The beer I’d ordered when I came in arrived. He watched me open it and bring the bottle to my mouth. Then I decided to go all the way. The news that I was bringing him was hardly trivial. “The fliers. . . . You know, Pierre, our good old Commissioner Garnier got it wrong. It wasn’t the mineworkers who pulled the trick.”
For a fraction of a second, his face lit up. I sensed he was deeply relieved: his own miners, whom he had spoiled, could not have done that to him.
“Who, then?” he asked. “Are you trying to say that you know?” He pretended to be skeptical.
“It’s Prieto,” I said.
At first, he didn’t seem to understand. Then he laughed as he crushed his Gauloise butt on the ground. Only then did I understand that it was a nervous laugh. After a few seconds he said, without raising his voice, “Prieto . . . ? Prieto? The same Prieto?”
“Yes.”
“Do you take me for an idiot? Come on!”
“No, Pierre.”
Prieto da Souza was one of Pierre Castaneda’s many servants. He was skinny, very dark-skinned, and taciturn. He behaved so submissively in every situation that at times even I felt deeply uncomfortable. To everything you would say to him, he’d invariably answer, “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, madam,” in a halting, obsequious tone. This completely strange tic, even for a servant to the Whites back then, at times had a very comical effect. Prieto, where did Hortense and little Gaétan go? Yes, sir. Did they go to gather sumps in the forest? In Ningas Forest? Yes, sir, no, sir, Madame and the little fellow went to Nyambwue. Stop saying yes, sir, all the time, please, Prieto. Yes, sir, I’m going to stop.
But we had noticed that in spite of this, Prieto da Souza was sharply intelligent. He never initiated discussion, but all you had to do was tease him about something for him to start saying rather astonishing things about it. He knew the history of the country well and was capable of narrating what happened in very ancient wars between certain tribes or giving his opinion about controversial events in the past. He would then say in a firm voice that throughout such-and-such battle, the traitor who had made a secret pact with the invading forces was one prince and not the other, whom people often wrongly accuse.
“But I don’t understand you, Prieto. That prince is from your tribe and you’re not defending him.”
“Yes, sir, but you know, there are traitors everywhere.”
“Even among your own? Come on, Prieto! Come on!”
“Yes, sir, there are even traitors among my own.”
Such statements suddenly had a totally different sense in my memory than how I perceived them back then. Pierre Castaneda and I certainly thought the same thing.
It all pointed to the fact that the writing was on the wall, and it had been for a long time. I saw Pierre tighten his jaw. It was as if his mouth had suddenly filled up with bitter saliva. He had a nasty look on his face. We stayed much later than usual at the Blue Lizard, drinking our beers in silence. Prieto da Souza had fucked both of us and we didn’t like it. We didn’t like it at all.
I tell you that because Prieto da Souza was, so to speak, my true baptism of blood. I did have a little prior experience, but it was small fry. I was all out of sorts and I had nightmares after each hit. With Comrade Prieto, I had the intoxicating sensation of finally having become a man of my time. Those are not things one forgets easily. When I strangled him, he didn’t beg me or anything. He didn’t even have a look of fear in his eyes. He died a hero, like in his stupid dreams where he was the chosen liberator of the oppressed masses. I saw him squeeze his fists so he wouldn’t scream and he managed to maintain that look of contempt on his face, befitting a patriot face to face with the torturer who’d sold him off to a foreigner. No longer was he the servant boy who acted like an imbecile saying yes, sir, yes, madam, all the time. . . . It’s true, he acted like a brave man. But what was the purpose of that? We were alone behind a bush; birds were passing over our heads singing indifferently. He could have screamed—that would have at least soothed him a little. It’s no use getting smart about it. In time, they should have known anyway. For a Lumumba, a Sankara, or a Mandela, whom we still talk about, how many among those valiant men who resisted I don’t know what had been frustrated by legitimate glory?
