Kaveena

by Boubacar Boris Diop

  The civil war definitely ruined our friend Pierre’s image. Let’s just say his Lil Boys were not exactly angelic. But hey, it was war. And now my disappearance is making him crazy. Silent terror. Rage. The former head of the Secret Services, he could do a lot of damage, especially if he’s feeling chatty.

  On Friday morning, the tenth day of my arrival in this small house, I go to see N’Zo Nikiema’s remains. I hope the body dries up quickly. I prefer to live with a cleaned-out skeleton, dry and tidy. I know it’s shocking to talk like this. But try putting yourself in my position before you judge me. I have treated N’Zo Nikiema’s body in an appropriate manner. I took off his clothes and dressed him in a beautiful red and blue pagne. I propped him up in a decent position. And you’ll soon learn that the deceased was from the royal family of Nimba and I have prayed for him to Fomba, who has been declared the Ancestor of the Ancestors. All in all, I’ve done everything to pay respects to the dead even in these difficult circumstances. But I won’t lie: the sticky black liquid flowing out of N’Zo Nikiema’s body makes me sick. It smells awful. I do have the right to say I don’t like it.

  After this inspection, I gather all the pages from the school notebooks scattered on the floor. They come from several different notebooks. The ones covered with dust had obviously been piled up for months in the drawers and on the shelves. I can deduce from this that the place has remained unoccupied for months. Everywhere else, in the musty rooms and even in Mumbi’s studio, I get an unpleasant suffocating sensation; the spiders have woven their webs in the darkest corners of the ceiling and behind the furniture. In the little corner that serves as the kitchen, I found two half-loaves of moldy bread hanging over the edge of the sink.

  To stretch my legs, I walk around as I scan through N’Zo Nikiema’s notes. The same question about the same person always comes up: Mumbi Awele. She is apparently young and I also believe I know whom these notes are about. I promise myself that I will check out some of the details later when I am more relaxed. I already have one theory, the kind that comes from intuition, from weak and disparate signs and a certain atmosphere: President Nikiema lived here in some way—but how? With this artist? During the last four months of his life, which he spent in this house like a trapped animal, he wrote letters that often seemed desperate and which she will most likely never even read.

  During my little stroll around the house, I feel something under my feet. A discreet bulge under the zebu-skin rug. Almost nothing, in fact. If I weren’t gripped by this nervous tension, I’d probably not have realized anything. I also believe that having been a good cop has helped me in this particular situation. Most normal people—those who haven’t been involved in investigations or interrogating suspects or haven’t spent their entire lives looking for clues—would not have paid attention to this bump on the floor. But me, I stopped to examine it, and I can boast that it’s exactly what needed to be done.

  I didn’t immediately discover the entry to the underground passage. But less than a week later, I find it. N’Zo Nikiema had installed a secret shelter in the small house. To get there, one has to go up the terrace by a staircase that is carefully hidden behind a wardrobe and then again down two floors. To get to the heart of the shelter, one has to cross many intertwining galleries. Nothing, though, leads me to believe that Nikiema hid down there permanently. I believe he was safe enough in the living room, the back room, and the studio. But at the slightest suspicious noise, he could get out of danger in a few seconds.

  How many years had it taken N’Zo Nikiema to get this bunker constructed in the depths of this small house? He had managed to do it without anyone’s knowledge, including Castaneda and myself. He had already hoodwinked us by building an allegedly secret passage beneath the palace. Castaneda and I were not supposed to be aware of that either. We were secretly amused about that. Each of us used to say, poor Nikiema, the moment will come when he’ll have a nasty surprise. The tunnel opened up at the ocean and helicopters waited permanently on a beach that was obviously forbidden to the public. To keep themselves from getting bored, the pilots—originally from Ukraine, though there were also two giant Greeks among them who were actually twins—padded around on the beach with an air of importance. They wore big dark glasses, had dreadful tattoos on their forearms, and chewed gum all the time. Yes, you’ve seen them—or their type—in American action films. And of course, during the final assault on Nikiema’s palace, Pierre Castaneda waited for him on the beach. The president was supposed to flee his residence like a rat smoked out of his hole and he was going to be picked up stealthily on the beach. But good old N’Zo Nikiema! He was no fool, and Castaneda made the mistake of underestimating him.

