A second fact troubled the young journalist: the murderer seemed sure he would be released rather quickly. When the investigating judge asked him certain questions, he gave cryptic answers that sometimes sounded like threats. And after several days, he had become more and more impatient. Then, overnight, he changed his attitude, to the surprise of his jailers and the judge. After he had successfully made the case that he was mentally unfit, he appeared to have all the traits of a normal person and even a sort of formidable intelligence. Besides, if so many years later the case still has some gray areas, it is because he seemed to be a gifted manipulator.
We insist upon seeing Kaveena’s murder as the great enigma in our political history. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, in my opinion: with so many confessions and all kinds of evidence, the case is closed, as they say. The merit of the journalist lies in his perseverance. That is not all: sensing the coup of the century, he had managed to get an interview with the prisoner awaiting trial.
All this happened, if I remember correctly, about fifteen years ago. Well, our country has not yet recovered from this banal interview. The prisoner made veiled references to being the main henchman of an influential politician of foreign origin. He claimed to be overwhelmed by remorse and ready to confess everything to ease his conscience. He spoke of having nightmares wherein a little girl asked him every night why he was such a wicked uncle. With admirable perspicacity, the journalist suggested that the girl in question could be Kaveena. The murderer’s repentant words made headlines very quickly. There were the usual pompous and hypocritical editorials about the dangers of impunity. At first the government tried to lie low; it tried to suggest that it was too busy working on the country’s development and had no time to devote to nonsense. Unfortunately for the authorities, the man was diabolical and had secretly filmed the murder. I remember that, at the time, there was no bad blood between N’Zo Nikiema and Castaneda. But they fought a ferocious battle behind the scenes to get their hands on that tape. Luck was on N’Zo Nikiema’s side. I also believe that I was quite helpful with this issue.
It is not an exaggeration to say that this tape completely changed the recent history of our country. It continues, too, to weigh on its evolution, as you will come to realize later.
I was one of the half dozen or so people to whom Nikiema showed the film. As you know, I am not the emotive type. But I was really very shocked. However, I didn’t show any of this during the secret screening. I limited myself to offering the president purely technical advice.
“There is a fourth character, Mr. President,” I said.
Everyone stared at me in amazement. “What do you mean, Colonel Kroma?” asked Nikiema.
“We almost always see the murderer from the back. Little Kaveena and the one who ordered the kill are constantly seen facing us. This means that an accomplice was holding the camera, not the murderer himself.”
It was just like the end of a detective novel. The investigator who is always smarter than everyone else pulls on his pipe a couple of times and then reveals the key to the mystery. There was a small commotion. Suddenly there was a blinding clarity to the situation.
Let’s note that I never uttered Castaneda’s name. He was shown from all angles, with his mouth covered in blood and hurling the vilest profanities. I was content to have called him the mastermind behind the murder. I didn’t know for what political reasons N’Zo Nikiema had not yet decided whether it was good that Castaneda appeared in the video. It was ridiculous but it also showed that politics had nothing to do in a world governed by the five senses of ordinary people. For now, the real question was, who had made this film? Each of us knew that this was the type of person who could blow up the country. There was no question of letting him live. There were episodes like this in a country’s history that one might find peculiar: a girl is killed and it leads to a series of assassinations planned in high places with a kind of relentless logic that make it absolutely necessary. The question that plagues us during this time is not about respect for human life. It is whether everyone agrees that the following day the sun will be rising in the east again, as always.
Within our small gathering, nobody really liked the invisible cameraman. I was responsible for finding him and killing him off. That was quick. As for the overly talkative prisoner, we encouraged him to escape. He was made to believe it was an order from his chief. He rushed toward the center of Maren driving a car that he stole in front of the prison. He got onto a one-way street, honking like crazy, causing a spate of accidents and agitating the peaceful citizens. Our elite snipers were dispatched and they shot him right down. It all happened at the peak of broad daylight. Nobody could suspect that we had mounted this operation. It was clean work.
But we had seen nothing yet.
The Kaveena affair was the start of the first serious rupture between N’Zo Nikiema and Pierre Castaneda. They had fought over small things without any real consequence. With this crime, the distrust had been sown for good. If we look at everything that came after, it can be argued that Kaveena’s death cost us a bloody civil war. Also, when it erupted, neither of the two friends was caught unawares: the troops had been deployed to war for nearly two years. Two years during which Pierre Castaneda felt very lonely. Every morning, the newspapers reminded him of his foreign origins. Owner of the largest mining company in the country and Nikiema’s mentor, he was described as a lingering colonial, racist and paternalistic. A private radio station managed by this somewhat crazy guy had organized a quiz about who plotted Kaveena’s murder. The correct answer was one of the following three: someone who’s been very active in the French mining industry since the colonial period; a myopic shoemaker from Minsk, Belarus; or finally, a bus driver from Yokohama.