And Prieto da Souza was a puny man. I’ve noticed that most people who refuse to remain calm are the types that have skinny necks and emaciated faces. You can easily strangle them with one hand. When I saw he was no longer moving, I released him and I left. I had no remorse. I had messed up Prieto da Souza’s destiny. If he’d gone on like that, he could have become president of this country one day, and I could just hear his flatterers chanting, “President da Souza is a true man of the people—when the Whites occupied the country, he was a servant boy for several years at one of their estates.” People would have made us dizzy with that. There would have been films, pilgrimages, and all that stuff. I stopped him dead on the path to his glory, the brave boy. He had waxed the parquet floors at Pierre’s and he’d gotten plenty of kicks in the ass, all for nothing. Crushed like a squirrel on a small path in the bush.
Getting back home to the Belvedere Complex, I heard a touraco cry out in the distance: caw-caw-caw. These troublemakers always imagine their departure to the hereafter as one of those grandiose events that moves the universe, and that the birds are going to whirl about among the clouds to bid them adieu. It never happens like that. The birds fly through the sky crying out like they always do, and that’s it.
Their little matter with Prieto da Souza had worked out well. N’Zo Nikiema was getting more and more excited. He told Pierre Castaneda, “We should take this opportunity to do some cleaning up. We have all the names.”
Castaneda was more cautious. “We’ll never have all the names, Niko. These stories are not that simple.” Then, as if thinking aloud, he added, “All this is so new. Let it go.”
He seemed more disappointed than angry. N’Zo Nikiema learned a few days later that Castaneda had discreetly given some money to Prieto da Souza’s elderly parents. Even though he tried hard not to let it show, Castaneda was very worried. And rightly so. We heard the first rumblings of deaf revolt. Anger rose over the course of the weeks. Where had this sudden rage come from? No one knew. Every night, leaflets were mysteriously distributed in the city and they were becoming increasingly virulent. They castigated the lifestyle of the Whites of the Belvedere Complex, considered glitzy to the point of indecency.
The Belvedere Complex was the name given to an area of nearly a thousand hectares which housed Cogemin executives. Other than N’Zo Nikiema, they were all foreigners. Belvedere, as it was called, was well equipped. There were pools, two fancy restaurants that were terribly expensive, and several stadiums for soccer, tennis, volleyball, etc. And a movie theater. I have already spoken of its two supermarkets with supplies arriving directly from France, which always astonished the visitors. They were also the pride of Pierre Castaneda. Some executives, like Jacques Estival, boasted of not having been in the town proper more than twice during their several years of living in Ndunga. Others still went to the African downtown, especially when they wanted to escape the stifling atmosphere of the housing complex. Although it was huge, residents felt crammed on top of one another. Stories of sexcapades were rustled up like nobody’s business in Belvedere, as were fierce professional rivalries and even some alleged political wrangling. Some of the newcomers, young and still a little tender, often suffered from mood swings. We left them alone and they soon fell back in line.
It was during this troubled time that the inhabitants of Ndunga came back and built their slums close to the housing complex. Castaneda became very suspicious and saw it as a deliberately thought-out political act. In his mind, it was a quasi-military maneuver to stifle the European section of the city before attacking it from all sides. He was definitely exaggerating, but his fears were justified by the way it looked. The encirclement of Belvedere was indeed performed in a gradual and, so to speak, inexorable way.
And little by little, Prieto da Souza’s supporters joined the dance. They went from one group to another, repeating the same simple lines: Look around you, my brethren—is it normal that these Whites just take everything that is good in our country? And our children, don’t they deserve to be happy? Don’t they have the right to go to good schools?
That’s how we got the first leaflets. Followed by more baby steps. At first, the demonstrations were a bit timid, but over the coming months they became more and more important.
Castaneda could have easily unleashed some bulldozers on the new native town, as he’d done before. But he was well informed and was aware that the times were changing. And that this was not happening only in Ndunga. Across the country, it was a time of revolt. And Cogemin was being criticized everywhere.