  I doubt the construction of the bunker took much time. These things are done pretty quickly, to limit any security leaks. After it’s done, you have to kill the architects, workers, carpenters, to eliminate all potential leaks. Nikiema must have slaughtered all those people with his own hands. I come from this profession and I know the term “methods adapted for the situation.” This one’s called major force number one. I’m kidding but that’s the idea. To tell you the whole truth, these secret presidential shelters are often sweet little graveyards. The bodies of the unfortunate ones are probably down there somewhere.

  Pieces of broken bottles litter the ground. I bend down to pick them up one by one. After wrapping them up in a piece of cloth, I throw them into the blue plastic bucket that I am using as a trash can and I give the floor of the living room a quick sweep. The dust starts to fill up my nostrils and I manage to block my sneezes so that I don’t make any noise.

  While sweeping the living room, I pass N’ko Nikiema’s body several times but it hardly even catches my eye. This is a good sign and proof that I am gradually becoming the master of this place. After putting away the cleaning supplies, I come back and lift the cover. Nikiema’s skin, always clear when he was alive, has become waxy and black like coal. It seems to stick more and more violently to his bones.

  In order to better understand how it feels for me to be face to face with N’Zo Nikiema’s corpse, you have to remember: this man was my boss. Of course, I dropped him when it became obvious that Castaneda was going to win the war. But I could never forget our refined collusion. Beyond our working relationship, we had true mutual respect for one another. Nikiema didn’t expect me to lick his boots, and that I rather appreciated. He used to like to cruise around alone at night through the streets of Maren behind the wheel of an inconspicuous Toyota. At times, he would ring my doorbell in Lamsaar-Pilote, order a coffee, and head into the children’s room to help them do their math homework. He would talk to them for hours about Mansare, the old man who was responsible for his education since he was, at the time, the crown prince of the Kingdom of Nimba. He would come back and find my wife, Mberi, and I in the sitting room. And dreamily, in a drawling voice, he would say things like, “We are all so good when we are small children! It’s only afterwards that we start to rot.”

