Kaveena

by Boubacar Boris Diop

  It was his first real contact with a human being in several months and he couldn’t bear being taken for an imbecile. Walking away, he said, “It’s OK, son, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  After he’d gotten away by about ten feet, the apprentice ran over to him and, pointing to his boss, said, “The old man’s asking you to come back.”

  “What old man?”

  “The boss. He wants to talk to you.”

  It seemed like an order and he smiled to himself as he did what he was told. In reality, he had no desire to leave. This lame garage owner fascinated him. He wanted to know more about him.

  “Forgive him,” said the man, coming toward him. “He’s still a child.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Nikiema protested, a little annoyed.

  “Oh! Sometimes he offends visitors and makes me lose clients. He’s picked up some bad habits.”

  Nikiema looked the kid over more closely and wondered how many people’s throats he had slit during the war. The younger the fighters, the crueler they were. That’s what people said. Each time people ended up killing each other on a massive scale, experts came to Maren and questioned everybody. Later, they put their big words into reports and books. Thanks to them, we knew everything about those Lil Boys.

  “The war?” Nikiema said, turning back toward the garage owner.

  “Yes, he was in the Black Scorpion Group.”

  “The Black Scorpion?”

  The garage owner couldn’t believe it. “You never heard of Captain Kunandete? So you weren’t here during the uprisings?”

  He had the curious sensation that a police agent was asking him the question in one of the little dark rooms of the Satellite. He gestured vaguely. “I must have heard about the Black Scorpions, but I don’t remember the name.”

  “It’s true,” the garage owner said, “they were all crazy and they had all sorts of bizarre names. Kunandete was one of the current president’s men; he’s come a long way since. Chief of the general staff. Not bad, eh?”

  “Ah, yes . . . ,” Nikiema said cautiously.

  “You see that house over there?” the mechanic continued.

  “The white one there, next to the bread stall?”

  “Yes. Those youths raped the women there during the day and at night they ate them.”

  “No, that can’t be true!” he said, truly horrified, backing away to get a closer look at the kid. So he did that too? At that age?

  “What do you mean it can’t be true? Yes, it’s true,” the garage owner said. Suddenly he seemed angry. Nikiema didn’t believe, though, that he had said something hurtful.

  “My name is Siriman Konté,” the mechanic thundered as he hit his chest, “and no one on this earth has ever dared call me a liar.”

  “I’m not,” said Nikiema. He was seized with panic at the idea of a crowd forming around them. This man scared him. Besides, he couldn’t allow himself to be too talkative.

  “These kids did this and every day they started over, again and again I tell you, till the war ended. When they raped a woman, she knew it was the very last time she would deal with a man. Well, a man . . . so to speak, eh. Babies, yes. I tell you, some of these women had buttocks like an elephant and all these kids, climbing all over their bodies like pesky little insects. I tell you, it was that house near the stall . . .”

  The mechanic trailed off as if he himself couldn’t believe the story he was telling.

  Nikiema had not stopped nodding his head in astonishment. In his palace, he had known nothing about this. That’s what this was—a war. When you’re in an air-conditioned office, the officer draws some lines and generally describes some pretty movements. It’s somewhat light and all really cute when the generals talk about war. “Here’s the bolt, we have to blow it up.” It seems stupid to say or even just to think: There are still people in this place who haven’t done anything to us. Is it necessary to kill them? And to learn after breaking through enemy lines that—though certainly necessary—there were thousands of corpses rotting under the sun in the direction of Muatja? It’s a meeting like any other in the palace, with mild-mannered officers, soft-spoken with sad eyes. Coffee. Tea. Cookies. Juice. It would be unheard of to talk about the Lil Boys in the house in the lower city. Eating young women! And he was there now to talk nonsense about Yamaha and Tenere motorcycles.

  It was time to leave. He shouldn’t have been hanging around this area.

  “I want a moped,” he said to the man.

  “That’s a line I like to hear. You have your papers?”

  “My papers?”

