Kaveena

by Boubacar Boris Diop

  Today, I really want to tell you about my first big fight with Pierre Castaneda. It was in March 1963, shortly after the carnage in Warela.

  N’Zo Nikiema stopped writing and gazed into an empty void. I guess he was seeing yours truly, a few years earlier, in his office. I wasn’t yet Colonel Kroma. I was training as a young sergeant in our army and I had just pointed out the elite army unit in Warela to my boss.

  That Monday morning around eleven o’clock, a man asked me to let him see President Nikiema urgently. He didn’t want to speak to anyone but the president. The guy was tough and not easy to intimidate. He kept repeating, “Get me a meeting with the president or I’m out of here.” He was confident and I believed he had an important message for the head of state. When I informed the latter about it, he asked me, “What does he look like?”

  I might have been a novice in my duties as assistant to Security but I wasn’t stupid. In the presidential palace, everyone spoke through allusions. The true meaning of the question had not escaped me. “We searched him, Mr. President,” I replied.

  He received the man, who told him some sensational news. The leader of the rebellion, Abel Murigande, better known as Commander Nestor, had decided to disarm. Murigande was a tough opponent, the kind you were obliged to respect while dreaming every night of cutting him into little pieces.

  Soon after the emissary had left, Nikiema went to find Pierre Castaneda. Commander Nestor’s police file was there, right in front of his eyes. Let’s be clear: I’m not trying to make you believe that Castaneda thought of Abel Murigande night and day. It so happened that the day he was looking at the picture of the guerrilla leader in silence, Nikiema tiptoed into his office as if he were trying to trick him. When Castaneda saw him, he quickly closed the brown workbook. Nikiema smiled to ease his friend’s embarrassment. Neither needed to open his mouth to understand the other. He had long been aware of Castaneda’s fascination with Abel Murigande, a.k.a. Commander Nestor.

  “I was looking at the photo of public enemy number one,” he offered sheepishly.

  “A fault confessed is half forgiven,” replied N’Zo Nikiema, dropping onto the couch in the parlor office.

  “A coffee, Your Excellency?” Castaneda said in his usual tone of derision.

  “Thank you. I’ll make one myself.”

  Nikiema took the coffee machine off the shelf. He liked the name of this machine, Fonzetta, and it had been given to Castaneda by his ambassador to Italy. Using it required a series of complex and almost absurd maneuvers. Nikiema, for example, found it amusing to have to hold it upside down for at least three minutes while it filled up with boiling water. When ready, the drink was delicious. As he cleaned the filter, he felt Pierre Castaneda’s gaze burrow deeply into his neck. He turned to him and said with studied closeness, “Hey, I have some news, bro.”

  “I guessed that as soon as you came in.”

  “Yes,” offered Nikiema in a tone of mockery and complicity. Centuries of dirty tricks there. . . . At the end of the day, they knew each other at the deepest level.

  “Come on, let it out or I’ll shoot it out of you.”

  “Our Commander Nestor is ending it all.”

  “All . . . what, all? Who?” Pierre Castaneda stroked his chin and stared intensely as he asked this question.

  N’Zo Nikiema said again, taking his time, “He’s stopping the fighting. No more guerrilla attacks.”

  Pierre Castaneda remained pensive and N’Zo Nikiema saw his face darken. No doubt dozens of images were flashing through Castaneda’s mind for those few seconds, and N’Zo Nikiema wasn’t sure why, but they avoided looking at each other. It was one of those fleeting moments where each of them felt the nakedness of his soul, one of those moments where you cannot lie to yourself. It’s true that they had no reason to be proud of their long struggle against the guerrilla leader. Nothing could bend Abel Murigande. This showed them the futility of their power.

  Commander Nestor’s decision to disarm completely changed the political situation in the country. Pierre Castaneda could not help but ask N’Zo Nikiema all kinds of questions. Despite the occasional mocking tone of his friend, the latter was aware of Castaneda’s tension and bafflement. Evidently, he found it hard to believe that a stranger had come to N’Zo Nikiema, just like that, to declare, “Commander Nestor sends me to tell you that the guerrilla stuff is over.”