Underground and beyond!
Gold for them, death for us!
Our gold!
Our marble!
Pierre Castaneda, profitmonger!
Women and children were placed at the forefront of all the protests. It was clever because then the men had no choice: they followed. Miners with tuberculosis, pneumoconiosis, or other serious diseases were also prominently displayed. They had been reduced to the status of living skeletons, and the furious crowd screamed that it was Pierre Castaneda’s fault: he forced the workers to inhale dangerous chemicals. A woman climbed up on a makeshift dais and asked, “Have you ever heard of a White in Belvedere having this disease?” And with fists raised to the sky, the crowd roared several times, “No!” The woman then screamed, “Freedom!” And everyone took up the chant: “Freedom!”
As for N’Zo Nikiema, he felt closer to the moment of truth. He was not a fool. He knew that despite some of the verbal excesses, the criticisms of Cogemin were well founded. To put it bluntly, he had always been on the wrong side, on the side of the foreign exploiters. It was not easy: hated by some and despised by others. He no longer dared to be seen among his own people around the Belvedere Complex, and with one or two exceptions, no Whites deigned to shake hands with him or speak to him as an equal.
As long as the situation was more or less normal, he could lie low. Right now he was at a crossroads. Of all the inhabitants of the housing complex, he was the only one who did not have the right to turn a deaf ear to the events. His reactions were being monitored and he felt obliged to show clearly which camp he belonged to.
But I don’t think that even at this time, there was the slightest doubt in N’Zo Nikiema’s mind. He was unambiguously in the foreigners’ camp. His will, frustrations, or certainties had nothing to do with it. He had long been like an object floating in a void, and one day or another, the fall was inevitable. By this I don’t mean that Nikiema didn’t have a choice. I think people can still ultimately manage to remain worthy beings. But this comes with consequences that we must accept.
As evidence, I would like to open a parenthesis here and tell you a true story. Fortunately, it doesn’t really take us away from our story since it concerns N’Fumbang, Mumbi Awele’s father.
Here are the circumstances that led to my only encounter with this man.
The murder of Kaveena, his granddaughter, was turning the country upside down. I went to find him in the poor neighborhood of Kisito where he lived. I remember the shabby living room. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a couch that was sunken in its middle, its cracked wood and springs visible. The rest of the furniture—chairs and a large wooden chest—was in just as bad condition and just as betraying, as with most poor folk, of the pathetic effort to convince themselves that their living room was at least clean and well-maintained and somehow masked their deprivation. The floor was waxed nicely but the paint on the wallpaper was completely discolored.
Mumbi’s father must have had a skin disease, because he scratched his calves all the time. They were covered with a network of white tracks made by his nails. He didn’t know who I was but he didn’t ask me any questions when I arrived. He probably thought he had seen me somewhere, because he looked at me pointedly a few times with his glassy yellow eyes, as if trying to remember my face. A young woman—I remember she had a scar on one of her temples—placed two plastic cups of dubious cleanliness on the mat and poured some Orange Fanta. When she was done serving us, N’Fumbang told her to turn off the television. The man greeted me, and between the two silences greeted me once again and inquired about my family for the tenth time.
“Are the children well?”
“They are like little kings these days—it was different in our time, but things change, it’s normal . . .”
“And your wife? Ah! Be careful, a husband and wife must be friends . . .”
He also spoke to me about his work as a taxi driver: he had managed to train a nephew who was going to replace him.
I brought the cup to my lips, took a sip, and after placing it back down, I said, “Father N’Fumbang, I work for the government and my bosses have asked me to come see you.”
Still scratching his calf, he shook his head and grunted.
I told him about his granddaughter Kaveena. “Her death is a tragedy and President Nikiema understands your family’s pain. Some people in this country are saying false things about Kaveena’s death but the authorities prefer to let God Almighty mislead these evil folk.”