  The guy was immediately annoyed. “You have them or not? These are the new laws.”

  “But nobody has identity papers anymore.”

  The mechanic relented and whispered ambiguously, “I know. But they are still looking for the Elder.”

  “The Elder?”

  “Yes, the tyrant.”

  “He must be far away by now,” noted Nikiema coolly.

  The man made an irritated gesture as if to say that it was none of his business. To sort of say, “These politicians are all the same, corrupt, liars, all motherfuckers. I’m just into my business.”

  “We can arrange something, regarding your papers,” he said, digging in his ear with his left index finger.

  Nikiema knew what that meant—he would have to pay more. Without thinking, he replied, “That’ll work for me.”

  There was a furtive glow in the garage owner’s eyes and there were slight signs of his whole body stiffening. He said abruptly, “Which brand do you want anyway?”

  The question meant, Are you really a beggar? Nikiema’s heart started pounding in his chest. “The cheapest and the best,” he joked.

  The mechanic smiled. Nikiema had the strength to return the smile and say breezily, in a conspiratorial tone, “You believe everything they say? It’s not prudent to stay here. I’m sure everything will start up again. Our war is not over.”

  “No, it’s not over,” Siriman Konté said slowly, without taking his eyes off him.

  Something was obviously nagging at him and Nikiema had no trouble knowing what it was. If the man had put a hand on his chest, he would have seen how fast his heart was beating and Nikiema would have been dead meat. But his breathing was normal and his body was not trembling. Nikiema had never suspected that he would have such sangfroid in the face of danger.

  “How much does cheap mean to you?”

  “Name your price.”

  “It costs me a lot of money to refurbish all these engines.”

  “I’m charitable, my friend.”

  Siriman offered him a ridiculously high price. Nikiema smiled. “You don’t know the proverb, my brother? If you cannot give alms to a beggar, at least don’t insult him. Let him try his luck elsewhere.”

  “It’s not that,” he said.

  “What . . . the proverb?”

  “You twisted it a bit. The damned proverb,” Siriman said in a low voice. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.” Nikiema looked at him without saying anything. The mechanic added calmly, “If you don’t want trouble, you should pay up.” Having said this, he pulled out a ten-thousand-franc bill from the pocket of his pants. Nikiema had put his photos on the bills and they had not been changed yet. There was no more doubt. The man held the bill. He looked at Nikiema and then at the bill and said in mocking tone and with exceptional cruelty, “You’ll give me a lot of these, Solar Giant of Mount Nimba.”

  Nikiema barely recovered from the mean allusion to one of his many titles as the tyrant in power. His mouth became very dry. He had the sudden urge to feel ice water run down his throat.

  “How much?”

  The man approached him without limping and said to him in a whisper, “There’s no counting between friends.”

  I’m dead meat, Nikiema thought. Here I am like a rat.

  The other mechanics guessed that something was going on between their boss and the beggar. They observed them sneakily without inte
rrupting their work.

  The mechanic said, “You can trust me. I have a sense of honor.”

  They entered the container and Nikiema handed over his money and the small pieces of diamonds that he had hidden in his private parts. “Is this good?” he asked ruefully. He was ready to lower himself to any degree to persuade this man.

  The other one still looked like he was of two minds. He said dryly, “It will do.” After a pause, he added, “Be careful. I recognized you by your voice when you came in and were talking to the little boy. And really, it’s not very smart—you guys put your photos everywhere, on banknotes, in offices, everywhere. If it works out for you, try not to be too chatty. Nobody listens to your lousy speeches and yet you don’t stop talking.”

  “Things aren’t going to work out for me anyway.”

  “Of course not,” the mechanic blurted out scornfully. “The new one’ll be there a long time.”

  “Oh yeah? Mwanke?” Nikiema replied sharply.

  The mechanic smiled. Nikiema appeared to be amused.

