
Consider that in scoffing too much at us in the name of some undigested truth you may be playing the enemy’s game. If you want to be of service to the country, make haste to offer us a positive hero in your story.
As for the rest, I hesitate to pronounce an opinion. Whilst reading your work, I was constantly asking myself how to classify it. Sometimes you aspire to the precision of a historian or a sociologist; sometimes you resemble more the griots in whom some see only dream-peddlars and entertainers, and others a key to decoding the life of the village.
I’ll continue, all the same.
Ah yes! the Country, the Country, the Country — but which Country?
Somewhere on this continent, for sure.
Choose for yourself, after a hundred calculations, or just follow your hunch, take a point on the equator, and steer either northward or southward, keeping your nose with the wind, and at a slightly oblique angle. Your craft then, after surviving air-pockets and overcoming tornadoes, will arrive, after a certain time, at a point from which you can just discern the capital of our country. Experienced travellers will tell you that this is the long way and that, to save time, it’s a hundred times better to go first to Paris, London, Lisbon or Madrid, from which, after a night of dedicated dissipation, one can arrive at one’s destination in a flight of a few hours. Surveyors and theorists may shrug their shoulders at this, but Africanists and Africans (not forgetting businessmen of all nationalities) will confirm that this is certainly the shortest way. But Bwakamabé, at his own whim, has added complexities to enter and exit the native land, making us feel how much the access to our paradise is a privilege one can’t accord to the unworthy multitude, and that, after all, there’s no reason for voyaging at random from a state where the people live perpetually in Nirvana.
Despite the intentions delicately and officially expressed by our Chamber of Commerce, the formalities of disembarkation are richly elaborated at the Hannibal-Ideloy Bwakamabé Na Sakkadé Airport. Whether or not you are equipped with a visa that is perfectly in order — that’s not the question — you must in all cases await patiently the laborious reading of every page of your passport, by policemen and officials in a constant bad humour. If your papers show evidence of a passage, even in transit, through one of the countries on the Index, then you will be invited to step into an office where a thousand preparations have been made to receive you. Photographed full-face and in profile, you will then have to fill out a special three-page questionnaire. So that the orderly record-keeper will not feel deprived of attention, the police of this particular branch are also obliged to search your pockets, your shoulder bags and your handbag. They are looking, it seems, for firearms, or for those newspapers, reviews, books or records that are, according to Monsieur Gourdain, far more dangerous than bombs. But if they find (or better still, if you offer) a bit of money, you will greatly shorten your delay here. There are still the health formalities to be undergone. Apart from the usual ones, you must show an absolutely clean slate. Nothing less than a blood test for syphilis and the taking of samples for the detection of gonorrhoea.
An elderly English lady, who was a consultant for the WHO, a specialist in the fight against sexually transmitted diseases, was so enamoured of this practice that she never ceased speaking and writing in its praise on her return to Europe, claiming that in this field our country was the most progressive and the best organised, and its head of state the most enlightened, in the Third World. The World Health Organisation, as one may imagine, didn’t greatly appreciate this type of publicity and decided to dispense with the lady’s services, censuring her moreover for having made a value judgement on a member country. Bwakamabé, by way of reprisal, called a conference, widely reported in the world press, at which he poured forth buckets of rhetoric and compared the Regional Director for Africa to a fish which I refuse to name here. Since then our delegation has regularly opposed the candidature of this distinguished man, who nevertheless continues to represent Africa with great dignity in the councils of the UN. As for the lady, she comes frequently to the country, personally invited by the President to every national celebration. She enjoys exemption from the medical examinations at Hannibal-ldeloy Bwakarnabé Na Sakkadé Airport. But so filled is she with the honesty of all great models of sanctity, so much the enemy of all corrupt privilege, that she declares herself every time ready to undergo them, and even goes so far as to demand them. Evil tongues, which understand nothing of moral sentiments, claim that the elderly lady takes pleasure in the inspection. They say that she will allow no one to perform it except him whose delicate fingers know how to proceed from the first penetration. In that way, she experiences every time the same transports as on the first occasion.