There were also articles just about Kaveena. An only child, she was described as an intelligent girl who was full of life. Her father, a young gang leader in Kisito, didn’t make much time for her and she had been raised by her grandfather, a modest taxi driver. Completely broken, the man relied on divine justice. Newspapers claimed that she had the best grades in her class. She had never set foot in a school but no one was bold enough—or mean enough—to recall that. It was important for N’Zo Nikiema’s enemies to show that Kaveena was gifted. It was a simple idea: as long as the president remained under the negative influence of a foreigner, little girls with beautiful futures ahead of them would be murdered.
Pamphlets from mysterious organizations discussed the video. According to them, you could see Castaneda slitting Kaveena’s throat. Castaneda suspected Nikiema of spreading these rumors. Sensing that they would be caught between Nikiema and his mentor, the opponents of the regime decided to turn the knife in the wound. They taunted Nikiema’s ego. Would the noble heir to Nimba’s throne, not to mention a democratically elected president, always remain an errand boy for Pierre Castaneda? To illustrate this, Castaneda would snap his fingers and President Nikiema would come right away to stand in front of him, nose in the air, tail wagging like a little spaniel. From then on caricatures showed him at the end of a leash held by his master.
Presumably these contrived caricatures were too coarse to be effective. It was also not the first time N’Zo Nikiema had been criticized for being a puppet. But it was only then that the assertion started to exasperate him. If you ask me why, it won’t take me too many words to explain: the video of Kaveena’s murder. I also found this famous tape stashed away in the basement of the small house. Thanks to this, Nikiema finally believed he could get Castaneda. He didn’t want to have him arrested; he wanted to force him into fleeing the country. The government could then nationalize Cogemin, the famous mining company. This was an old dream of Nikiema’s and he had never felt so close to its realization.
No one will ever know why N’Zo Nikiema chose to spare Castaneda. Opinions on this issue were mixed. Some said, “Nikiema was misled by the nobility of his soul. He could not shed the blood of a man who had helped him a lot over the years, and who had become a true
brother to him.” Pan-African humanism, essentially. Others argued the exact opposite. For them, Nikiema believed that humiliating Castaneda would allow him to spare his life but enable Castaneda to escape. What was the truth? I was better informed than most of these discerning analysts. But I confess I didn’t have the answer. In fact, the situation seemed to speak for itself. Nikiema had the opportunity to eliminate Castaneda and he did not. He was the leopard propelled in pursuit of a frightened gazelle. But instead of pouncing on his prey, he left it to die slowly from exhaustion.
This is a hypothesis. I am not sure of anything.
Anyway, everyone knows what happened next. What followed were the crowds, which, within only a few months, poured into the streets of Maren and our other major cities chanting, “Casta-ne-da president! Casta-ne-da president!” It was up to the former head of Cogemin to take power or stay put, the elders announced over our heads. He was wise enough not to push his advantage beyond what was reasonable. I saw the winner of the civil war hesitate for weeks in deciding among the many candidates who might succeed Nikiema. Ultimately he zeroed in on Mwanke, who didn’t seem like a bad choice to me—from a purely technical point of view. It’s hard to see the new president trying to be under Castaneda’s thumb. Mwanke doesn’t like these stories, and having an official photo taken with the president-general is enough to keep him happy. It must also be said that except for the short time that he was the improvised captain of the ghost army for national liberation, Mwanke remained throughout his life in the service of Castaneda. He had even been his night watchman and then was promoted, with dedication but not without difficulty, to the position of his private secretary. Well isn’t that convenient, a puppet used to long night vigils. While President Mwanke snored like a fool all day, Castaneda took the country. At night, Mwanke, obviously an insomniac, brought girls to his palace and watched porn with them all night, emptying bottles of whiskey, beer, and gin. Mwanke was kind of a clumsy giant—each of his legs could carry two or three of his drinking companions, and the ones he chose were always weak and full of endless crap.
During these years in the small house, N’Zo Nikiema found a thousand and one ways to tell her one thing: Mumbi, I am innocent. Appearances were not in his favor. Nor were the rumors. Nor were his other crimes, real as they were. It’s true: he had never intended to build his career on the nobility of sentiment and things like that. No one rises to the top just by reciting God’s Ten Commandments by heart. It has never been the case anywhere on man’s earth.
But the words . . . the words formed in his head and swirled around ad infinitum. The words, like the palace goldfish in their bowl. He sometimes looked at them and thought: an imitation ocean. An ocean with glass walls. Little rocks made of rubber in ghastly colors. You give me a good laugh, you. But even though trapped in his throat, these words sometimes escaped from him in the middle of the night. Mumbi just could not hear them. No doubt he was afraid of her. She looked at him with contempt and his heart froze with shame. Often, there in his palace, Mumbi’s image loomed over him. This could happen at any time of the day, during a meeting with the unshaven and arrogant emissaries of the World Bank or on some other occasion. He believed he saw her nod gently with a contemptuous smile on her lips: So this is why you killed my little Kaveena, to shit in your pants in front of these foreigners, just for this, to sell off this country, and now that Kaveena is dead, there is death everywhere, on the roads and at the foot of the mountains.
He had a strong urge to tell her the truth then. He finally felt he had the strength to do so. But not a word left his mouth.
You can do whatever you want with these letters. Maybe tear them up. Maybe not even read them. It doesn’t matter. I don’t feel any shame in telling you what everyone knows.