  “Are you interested? Seems so, eh! A breed apart, aren’t you, you politicians. You want to kill him, is that right? Like I said, the new guy’s smart. No speeches, no fights, nothing. Cola nuts. Whiskey. Porn films and young girls. That’s Mwanke. Long live the president, come what fucking mess may.”

  N’Zo Nikiema wanted to tell him that it was Castaneda who controlled the country, but he feigned surprise. “How is that possible? Can it really be true about the president, this Mwanke?”

  Unfortunately the mechanic didn’t like his ideas being questioned. “You still want to call me a liar?” he roared.

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Nikiema, completely distraught. “I’m going to leave.”

  “Dirty intellectuals,” the mechanic fumed. “Go, get in line. You’ve sold us to your white masters.” He let Nikiema leave and stayed seated in his container, no doubt to count and secure his fortune.

  Trying to push the pedals on his moped to turn it on, Nikiema felt his body stir with a violent tremor; sweat covered his face and blinded him. He was prey to a terror he had never experienced before.

  The young mechanics laughed at him. They very quickly realized that he had never ridden a moped. One of them came to his rescue. For the first two kilometers Nikiema was so focused on his actions that he forgot his situation. He thought hard: Don’t fall off this machine. My God, definitely don’t fall. He imagined, horrified, falling backward. Passersby would immediately surround him. It would end in a lynching. What an idea to put his photo on the banknotes! Instead of continuing straight on July 21 Boulevard, he turned into the roundabout called La Chaumière, the name of a nearby nightclub. Very skillfully, he resumed in the direction of Siriman’s garage. If Siriman had called the authorities about him, then they would be looking in the wrong direction. He was headed for Independence Avenue, which was a one-way street. He went as fast as he could, already reassured. He thought for a moment about trying to get to the border. Would that be a good decision? It was now known that he was still in the country, and there would be checkpoints installed everywhere. He was still too shaken to be able to think. He returned to the small house in Jinkoré—his haven of peace after his perilous outing—to lock himself up. He already missed the house. He parked the moped against the barrier that separated the garden from the road. He needed to sneak in very quickly. The door had been ajar throughout the day. He had left it that way on purpose, to give the impression to the rare passerby that the place was uninhabited.

  As soon as he drew the curtains in the living room, he recoiled violently from the smell of his own excrement piling up in the toilet. He also knew that the provisions in the basement were rotting. Looking around him, he realized that he was alone in his refuge for the first time. Just a few hours had been enough for the cockroaches, earthworms, large black and green flies, and even caterpillars to take over. He stood in the middle of the living room for a few minutes. He hesitated. Maybe he still had time to get away. He could take a weapon, if he found one, and risk it all. Fire into the crowd. He dreamt of glorious fireworks at a checkpoint. Noble N’Zo Nikiema. Died gallantly with weapons in his hands. The main thing was to not die like a dog under the shouts of a hostile public. He could leave again. Didn’t matter where for. Just leave. He went in and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t madness. Rather, it was the desire to resign himself to his fate, which he would live out with almost sensual delight.

  The day after his return, he heard the sound of voices close to the cottage saying his name. He strained his ears but wasn’t able to hear what they were saying. Maybe a military patrol.

  On the radio, Siriman Konté, the mechanic, was telling the story of how they met, in his own way. No doubt, the man could lie with unbelievable poise.

  At each flash of information, the same lines: “The noose is tightening. Controls. . . . Tyrant at bay. . . . Description . . .”

  Listeners called in to make fun of him:

  The Giant of Mount Nimba disguised as a beggar. . . . Ha! Ha!

  Riding the blue moped of some random worker!

  This man has definitely robbed our brave people right till the end. . . .

  Not even able to ride a bike, and he wants to lead the country!

  God is with you, beloved President Mwanke! May all your enemies die in dishonor!

  A philosopher got involved. Bloody legacy. The dark years. Time for mourning. In his humble opinion, there should be a public trial. Amused, Nikiema muttered, “I doubt Castaneda agrees with you, my boy.”