All things considered, these formalities will take you, let us say, a certain time. The upshot will depend upon those on duty, their domestic problems, the contents of your baggage and, finally, the degree of your cooperation. For if it should happen that you lose patience and show it, your fate will vary according to whether you are a foreigner or a citizen of the country. In the former case, you will either be put on the first plane out or kept for some hours under close guard in the airport police post before being expelled; or even (if God so helps you) simply dismissed and followed everywhere you go, under strict prohibition of taking any photos during your stay. In the second case, everything imaginable and unimaginable may happen to you. But if you understand the art of slipping a few dollars discreetly into a palm, then you will discover a land bathed in perpetual sunshine.
I will say nothing about the glories which that sun can display, as if seen through a colour transparency. I will say nothing of the sounds, the smells, the rhythm of the women’s hips as they walk with their headloads. The apostles of exoticism or of negritude, the transcriptions of the scholars, have already sufficiently described our villages and the markets of our cities. There is nothing more to be said. Unless by that genius whom the century still awaits, and who has only a few more years in which to present himself.
The city consists of two quarters: Moundié and the Plateau. Moundié is the African quarter of the colonial epoch, our Adjamé, our Treichville, our Poto-Poto, our Casbah or Medina. When the Uncles were in charge, we had no right to come out of it, except to go to work. If you look attentively at the map, you will see that the quarter is spread in the form of a Traveller’s Palm. All the avenues converge on a central point, where a police post has stood ever since colonial times, which has long since become the Central Commissariat for the city.
In Moundié, all the main streets bear the names of the most prestigious tribes of the continent, along with those of our rivers, our districts and our divisions. There are two exceptions to this rule, however: the Avenue Charles de Gaulle and the former Avenue of France, now renamed Avenue Ma Mireille. There circulates, along with a little water in the street-fountains, a whole crowd of workers and idlers. Whatever their condition, they dance and sing, to relax, to seduce a girl, to forget, to weep for the dead at some wake.
There one seldom sees any cleaning services. Dirty waters drain as they please, whilst scraps and rubbish build mountains in the gutters, sometimes blocking up the channels, sometimes the roads. The dust of the dry season, the mud of the rains, the squadrons of ubiquitous mosquitoes and flies fight for living space in a cunning contest with humanity. There are smells here that act as landmarks at night for the children of the quarter. And I have spoken only of the centre of Moundié.
On its fringes, the last few years have seen the growth of Moundié-Vietnam, where all the latest arrivals from the bush pile up, paying rent to no one. They squat there while continuing, in some cases, to raise animals or plant gardens. “Built in the village, the same house might look less sad, and certainly cleaner,” wrote one Uncle, only to be expelled by Daddy for trying to instruct him in urban development. Daddy’s Minister of the Interior has found a most elegant expression to describe this zone: “the quarter of spontaneous growth”.
To complete this description, it must be added that even in the centre of Moundié there exists an area more chic than the others. An area of solid houses, with tiles, running water, electricity, often a garage and television aerials. This is Moundié-loi-Cadre: the area once set aside for the élite emerging in colonial times, now inhabited by civil servants and small traders. Here lived the young compatriot Cabinet Secretary and all that crowd who considered themselves wiser than Tiya.
Between Moundié and the Plateau Quarter flows the River Kunawa, which washes the banks and swallows the sewage of both worlds. A bridge joins them: it’s called Hannibal-Ideloy Bwakamabé Na Sakkadé Bridge.
The Plateau is what we used to call the Uncles’ quarter in colonial days. Blacks never went there except in the daytime to work. Nowadays its population is, on the whole, much the same, though more and more black officials and officers are beginning to move there. That’s where Soukali and Monsieur the Inspector live.