Yes, I have blood on my hands. And now? The people I killed will not torment me. Frankly, I don’t even remember them anymore. It was almost a game—all about winning or losing. But wait, don’t get me wrong here: in this world, even to lose one round is to die like a dog, with your mouth open. I did what I could to stay alive. Often while reading the newspapers I felt that I was responsible for all suffering not only in my country but of our entire time. Maybe I don’t deserve so much credit. But I do have staunch enemies: when they capture their prey, they don’t hand it over.
I know that you know. Our future has already been determined very far from here and in our absence.
I imagine them sitting around a table one morning. In an office of one of their government departments, don’t know which one. Whatever. It’s cold, the street is gray and humid, and their faces are dead. Nearby, the old folks play pool. Pierre Castaneda is there, no doubt. He is among those whose names are hardly remembered in History. They are not very talkative. However, you find them at the core of all the big decisions. For some years I was his friend and the only black employee at Cogemin—the powerful mining company. On returning from one of his trips, Pierre Castaneda seemed very happy to announce some good news. It wasn’t everybody who returned from a trip and told a friend, almost in a joking tone, “My brave fellow, the time of independence is here for your country and, shhh . . . don’t tell anyone, hmm, hmm.” Muttering, winking, little confidential bits.
I knew enough to realize what I should do. Colonialism had decided to let itself die. So I created a fiercely anticolonialist party. Good old Pierre Castaneda did not spare me his support. Everything went pretty well. There were so many who wanted this, this job as the Enlightened Guide of the nation. And Pierre and his friends rooted for me. As simple as that. Only morons imagine it happens otherwise. I certainly didn’t miss the support of some of my rivals in this, either. We tried, on the basis of my speeches, which were often truly incendiary, to pass ourselves off as anti-white. But this country is Cogemin before it’s anything else. Pierre calmed everyone down by offering good explanations. And after a few bloody fights against Communist guerrillas, I became president of the republic.
Maybe you’re too young to know how it happened in all the countries formerly occupied by France. I wouldn’t say this has been hidden from your generation, but nobody tells you about it, which is the same thing. A shame. There was a ceremony on July 14, 1959, at the Place de la Concorde. Cheikh Anta Diop is indignant about it in one of his books. General de Gaulle shook hands with each of us, gave us a little flag, and said something like this: “My dear men, I hand over your land to you in good condition. Take good care of it. Farewell and see you soon.” Do the servile ones merely grumble distractedly about the end of centuries of cruelty? We were not stupid enough to take this seriously. In fact, in our hearts, it was such a sham. The less cynical ones believed there was perhaps a small opportunity. But they were naive. Everyone knows how these things happen. They open the door for you, screw your ass on the soft armchair of a black president, and then immediately close the door behind you. You’re clearly a puppet. You are now not aware of anything. If you’re lucky enough to love whiskey, cola nuts, porn films, and all that goes with it, like that idiot Mwanke, then your days are fulfilled and you don’t feel the passage of time.
At that time, we didn’t pay much attention to appearances: Castaneda was both my advisor and the ambassador to France who was feared elsewhere. He also kept an office at Cogemin, where, to tell you the truth, he went less and less. Alleged patriots treated me like a collaborator, a henchman of Jacques Foccart, and there had been kidnappings and bombings, young people went underground, and believe me, Pierre took security into his own hands. I think this is also where, incidentally, he learned to wage war. He had a heavy hand, so to speak. You’ve heard of the Warela and Mirindu massacres. Thousands dead in three days. A colossal devastation! I am not one with a tender heart but I was really horrified. Cogemin brought mercenaries from everywhere, especially from South Africa, Rhodesia, and Central Europe. They had a peculiar title: “operating instructors”! In fact, they commanded the troops on the ground. Pierre Castaneda and his military subordinates saw my emotional state. They
did not like wimps. They told me, “This is a fucking war, my friend, what do you think, you gotta do what you gotta do.” I understood them. They meant, if you keep whining we’ll fuck you in the ass pretty fast with a coup.
Pierre Castaneda wrote me a good speech and I read it. I remember this colorful phrase that he had been so proud to put into my mouth: “In the Warela and Mirindu neighborhoods, we have managed to crush the serpent’s head with a glowing stone. The evil beast will not be rising anytime soon.” I remember this phrase because Castaneda had had a hard time giving it shape. First he’d tried “burning stone,” and then after reading it aloud, he decided, “No, it’s too emphatic—it will be more powerful if it’s said simply: ‘We have crushed the serpent’s head.’ You have to take a deep breath and then let it out forcefully.” And then at the last minute, he changed his mind once again and came back to, “We have crushed the serpent’s head with a glowing stone.” That day he said to me, “Words are what drive the world. Don’t ever forget that, boy. People want words, and the less they understand them, the more effective they are.” Castaneda had a protective side, in a boxing-coach kind of way, where he was rude and paternal in order to push his disciple to give it his very best. These vanities of Castaneda’s could also be surprising since he mainly had the reputation of a fighter. In reality, it was a complex from not having had a real education. But that’s another story and I’ll get back to it when it’s time.
Kaveena Page 6