  He turned on the TV. The interior minister—he didn’t know him, he was new—said, “The fugitive knows he’s surrounded and we think he will turn himself in in the next few hours.” There were some blunders, however, and the citizens started to worry. A medical delegate was shot down near a parking area by nervous police. “It’s a scandal!” screamed a defender of human rights interviewed by telephone. The minister anxiously clarified, “We are ruled by the law,” and then added, “We have opened an investigation. Our security forces are not above the law of the republic.” The rest was easy to imagine. On the streets, passersby stared at each other, discreet and cautious. Following the minister, the TV had dancers on in flamboyant outfits. They writhed to the rhythm of techno music. N’Zo Nikiema saw his own death come toward him with a firm step.

  He fell asleep peacefully.

  Even if he had started screaming, they would not have heard him. They made a lot of noise above his head in the living room.

  He heard snatches of conversation.

  “. . .”

  “You really think so?”

  “Search properly.”

  “Now what?”

  “Someone was here not too long ago, I tell you.”

  “Could be, yes. Only for . . .”

  “Yes I do. But then . . . Come see this.”

  The two voices were lost for a moment.

  Then: “We will warn the colonel.”

  “That’s better. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Very true, my boys. We are too junior.”

  The sound of their boots on the floor tapered off after a few seconds. The small house was silent again. Maybe their boss would come back later on to inspect the premises. He did hear them say they would warn the colonel. N’Zo Nikiema was sure they were talking about the legendary Asante Kroma. He conjured up an image of the colonel with his striped hat and felt a little nostalgic. I’ve never been able to really get to know the guy, he thought. Taciturn and patient but also oddly effective.

  Nikiema, however, was not the least bit concerned. Nobody would ever discover his underground hideout. From the small sliver of light, he guessed that the city was flooded with light. At midmorning, the sun above Jinkoré had a bright orange glow. Unfortunately at the end of the afternoon, Maren was plunged into darkness. The city had learned to live without electricity. It had started a few days before with the usual cuts. Then there were very short interruptions—a flash of light s
ometimes—but more frequent. This touched a raw nerve with the population. Between power outages, radio stations broadcast reassuring messages. Twisted technical explanations. Calls for vigilance. Allusions to possible unrest stirred up by “the vengeful,” that is to say, Nikiema and yours truly. Peace has returned but you must not let your guard down. Peace is precious and fragile. The forces of evil have not disarmed. We all know that this man has a heart filled with hate.

  It then moved on to the question of a boom—extraordinary but logical—in the business of candles. By unanimous review, it turned out that never had so many been sold in the history of the country. The numbers were dizzying. Upon hearing this, Nikiema screamed angrily from the bottom of his hiding place, “Hunt down those who profit from these power outages!” In this case, it was the director-general of the National Electricity Company and a wealthy merchant named Marega. The latter had imported and managed to sell off millions of candles throughout the country. Collaborating with the two men was an engineer who was in charge of sabotaging the installations. A simple and lucrative combination.

  For the fugitive, two weeks without electricity was a genuine personal disaster. It probably hastened his end. I came to this conclusion after I’d pieced together the last days of N’Zo Nikiema’s life.

  Shortly before his death, N’Zo Nikiema behaved in a rather peculiar way. As his provisions began to decrease, he believed he could store them in his stomach. If I understood correctly, he sought to establish a reserve of fat, the way animals do when they go into hibernation.

  This may seem foolish to you, but I could not otherwise account for his sudden gluttony.

  He had always had a soft spot for apricot or berry yogurt. He had literally stuffed himself, as evidenced by the numerous empty cartons I found not only in the basement but also in the living room. Pastas were not of any use to him because they had to be boiled on an electric stove. Luckily, he stayed away from the kilischi and the dried fish which has to be left to gently melt on your tongue. Furthermore, he found that his body needed salt. But shortly after he arrived in Jinkoré, Nikiema had exhausted the cans of sardines and corned beef. Small act, big effects: this imprudence could be fatal. Canned foods, it seems to me, would have allowed him to better cope with the power outages.