  Maybe there had been secret negotiations that no one had known of. None of this boded well.

  Do you remember the night I told you about Abel Murigande, a.k.a. Commander Nestor? We were sitting in the living room where I now find myself alone. I believe I told you everything. I wanted to, anyway. That night, I was haunted by the ghost of Abel Murigande. Maybe because I was completely drunk?

  Abel was a childhood friend. He meant more to me than his armed rebellion against the state. He was, first of all, a very tough trade unionist. But, for example, when he came to the palace with his comrades to negotiate the end of the strike, we kept our distance for several long minutes. People had become accustomed to seeing us laughing, stirring up memories of our youth in Nimba. Nobody dared to approach us. The truth is, we didn’t need to isolate ourselves. We had too many things that bound us which excluded everyone else. If we wanted, we could speak in public without being understood by anyone. It never occurred to me that this man could be bought. He was truly incorruptible. Such villainy would have surely erased our childhood. When I first got the information about the liberation army that he was trying to put together, I told my wife Salima, “This is it, our Abel is about to get involved in some real bullshit.” Salima remained silent. Abel had seen her grow up and she had a lot of respect for him. By then, the Mother of the Nation had allowed her mind to be completely taken over by God, so to speak. At least, that’s what she claimed, because finally . . . anyway, forget it. I thought I heard the hypocritical woman mutter something about the coming of the Lord of the Worlds.

  In truth, Abel Murigande’s surrender was proof of his lucidity. He couldn’t win and he knew it. Castaneda had managed to infiltrate his headquarters in the bush and turn several of Murigande’s lieutenants against him. With our mercenaries, known as “operating instructors,” who were actually the real war junkies, we had caused a lot of damage. Three hundred thousand were dead since our arrival. Your generation tends to forget this: the first decade after independence in Africa was terrible. All these independences were like clockwork—every time people like Um Nyobé, Lumumba, or others like them tried to disturb the symphony, there were large-scale massacres like here, in Bamileke country, and elsewhere. I don’t need to tell you about Algeria. Don’t ever forget: the colonizer has killed far more people while exiting Africa than while conquering it. It has to be said that leading the country during this time must not have been too difficult. Times have changed.

  Today, they have these tribunals for trying former presidents, with slimy little lawyers putting their noses in photos of mass graves and mockingly asking, “And this one, sir, do you remember it or not?” It’s all one big circus. In the sixties, Castaneda and I were quieter in our small operations. And by the way, Mumbi, let me confess: whenever I try to understand the causes of my defeat, it occurs to me that I was not perceptive of the mutations in time. I stayed in power too long and I did not take into account that everyone had become a little more conniving. Ultimately, this is what got me. I didn’t see it coming that there would be a time when police interviewing a journalist would be an alleged crime against human rights. Such beautiful hypocrisy, right?

  Commander Nestor didn’t have the opportunity to be heard in Europe and America. A nasty Communist—you’d think that no one wanted to listen to him. Basically, he saw that we were the strongest. Go, surrender, it was the only way for him to save whatever he still could. In the days following the announcement, I saw Peter Castaneda at the height of his excitement. Commander Nestor was a myth. His death had been announced and denied several times. I know it’s not good to simpl
ify but I’d still like to tell you: Commander Nestor was the spirit of our people’s resistance. He was someone who had gone head to head with a regime that was completely at the beck and call of the special services of a foreign country, people like Foccart and Co. For Pierre Castaneda, his surrender was a personal triumph.

  In response to Commander Nestor’s message, I announced a call for national reconciliation. I personally went to welcome Murigande and his small group on the right bank of the Saasun. As soon as he got out of his dugout and walked toward me, it all became clear: Abel was dying. He was dying and wanted to be buried in his homeland when the time came. His eyes were filled with a fierce pride! Even Pierre Castaneda, who found our friendship annoying and who had no restraint in such situations, did not dare to join us. I glanced at him from afar and he seemed to have a furtive manner, like a jealous, sulking woman.