  In public, we managed to communicate through discreet signals. That way, I could keep watch over him without anyone noticing. But it wasn’t always possible to shoo away the pests. That brings to mind a memorable reception at the Tunisian embassy that I must tell you about. Nikiema had to make a personal appearance at the commemoration of that country’s Independence Day. He was chatting with his host and, I believe, our minister of foreign affairs. These types of conversations with the bigwigs of the world are difficult: one must never remain silent for a single minute and yet, at the same time, one must really say nothing. People would avoid, for that matter, being in the presence of the president on these occasions, out of respect, but also so as not to open themselves up to the risk of saying something foolish. And on that particular day, an individual wearing a black tuxedo decided without the slightest awkwardness to join the group. I was, as always, about six feet away from N’Zo Nikiema. I saw him give a questioning look to the two people he was talking to. And the intruder, wearing the bow tie
and glasses of an armchair intellectual, was completely at ease. Each time the Tunisian ambassador or his two hosts would try to say something, he would cut them off and talk complete rubbish in a pompous tone. On top of that, he was talking so fast that no one managed to make him shut up. Nikiema was very irritated. Only here’s the thing: there is no law that forbids a citizen to speak to his president. Apparently, in a democracy it’s even recommended. Had Nikiema snapped at the guy, the newspapers would have made a big fuss about it the following day. The guy was putting on airs the whole time and each time someone would try to get a word in, he would hasten to say, forcefully, as he waved his glass of grapefruit juice, “Ah, yes! That is the fundamental problem, Your Excellency!” I do believe he repeated that sentence a dozen times. Then, without warning, he went into a rant about the construction of a hotel where the old Wandimbe market used to be: “Do you realize, Mr. President, what they have done? A ton of cement was used there to suffocate the joyous cries of the stallholders. Have you heard our sellers? ‘Come here, little madam, with my chicken meat your husband will never go seeking a co-wife, you’ll be all alone at home, madam, forever the queen. That said, madam, your headscarf is so elegant. . . . And this perfume!’ Hmm! Mind your own business! There they are, Your Excellency, our brave street peddlers in front of their fruit stands, teasing the young women—neither young nor beauties, mind you—who smile and proceed nonchalantly on their way, and, well, all that sure is charming. Surely, you weren’t aware of this scandal, Your Excellency. ‘Yet another scandal,’ the gossipmongers will say, but I don’t meddle in politics, Your Excellency. And that’s not all. . . . The cement, that horrible greenish lump, locked away the smells of mango and papaya in its nocturnal greenhouses. And the peppermint! And the jasmine, the laurel leaves! Yes, jasmine, Mr. Ambassador, allow me a little playful wink, for I know your lovely country well. Some mornings I’ve haunted every nook and cranny of the Ariana Market, a lively place, full of color, spices, and delicious fruits if there ever were any! It all filled the air with fragrance, I say! Replaced with what? With a five-star. Again, one must look closer, Your Excellency, because those stars, without intending to denigrate anyone, are more often about the company and its schemes. And what happens is, they replace those noble and ample fragrances with the mediocre smells of rancid oil, marinated meat, and imported chocolate. Imported chocolate! And they will tell me that it’s all beneficial for the nation! Your Excellency, my respect!”

  As he said those last words, he bowed with profound reverence, bending completely in half, and headed toward two stunningly beautiful women standing in the background. I have never seen an individual squawk like that and at such speed. What’s more, he didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk. Naturally, no one dared to come gather around the president. But everyone was waiting for his reaction without making it obvious. He wore a forced smile on his face, though I’m pretty sure that at one point he burst out laughing without meaning to. When the guy left, Nikiema looked over at me with a gesture I knew well. Message received loud and clear.

  Three days later, my guys and I went to grab the fellow at dawn. I said to him, “We are aware of your activities, sir.”

  He began with an air of detachment: “That’s why you come to my home at five in the morning?” he sniggered. He was the leader of a phony environmentalist party and he began to threaten us, saying he would call his network of foreign lawyers to go after us, and other things of that sort.

  I said to him, “Sir, your accomplices have given you up. We’ve found the plans and your arms caches. If I were in your position, I would not play dumb about it. You are the leader of a conspiracy against the state—have the courage to assume responsibility for it.”

  He had no idea what I was talking about. We warmed him up with some electric shocks, crushed his fingers, and then went for his ears as if we were about to cut them off. He admitted to one elaborate terrorist plot after another with no end, but we didn’t give a damn. Then I told him to go back home and keep quiet.

  On the evening of the same day, I gave my report to the president. I think he’d had some drinks, because he launched right into a completely wacky impression of the little freak from the Tunisian embassy. It was pretty well done and we laughed a lot.

  That’s how the deceased N’Zo Nikiema and I got along. You must never believe, though, that it was always simple. At times, I also had to deal with his presidential moods, which I did not understand at all. Like the night when a call came in on my special line. It was Nikiema’s aide-de-camp. I hurriedly got dressed. N’Zo Nikiema was in front of his big-screen television, flipping through hundreds of channels. The palace’s technical services had installed a rather sophisticated setup and I’m quite sure the president had access to any program on the planet. Nothing interested him. “Except,” he said to me one day, “totally moronic movies. Those are relaxing.”

