Kaveena

by Boubacar Boris Diop

  N’Zo Nikiema explained things to them very simply: “Fomba, the Ancestor of Ancestors, wants the power to be shared between Castaneda and me.”

  Someone insolently asked him to spell Fomba’s full name. One journalist was surprised by such a long name. “Don’t you think it would be easier to just call him ‘Ancestor,’ Your Highness?” she asked.

  “There’s a reason we address him this way, ma’am.”

  “Which is, Your Highness?”

  “With us, there is a reason for everything,” N’Zo Nikiema repeated.

  “And so with others too? But you haven’t answered my question, Your Majesty!”

  “Well, go fuck yourself, madam! How’s that?” He had had enough of these people calling him “Your Highness” in a mocking way. He was not going to be polite to them.

  “Your Majesty, what did he say exactly?” asked one reporter.

  “He said, ‘If Nimba does not fulfill my wish soon, then its people will disappear.’”

  He was ashamed as soon as he said those words.

  “Excuse me for insisting, Your Highness, but can you confirm that you heard the ancestor distinctly utter the name Pierre Castaneda?”

  “Not me, sir. My father heard it, last year, shortly before his death.”

  “But you, his son, have worked in Cogemin’s accounting department?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were under Mr. Castaneda’s orders?”

  N’Zo Nikiema did not understand why someone would come from so far away to mock him. Faced with the foreigner’s laughing eyes, he had the urge to unleash his anger but was suddenly overcome by sadness and a strong feeling of powerlessness.

  Actually some of those reporters and ethnologists had not come to Nimba for fun. Among them were hard-core hired assassins, and never had Nikiema and Castaneda come so close to being machine-gunned in public. Were the two friends aware at the time that they might not have survived that situation? Although I have no proof, I believe that they had no idea. However, it has been established that Cogemin’s competitors thought that they were hiding something. All the gasoline, cobalt, and diamond mafias, and I don’t know which others, were on a warpath. For them, the coronation of Castaneda and all the other nonsense were part of a huge diversionary tactic by Cogemin. They suspected the company of having designs on the vast area that lay to the central west of Nimba. And what had they discovered in these territories? They had come for the sole purpose of finding out. They were not about to let Castaneda hide such an enormous project from them.

  The ceremony itself was, as one might say, colorful and flamboyant. Television did not exist at the time, though some photographers insisted on being present during Castaneda’s initiation. They behaved like spoiled kids, saying that they had come from far away, almost risking their lives, just to get to this shithole. It would be great for Nimba’s tourism, with the slogans and everything, if they showed the world some unedited images—for example, of Castaneda dancing like a black king in the sacred grove. N’Zo Nikiema showed himself to be intractable. Hatred rose in his heart like never before. He was capable of having those foreigners who ventured beyond the determined boundary killed, and, indeed, he really wanted to.

  To N’Zo Nikiema’s great surprise, Castaneda handled himself quite well during the first part of the initiation. But he did not seem to be equal to the task of the Ngunzi dance. They had made him wear heavy clothes, hundreds of amulets, small mirrors on his forehead, and copper bells on his ankles. All of that, in addition to the straw belts, made him look rather grotesque. Forced to fit in and failing at everything he tried, he began to lose patience. Red with confusion, he whispered in Nikiema’s ear, “Fuck, I’m never gonna get it!” He was mad at himself but somehow also at the Kingdom of Nimba for having such complicated coronation rituals.

  N’Zo Nikiema pretended not to hear him. He was actually preoccupied with himself. He continued to feel, in a confused way, the weight of his mistake. And so, you had the audacity to lie to Fomba.

  The next day, Pierre Castaneda said to him, “I’m married, as you know.”

  N’Zo Nikiema knew his friend’s practical mind and had anticipated this comment. He said, “Hortense Dupaquier will be the Queen Mother.” And he added, with a slightly contemptuous smile, “That goes without saying.” He almost felt ready to embrace the bright side of the situation. He was still single.