The panorama from the terrace of Daddy’s Palace never fails to move those privileged to view it, above all those of us who can compare it with colonial days. At that time, only “the building” displayed its six storeys above the low level of the other roofs. Nowadays, a clump (Aziz Sonika would say a forest) of new skyscrapers announces to the visitor that the capital is no longer a bush village. The farthest off of these buildings is the headquarters of the University. Nearer at hand rise the towers of banks, insurance companies, mining cartels and airlines. On all of these, Daddy has imposed a minimum height of seven storeys. (At first, the Uncles protested and complained that they couldn’t rent the space, saying that if they couldn’t build as they chose, they would leave the country. But their ambassador made them see that it was better to put up with Daddy’s caprices than the gulags of a communist regime.) This creates in the air a festival of cement and glistening windows which makes the fortunes of architects, expresses those of the high-ups, and delights the cameras. Above all, affirms Aziz Sonika, it’s a concrete image of Daddy’s policy of development.
A little apart from these stands an immense tower of twenty storeys. This is the Libotama Hotel, thrown up by a big international chain which came here to compete with us and break the monoply that we (I mean, my old hotel by the airport) had enjoyed since colonial days. Its entrance gives onto a vast esplanade, in the middle of which rises a statue of Bwakamabé, all in ivory and rising to a height of . . . well, many feet, you know. Looking at it, one sees a Bwakamabé older and more careworn than in reality, with smooth, well-combed hair. He points towards the clouds and invites us to admire them.
Whenever it rains, I never tire of watching the slow dripping of rivulets over the polished surface, and I allow myself some doubtful thoughts about History and Immortality.
To support all this, and to ensure the comfort of traders, businessmen, officials, officers, ambassadors and technical assistants, a modern city has grown up, complete with office blocks, shops, hotels, cafés and residential areas. And this is Daddy’s pride. Personally, I preferred our old capital. It was more modest, warmer-hearted, fresher to breathe in, and possessing, with its greenery and its trees, a human dimension that I no longer discern. But who understood that? Everyone urged that one mustn’t be against progress in the country, and that the more one cut down the trees, those refuges of wild beasts, reptiles and mosquitoes, the better it would be. Before this spectacle of skyscraper and concrete, the citizen of Moundié declares: that Daddy, really, he works, and he deserves well from his country.
But I’ve said too much, and allowed myself too many indiscretions in my description. Some people might begin to think that it’s in the capital of their own country that Bwakamabé Na Sakkadé lives, which is, of course, totally false and absurd.
To tell the truth, I must say the country concerned is not on any map. If you want to find it, it’s in time that you must go searching.
So go on, turn the page!
After each swallow, the beer foamed for a moment on our lips. We had to lick it off. We tried hard to keep our backs straight. In the hall, French banners and paper lanterns swung in the powerful cross-breeze. All around us the Uncles, mouthing the oaths of sailors on shipboard, tried to catch the attention of the women by their monkey-tricks in imitation of Charlie Chaplin, while the champagne flowed in a thousand sparkling cataracts. From the beginning of the ball the orchestra, with condescending smiles, had dished out tangos, waltzes and other such steps. With our noses in our drinks, we amused ourselves watching the antics of these robots on a track, and the oldsters talking football.
A sophisticated West Indian shone out in the midst of this crowd, with the royal allure of a natural gentleman. We were all gazing at him, but he ignored us completely.
From the nearest table, over her husband’s shoulder, I caught the sympathetic smiles of Madame Berger. She looked regretful whenever her gaze turned towards the dancefloor. The singer, grasping the mike with a dolorous expression, pronounced his vowels with a most curious accent, as he sang of sun, sand and muddy pools.
We were entitled to sit near the door. When the percussion began booming out the samba, one of us nevertheless got up to invite a woman to dance. A colleague from work. She glanced at her husband and regretted that she had sore feet. The orchestra, now with straight faces, broke into a jazzy air. Ay, how we longed to move our limbs! The West Indian got up and gave a performance that brought down the house. Our own applause was more slack.