  I entered the sitting room just as he was trying to use the television remote. It jammed and he went into a wild fit of rage. He pressed a button. His assistant dashed in. As soon as he saw the president, he began shaking all over. His rage sustained and ferocious, N’Zo Nikiema asked him where the second remote had gone. The assistant immediately got down on his knees and started searching around for the clicker on the carpet and under the armchairs. I did not like that at all. Humiliating a meager employee like that, treating him like a dog, it was heinous. The more the guy crawled around the floor, the more I hated N’Zo Nikiema. When he retrieved the remote for him, still wracked with fear, the president dismissed him without even a glance in his direction.

  I didn’t wait for his permission to sit down facing him. He had called me in at three in the morning and pretended not to even notice my presence. Every minute, he would change the channel. We saw rap groups, several bits of soccer and American basketball games, commercials, etc. He stopped at a documentary. A leopard set off in pursuit of a gazelle. The image fascinated Nikiema. It was really something. Instead of hurling himself on his prey as we would expect, the big cat had chosen to exhaust it. It seemed like the chase would be endless. Every now and again, he would leap onto the gazelle, and each time he did he would sink his fangs into a different part of its body. When its blood had drained, it began to falter and, in a sudden fit of despair, tried to make itself seem threatening, rearing its horns in a forward motion. The leopard stood still for a few seconds, then started circling around it carefully, not taking his eyes off his prey for even a moment. In the next segment, it was the feast.

  If it had been a good day for him, Nikiema would have told a little joke about the big cat’s tactical genius. Maybe he also would have taken the opportunity to denigrate General Mobutu—“that phony leopard with his ridiculous cap, a real disgrace to Africa”—who only showed bravery when up against defenseless beings. The president hated his Zairian colleague with all his might. I heard him say once or twice, “With Lumumba, the Belgians got their hands dirty, that’s for sure. They could not let a Negro publicly insult a white king and get away with it like that. But for Mulele and the others, their dear friend Sese Seko got along just fine on his own!” The both of them having died the sad way we know that they did, I prefer not to get into the reasons—rather inglorious, I might add—for the enmity between N’Zo Nikiema and Mobutu Sese Seko.

  Nikiema clicked off the TV and turned toward me. “I am sorry to have made you come so late, Colonel Kroma.”

  I was not happy, and I barely responded to him. His distracted, mechanical apology offended me even more.

  He proceeded to tell me why he was feeling so miserable that night. When I noticed that he was about to break into tears, I wondered, annoyed, what he expected of me. That I pity him? There was no question about that. A man of his rank couldn’t let himself go like that. It put too many people in danger. He perceived a look of disdain on my face and little by little pulled himself together. I promised him, without actually having to say anything, that our discussion would remain between us.


  We concocted numerous other dirty tricks. I remember one of our schemes, sort of a classic, which is worth sharing.

  When friends would come from far-off places to see him, N’Zo Nikiema would often invite them to dinner. Most of them readily claimed to be anarchists, but they were proud to come break bread at the palace with the president. Sometimes he would say to them, “Let’s take a tour. I am going to show you Maren, my great city.”

  Accordingly, they would pile into two or three cars. He himself would get behind the wheel of one. Actually, those drives were always a little sad. Nikiema would wonder what his guests were thinking as they saw the broken red dusty roads and breathed in the smoky exhaust around the city. Were they, too, saying that it was all his fault—the open canals, the dilapidated houses, the bad odors wafting through the air, the women frying their fritters seated next to piles of trash overrun with scruffy dogs? The dim lights beneath the giant cashew trees, the little beggars who would hold out their blood-streaked stumps at red lights, all of those pathetic things, were they his fault? The dust had always been there; no one could do anything about that. It seeped into living beings, eating away at their organs and destroying their bodies from the inside out with neither haste nor respite.

  These foreign visitors came from rich countries where the streets were so wide and clean that one never even saw them. They were shocked by so much misery and imagined perfectly well the embarrassment Nikiema felt.