  Hortense Dupaquier had no place in Pierre Castaneda’s life. Nor did he ever speak of her or their son Gaétan. N’Zo Nikiema hastened to clarify that Gaétan from that point on would bear the title of Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Nimba.

  Castaneda took his new responsibilities very seriously. “Estival will replace me when the time comes. Maybe in two years.”

  “Estival?” Nikiema said. “He’s mad. He will make their life tough. I’m glad to be away from the company during that time.”

  “Yes, he’s going to give them a hard time. He’s an asshole. But I need to stay here to learn all your royal stuff.”

  Castaneda’s goodwill surprised and sometimes even moved N’Zo Nikiema. Castaneda asked questions about everything and, conscious of arousing a lot of curiosity, voluntarily took a back seat to Nikiema. He also took notes to make sure he wouldn’t make any gaffes. One day he sheepishly said to N’Zo Nikiema, “After all this time, I should have been able to talk directly to the people. . . . I don’t know your language. It’s shameful.”

  “That’s OK. I’ll be your professor.”

  After a few lessons, Castaneda decided to stop.

  “The student is bad, the professor is no good. . . . Could this really have worked?” N’Zo Nikiema asked cheerfully.

  They had always worked in total cooperation. At Cogemin, Castaneda protected him from their French colleagues. But this was the first time they were truly in tandem with each other. Even to make the smallest decisions in Nimba, they had to discuss everything for hours. N’Zo Nikiema remembered the day the king’s advisors made Castaneda extremely perplexed. The issue was about deforesting the area around Nemeni in order to build—with Cogemin’s funds—the first health clinic in Nimba. And the advisor had said, in his usual pointed way, “Before pulling out the roots of a tree, noble sovereigns, raise your head and look carefully at the top.”

  After the meeting, Nikiema explained to Castaneda what it meant. Then a sort of passionate philosophical joust ensued between the two friends. They spoke in French, using words that nobody around them could understand, and this brought them even closer to one another.

  One day, Castaneda said, “Niko, I’ve been observing you since our first trip and since my return from Europe.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You’ve changed.”

  Nikiema was aware of this but asked anyway, “How?”

  “No offense, but . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Here it is. . . . It seems sometimes that you are ashamed of your people.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Nikiema after a quick moment of reflection.

  “I agree,” said Castaneda thoughtfully.

  Castaneda wanted to be the king who built and grew the kingdom. After a short while, he had holes drilled, encouraged young people to establish firms for mutual savings and credit, and initiated education programs to prevent ethnic conflicts or promote human rights. He erected a building—three rooms in a row—where the housing project was accommodated. We learned that it was implemented under the joint authority of the two sovereigns. It was in a way Nimba’s government building. Everyone started talking about capacity building and local development. Nobody really knew what all that meant, but they all were suddenly enthusiastic about the matter. It was a way for young people to earn a living and simultaneously break the monotony of the long days of idleness in Nimba. The old folks noticed that the younger ones no longer had an empty and uncertain look in their eyes. Instead they saw them running in all directions, stopping only to say hello. In short, with the new clinic, the ne
w elementary school, and bold initiatives on the ground, Nimba regained a taste for life. Nothing seemed too good or too expensive for Castaneda when it was intended for Nimba.

  From what I understand, this attitude provoked, at least initially, distrust in N’Zo Nikiema. Especially since in order to fund these so-called self-reliant development activities, Castaneda used his own money and was anxious to let that be known. But eventually Nikiema, a keen observer, chalked this ostentatious generosity up to the desire, though poorly controlled, to do well. Much later on, he himself must have understood this neophyte’s reforming frenzy. During his first term, immediately after the country had achieved independence, he used to take long walks alone in the middle of the night through Maren’s streets to ensure that everything was in order. He noted every detail: the buildings built in spite of common sense, the broken embankments, and the heaps of filth at the intersections. A few days afterward, he summoned the culprits to his office and lectured them for a long time, like a parent. But he did not hesitate to discharge several repeat offenders from public service. He believed he had also found a way to reduce at least a quarter of the spending dedicated to public health: by encouraging all the administrative officials to exercise for two hours every day.