“He alone has the right to judge our actions,” the man said softly.
I added that President Nikiema and his dear friend Castaneda were certainly not involved in this sad affair in any way. Why would they kill a little girl? That is not the way to solve the country’s problems. Their accusers were people of bad faith.
The man looked at me with a penetrating stare and asked in a quiet voice, “What do you say your name is?”
“I’m Colonel Kroma. I was sent by the government.”
He smiled with an air of ironic superiority but with neither malice nor contempt. “I know. But eight days after your birth, your parents whispered a name into your ear. What is that name?”
“My name is Asante Kroma,” I said, a little confused. The situation was beyond me. It felt weird to pronounce my own name for the first time in many years.
“Asante,” he said slowly, “I know what’s in the suitcase at your feet.”
At that exact moment, I realized that everything was screwed. But I still continued. “Yes. The president’s friend has asked me to give you this money. These few million will not bring Kaveena back . . .”
I am, like I said before, a regular with these confidential missions, and I’ve managed to grasp some basic techniques. For example, I never reveal a precise figure the first time around. You must first fling the magic word “million” in the air. You’ll see that it immediately gives people an appetite and they become desperate to know the exact number of millions being offered to them. There are no rational rules in these cases—the amount can vary from two to eighty million—and their torment is painful to see.
Five million? Thirty-five?
Will I be able to build a decent house?
Or get into the transportation business?
Finally be on my own . . . ?
If he had been a normal person, Mumbi’s father would have already seen himself snapping bills at a family ceremony in Kisito under the eyes of envious neighbors. Millionaire. Millions. It’s terrible to say, but in such cases it’s the only word people want to hear. It makes them crazy.
N’Fumbang was content to say no by shaking his head, even with a hint of
embarrassment, which was quite disturbing to me. It was the first time I had seen this.
There was silence. I felt a little lost. Funnily, my attention was drawn to unimportant things: kids playing soccer outside the window, sheep bleating in the yard. There are, I believe, moments in life when a person hangs onto anything, in order to feel firm ground under his feet.
Now it was my turn to look him in the eyes. I said to the man, “I’m not gonna lie to you, Father N’Fumbang. President Nikiema and his friend are not giving you this money out of kindness.”
He interrupted me: “Governing a country is difficult.” And after a pause he added, “God knows it’s hard, Asante.”
I sensed something like compassion in his voice. I was confused and I could not wait to leave. But I wanted to understand. “Why do you say that, Father N’Fumbang?”
“Asante, come back alone another time and I will answer you.”
“Alone . . . ?”
As soon as I asked the question, I realized he wanted to talk about the case. This time I laughed heartily. The old man definitely seemed nice to me. Meanwhile, his eyes sparkled with an almost childish mischief. He was really an extraordinary man. It does not surprise me now that his daughter Mumbi ended up having so much power over the former president. From that time onward I understood that the conversation about Kaveena’s murder would never really end. For one simple reason: Castaneda had been unlucky. He just didn’t kill the right little girl.
The hardest part was admitting to Nikiema and Castaneda that old N’Fumbang Awele had refused our offer. I saw Castaneda sneak in a furtive smile. When the Kaveena case was brought up again, he became extremely tense, suspecting who knows which bad move on our part. His face was impassive, but his eyes moved from Nikiema to me with extraordinary vivacity. He seemed to be saying, “An old taxi driver in this country who spits on millions? Try telling that to someone else!” For Castaneda, things had started to unravel. He proposed that we eliminate old N’Fumbang. It was a typical reaction of his. When one of the three of us said, “So-and-so is dangerous,” the other two knew exactly what it meant. Castaneda mostly used this formula when he didn’t know what to do. In his mind it was, strangely, a temporary solution. Basically he got rid of a few unfortunate ones while waiting for some clarity. . . . Castaneda made me kill people the way trees are felled in the forest to open a path.
Kaveena Page 14