Taking advantage of the warmer atmosphere, the band gave a two-step. The dancers, singing words to the tune, broke away from their partners and made a ring around the floor, placing their hands on each others’ shoulders. The shy ones were chivvied to join in, as the snake passed them. The rhythm reminded us of the méringué and we joined the line. We moved forward, swinging our feet gaily. They improvised a series of movements — bowing, kissing on both cheeks, catching-the-star, bowing and curtseying again . . . Strictly among themselves, of course. It was during these games that my hand rested a moment on Madame Berger’s shoulder. We changed direction. Now we were two links in the chain. My hand tightened on her shoulder. She had her back to me and went on with her step. Encore after encore — nobody wanted to stop. A few people dropped their arms. The swinging band had managed to dissolve all the couples. Without a break, and amid a big roar of laughter, the band began a well-known Java. Madame Berger, firmly held by my arms, began to turn around. With her breasts against my shirt, I led her in the movements of the kébé-kébé dancer. She pressed back against my hand, hard. Hard, hard, hard. I made her dizzy. Hard, my brother. I no longer saw the hall and she closed her eyes. We could almost have taken off. And the band delighted in playing ever faster.
At the end, I had to help her back to her table.
As soon as the first notes of the next dance began, I saw her follow her husband.
At that time there were still civilian regimes on the continent. Every new republic capped with berets, helmets or képis made them tremble and sit up. In our country, with dread of the unknown gradually fading away, radio grapevine whispered that this was the Fascist regime prophesied by Polépolé when he was warning us against agitators. Then, insensibly, but quite quickly, people began to say that, all-in-all, life was much the same, just as God had made it for donkey’s years now. The way one spent one’s time — the shops, the schools, the factories, the offices, the hospitals — nothing much had changed. Everything had even kept the reassuring aspect of good old habit. No need to go on hoarding sugar and cooking oil, as one had begun to do at first reaction. One could go on baptising or burying the dead after the wake. The women were still fertile and, despite the smell of the maternity wards, still brought forth enchanting little creatures who were just as difficult to feed as ever, once weaned from the breast. Men continued to abuse fellows of other tribes, to go to Bangoura Prison for a yes or a no, to lose their jobs, to dance and to screw. Shops continued sticking on prices and officials going on overseas junkets. Life, in short. Was it more dangerous than before? No one seemed to think so. You had to read foreign newspapers to be troubled about our fate. They all insulted our new chief. They provided information we didn’t have. Daddy decided to forbid the import of the Uncles’ press to our national soil. Aziz Sonika supported this measure in The Southern Cross, where he explained that the presidential decree was healthy. He told us that all serious countries acted in this way, careful of the moral welfare of their children. We had to protect ourselves against the corruption of a West in the full fever of decadence. And anyway, what peasant in the bush was going to bewail the disappearance of trifles only a minority could afford? And Aziz Sonika called our intellectuals every kind of beast you can think of.
As for me, I arranged a means to get hold of this literature, which I devoured with the same relish that I had at one time bestowed on illustrated weeklies and at another on the publications of the Alliance Française. There I learnt that the coup d’état of General Bwakamabé had cost several hundred dead; that those democrats who refused to bow had been herded into concentration camps; that our liberties had been suppressed; that torture had become commonplace; that there was no news of our great writer Matapalé.
These articles were all very fine and proved that, even if we weren’t afraid of what had befallen us, others were anxious on our behalf. But from where we stood, I repeat, reality seemed a good deal more banal. The guards of Polépolé and the forces that the foreign press saw as “lively and democratic” had soon let themselves be intimidated by the guns of the plotters. The democrats didn’t acknowledge each other, and the prisons had been swollen above all with members of Polépolé’s tribe. The camps? Why go to the trouble of creating institutions needing so much organisation? Lucifer’s hell couldn’t be worse than Bangoura Prison. Those who, like old Tiya, had experienced it at different times of our history, even claimed that it was more humane when run by the Uncles — something which I obviously can’t believe. Of all those prisoners, the fate of only one seemed to trouble the Uncles: the writer Matapalé.