  However, N’Zo Nikiema did not uphold any restrictions when it came to the subject of the throne council members’ salaries. On this occasion, Castaneda indeed had the elegance to advance his friend’s interests. The decision to increase the salaries set off a veritable storm throughout the Kingdom of Nimba. The kingdom began to buzz with rumors of endless intrigue, clan rivalries, and stories that those whom the two sovereigns favored were being poisoned. The neighboring people started to show their jealousy and aggression, and Nimba, although better armed with Cogemin’s support, had to flex its muscles to calm them down. We see that in this case, the youth were ready to shed their blood for their country.

  The Queen Mother—Hortense Dupaquier—began making speeches about everything and anything. It was not usual in the kingdom for the Queen Mother to be so talkative in public. But she thought that the patterns within the kingdom had to be changed at her own discretion. She also prided herself on the natural bond she had with the women of Nimba. She used to get them together under the sun and make them suffer endless harangues. “Don’t let your husbands get away with it,” she told them. “You’re human just like them. If any of you are being mistreated by your husband, come and tell me. I’ll know how to talk to this little domestic tyrant.”

  She stood before them, ruddy, with a khaki helmet on her head, and said, “If you want to avoid disease in your children, be less dirty! Wash your hands before eating! Wash your hands with soap after eating!” And she added, in a sudden fit of rage that surprised even her, “It’s not so difficult to wash your hands with soap, damn it!”

  You could say that Hortense Dupaquier was really taken by this game. But it had not been easy to convince her to accept the title and function of Queen Mother. I’ll tell you how it happened.

  For Pierre Castaneda’s wife, living in Africa was already enough. And when he talked to her about his becoming the king of Nimba, she thought he had gone mad and she forbade him to involve her and their son in that story. She was a small woman, with full lips and a pockmarked face. Whoever saw her for the first time was struck by her lively gestures, her slightly innocent eyes, and her sour demeanor. Maybe people expected the wife of the almighty boss of Cogemin to be more serene and mild-mannered, to have more style.

  Nobody knows how Pierre Castaneda managed to make her change her mind. Hortense Dupaquier first made several short trips to Nimba, living almost exclusively on mineral water, for fear of catching a tropical disease. However, she did not delay feeling reassured. She, who at first found it ridiculous to be called Queen Mother of Nimba, became strict overnight regarding questions of etiquette. She gave the griots the names of her ancestors and asked them to compose songs for them. They did so without complaining. But it was reported that in between two songs of praise, the griots would shower the Queen Mother and her ancestors with coarse insults. She would nod, pleased, and give them money.

  When N’Zo Nikiema heard they’d done that, he laughed about it for several days. When the griots, hugging their kora to their chests, passionately yelled out the names of Hortense Dupaquier’s ancestors, his ears would prick up and indeed sometimes heard somewhat unexpected lyrics. The griots of Nimba were real magicians. They could, with a simple inflection, completely reverse the meaning of their words. N’Zo Nikiema’s eyes shone with malice and he shook his head in quiet approval. He was aware that it was a derisive revenge but he didn’t have anything else at hand. He was, in any event, happy to see that he was not the only one who hated Hortense Dupaquier with a vengeance.

  Naturally, there was nothing more than these pleasant personal resentments in the Kingdom of Nimba. Pierre Castaneda, always on alert, saw that some young people did not approve of what was happening. They secretly mocked the housing project and the new ideas, which their companions repeated like incantations intended to bring down the sky on the self-reliance programs.

  They didn’t dare to say a word in public against Nikiema and Castaneda. They just watched Pierre Castaneda in silence. At least that’s what he believed. He felt drawn into an abyss of shame by their silent and disapproving faces. When he could not bear it anymore, he spoke to N’Zo Nikiema about it. There were ten young rebels. All were killed, one after the another.