  Taking Murigande in my arms, I promised to take care of him. I was amazed at how sad I felt. It was impossible for anyone, even Pierre Castaneda, to despise Abel; he would never have surrendered out of cowardice. I felt that it was almost unfortunate that he had not been killed in battle with weapons in his hands. Due to our shared memories, I owed him an end that was not too bitter. There was no question about letting him suffer. I also thought about taking a little trip to Nimba with him. I wanted to hand him over to his parents and cheerfully declare, “Abel wanted all this bullshit, but now it’s a done deal.” The African way! We would have all laughed and drunk beer.

  But the next day, one of my French advisors said to me, “The poor bastard!” I don’t know why but I was immediately sure he meant Murigande. I could sense from a certain expression in his eyes that he was only speaking of Murigande. The Whites had decided to make him pay for ten years’ worth of their fears, during which from his underground hold in the Haut-Danande, he had defied them as they intended to make our independence their only business. They had no reason to kill Murigande. Yet there was something that remained within them, and it was a good deal stronger than their political considerations: hatred against the Negro who dared to stand up to them.

  I asked my advisor, “What’s happening, my dear Jean-Sebastien? You look really happy this morning!” This is how I spoke to these people, without any airs. I didn’t play the president with them. They would have had a good laugh at that!

  “Oh, nothing important,” said Jean-Sebastien. “I’m just thinking of a naughty little bird. He’s warming up for his turn, heh heh!”

  I said, “Commander Nestor, you mean?” Jean-Sebastien then launched into a spiteful diatribe, the kind of thing where he asked what kind of world was this where even the Africans are involved in guerrilla warfare—they have to be pretty organized, even to make a fucking mess! He kept guffawing and alluded to Che Guevara, who had taken a lot of risks, like Tintin, in the jungles of Congo. But even he had quickly taken to his heels because the Congolese are all about multiplying their brothels and it’s a matter of national pride. A bearded Argentine was not going to be teaching them to fornicate and drink and belch and fart the whole goddamn day.

  I couldn’t listen to the young Jean-Sebastien any longer. I already regretted having accepted Murigande’s surrender. Basically, I’d created this bullshit. Abel. They were going to kill Abel. It was very clear. And when they did, with a refined cruelty that appalled the world—foreign newspapers have reported everything in detail—I was supposed to take the blame. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to, Mumbi Awele, but I really thought about rebelling that time. I barricaded myself in my office and started to drink like I never have in my life. The phone rang every minute. It was them. “Mr. President,” “Your Excellency.” . . . They spoke in smooth, round words in voices suddenly filled with respect, you know, the lousy little show they put on to make you feel like you’re an important Negro, and each time I would scream, “Shit and some more shit!” before hanging up. I said this to everyone, even Castaneda. They could make me jump through hoops, and the country with me, but I didn’t care. They let the storm pass, the crafty little bastards.

  Then Pierre Castaneda entered with a serious and resolute air. He barely opened his mouth. When he entered and sat in front of me, the shadows from the past rose up before us. Especially that of Prieto da Souza—I’ll tell you about him one day. Prieto da Souza was our first real crime. My rebellion was not only ridiculous; it was almost comical. At no point did Pierre Castaneda say to me, “The affairs of the state are serious, and not because you ate attiéké with this guy thirty years ago, but because the country will sink, body and soul.” He didn’t have to say anything but I understood perfectly. The next day, Pierre wrote my best “Address to the Nation.” Commander Nestor, I said in a loud, serene voice, had wanted to make us let our guard down with his fake surrender. I talked about the weapons we found in secret places and about the small groups of supporters with experience in guerrilla warfare who had already infiltrated the population. Everyone was invited to report on suspicious activity to defend the freedom that had been snatched away as the price of the suffering meted out by yesterday’s settlers.