  I had been head of the secret services in our country for a long time. I knew that Castaneda and Nikiema were bound by the blood they had shed together for years. But I had ignored the damage they had caused during their monarchy phase.

  As of today, as we approach the time of the final departure, I still don’t know who you are for real.

  At the time, Colonel Kroma’s department investigated you. They had nicknamed you the Artist, out of spite. It’s typical: stalking is a dirty job that they don’t necessarily like, and this is why they turn it into a game and come up with somewhat funny nicknames for their victims. And that brings a question to mind: how did Colonel Asante Kroma, who held people’s lives and deaths in his hand, manage his own conscience at the end of the day? For Pierre and me, this terrible power was executed from a distance: eliminating an opponent meant removing a piece on the chessboard. Nothing more. We never saw blood. But he who had to live with it constantly, how did he do it? Here is what I imagine, though maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Colonel Kroma, the methodical policeman with records that are marked with the date and time of the death of this or that person. The guy’s on TV, does his thing, and, looking at him, the colonel thinks, that one’s got four days left. Or something like, keep talking, my boy.

  But they lost your trail. I am the one who sabotaged the investigation. I made them dizzy by sending them on a wild goose chase. The colonel is smart. But this time he didn’t smell the smoke. It’s not that complicated with us politicians: being smart doesn’t happen in the head but with the hands. It’s the hands that hold the cards. All we have to do is have more cards to play than the other side. We weigh the pros and cons all the time but what balances our scales are the facts and not ideas.

  Castaneda had his suspicions, he thought I was not legit in this story, but he could not prove anything. I took some risks for you, you know.

  This Artist investigation was like a recreational activity for the colonel’s men. It made them discover that world, quite an extravagance for them—actors, filmmakers, sculptors. In short, the world of those who present themselves, in all modesty, as creators. Our agents used to go to this café, Chez Mado, and after hearing poems being recited there, they laughed about it for days afterward. Back at the office, one of them would look up at the sky, evoking a comical version of the “ardent singing stars of the future,” while another one mocked the “flames consuming the winter in the darkness of my heart.” Everyone would burst out laughing. But the day they were impressed was when a writer, a little
bit drunk, got up onstage and said, “Well, I’ll tell you how I write my novels. Here you go. I stand at the door and ring the bell politely. Then I go inside and greet my hosts politely, always politely, right. As you know, ladies and gentlemen, I work with words. I will find them wherever they are. It’s all stupid, and I sometimes wonder, just between us, dear friends, why people think all this complicated stuff about writing. Words are just sitting there, doing nothing, a little sleepy, a little stupid even; when there is no one to shake them, they yawn from boredom, the poor little things, and they’re not really sociable so they don’t talk among themselves. Without me, they are good for nothing, they rot in hearts and minds, they wither between the pages of dictionaries. But I chat with them and they listen to me, and I tell them what I expect of them. They are all there. The funny ones, the beautifully dark ones, the ones the color of blood, playful, dismal, etc. I do my shopping, you know; I pay and then I’m off. After I’ve mixed everything, I mix it again and again and then I serve it. There you go, that’s how I write my books, and if you don’t want to read them, that’s a shame but I can’t do anything about it, you poor fools, just carry on.”

  From what Colonel Kroma himself told me, his men, without understanding much of this half-crazy gibberish, had succumbed to the magic of the writer’s words. The colonel had surprised them while they were talking about him with respect, saying, if I remember correctly, “This guy’s words are really powerful!” Tall, half-starved, and very sure of himself, the writer had dyed his hair red and green, and he had, it seems, a piercing look and near-perfect elocution.

  This proves that Colonel Kroma’s guys are not that stupid. They understand the value of art and all your stuff. Only some things are beyond them—for example, when someone decides he’s going to write books or make films and show them to the entire world, even if it means starving. Not trying to offend you here, but these artists are braggarts. When they threaten us in their works, we pretend to be scared and they feel pleased with themselves. But we the tyrants know well: they are completely harmless.