  I won’t try to make you believe that my lies made me feel shame or remorse. No, Mumbi, I felt good about myself. Maybe there were a couple of seconds, because of the peculiar effect of autosuggestion, that I thought Murigande had the kind of plan that could only emerge from the sick mind of Pierre Castaneda, where, seizing the palace with his gangsters, he would then exhibit my remains on the crazed city streets. It was strange. The more I lied, the more I felt my hatred for Abel Murigande grow. He wanted to fool us. During my speech when I used the expression “two can play at this game” with a knowing smile, I wasn’t joking at all. Basically, I didn’t care about Abel Murigande. After all, he had chosen to take sides with the eternal losers in his politics. If he had managed to bring me down, he would have probably felt some sadness, like me, but his comrades would not have allowed him to go further than that. They would have said, “OK, you have cried for your childhood friend, your little squirrel stew in Nimba was good, but the revolution, my friend, is not about personal feelings.” That is how things happen in the real political world; it’s just terrible.

  But I do owe you a confession: my only problem was Miranda, Murigande’s widow. As I insulted the memory of her husband, her image appeared before my eyes. Continuing to speak in a firm voice, the voice of the merciless man of the state, I was saying to myself, “But what does Miranda think of all this?” Like me, did she think about the time when, barely out of adolescence, Murigande and I came to court her? She was not much older than a kid at that time. Miranda. The typical wife of a hero of the people, the kind who is dedicated to martyrdom. We had obviously stopped seeing each other but I sometimes thought about her, and I told myself that funnily, she had been caught in the trap of History. When Abel was trying to hit on her, we would often visit her parents. She would serve us banana beer before making us maafe or squirrel stew. Then the years passed. Abel went underground and it became too hard for Miranda, monitored day and night by my police. She eventually took refuge in Tanzania. There, Nyerere took care of her and made sure she was left in peace. He was a remarkable man, Mwalimu Nyerere, and I want you to know how much I admire him. But agitators from all the countries wanted to turn Miranda into a pasionaria, a kind of Winnie Mandela before the type existed, marching at the front of a crowd, fist in the sky. It was all in vain. This simply could not work. She did not know what to say to these bearded, hysterical people. In the newspapers, photos showed a humble woman, overwhelmed by events.

  I also want to tell you this: Commander Nestor’s execution earned me Castaneda’s final trust. I was a little angry, but in hindsight he found this moment of madness rather sympathetic and reassuring. I must say that Pierre Castaneda had taken this matter to heart. For him, it was a kind of singular struggle. Commander Nestor was already in agony. Castaneda had beaten him, punctured his eyes, and after tying him up in a jute sack, thrown him to the sharks from a helicopter. I had
heard about the rest of it. It seemed that while the plane was flying over the ocean, Castaneda had continued to insult Commander Nestor and kept describing the torture that awaited him. Abel was still conscious and talked back to him defiantly. Blood flowed from the bag, and I was proud to learn that Murigande had enough strength not to moan or beg for Pierre Castaneda’s pity.

  The thing that seems a little crazy to me in all this is that at one point, I was pretty sure I had killed Abel with my own hands. And I was convinced that Pierre Castaneda believed, in all honesty, that he had never been involved one way or another in Murigande’s atrocious end. Maybe he had even written a letter to his relatives in Haute-Savoie lamenting all the unnecessary bloodshed: “My African friends, they are always bickering among each other. We keep trying but it’s all in vain. . . . Even I, Pierre Castaneda, cannot stop this sea of blood on my own.” What a nice little shithead! In any case, from then on I was ripe for the dirtiest jobs. Commander Nestor was dead and it was time to profit from the spoils. Pierre and I didn’t always have the same enemies. We left each other alone by tacit agreement. Those were the good years: all we had to do was accuse someone of being secretly affiliated with Murigande and he would be liquidated without the chatter of the young lawyers who we now have here for the trial. When I was drunk, which was often the case, I pretended to punish my own people to let Pierre Castaneda go free—the foreigner, the torturer and murderer of Murigande, my childhood friend.

  I rarely killed for pleasure. But Castaneda and I were sometimes given to the vertigo of omnipotence. We worked out our personal business along the way. It was petty but inevitable.

  Every newspaper in the world started to call me a psychopath. A bad reputation, no matter what.