Kaveena

by Boubacar Boris Diop

  “If I manage to sell a little during the show, I’m going to repaint these walls,” she says, heading into the studio.

  She comes back out almost immediately with a toolbox. While I look on the divan for which nails to pull out with the pliers, she begins taking all the small things out of the living room: poufs, wicker chairs, fan, etc. The ostrich eggs from Zimbabwe slip out of their bowls and she collects them as they slide off in all directions. She loves music and cannot keep herself from playing for a few seconds with the drums from Burundi and then with a small decorative kora.

  She hands me a jar of varnish. “Start polishing everything that’s made of wood while I put together something for us to eat.” Seeing me hesitate, she says, “Really, you don’t know how to do anything with your hands.”

  There is a sudden harshness in Mumbi’s voice which clashes with our good mood of the last two days. I feel it’s not addressed to me. In this precise moment, is my presence at his side the only thing she is aware of?

  “It’s true, I’m a dirty nerd,” I say, laughing.

  Her face stiffens. I remember some passages in N’Zo Nikiema’s letters: Mumbi hates these jokes.

  After a short demonstration with the varnish, she hands me the brush and asks if I want fried cassava or some aloko and fish kebabs.

  “Both,” I say playfully.

  I know that gaiety shocks her but there’s one thing I’m certain of: I am not going to worry about Mumbi Awele’s moods. I don’t want to be at her mercy.

  Within a few hours, the courtyard is cluttered with furniture, old newspapers and catalogs, and kitchen utensils. We both find it hard to find a place to put our feet.

  It makes me feel good to give Mumbi a helping hand. I enjoy these hours of relaxation because I can move around the yard without the fear of being recognized. It’s not hard. This part of Jinkoré is not frequented much by people. The neighborhood will not really recover its facade from before the war. From time to time, workers pass by in front of the fence without paying any attention to us. In their eyes, we are a couple in the process of repossessing our home. I remain cautious nonetheless: I always keep my back to the street. You never know.

  A mouse escapes from the stack of plates and rushes toward the gate. I try to catch it but it disappears in the grass.

  I think about N’Zo Nikiema again. Basically, this is the day of his funeral. I don’t know if I should say this, but yesterday when I was helping Mumbi sweep the room, I saw traces of flesh and bits of bone on the tiles—small splinters of transparent yellow, actually. They looked like broken glass. I picked them up carefully and put them in a handkerchief. They are still in my pocket and actually I don’t know what to do with them.

  Mumbi’s hatred for N’Zo Nikiema makes me feel claustrophobic. I would like to leave. I know it’s still risky but there’s nothing more for me to do in the house.

  This morning I told Mumbi, “I’m getting ready.” I saw the slight frown in her eyebrows that showed she didn’t really understand. “I’m going to leave,” I said more precisely.

  “Ah. . . . Sorry, I’m a little tired.” After a short pause, she added, “Is it because I’m rearranging the house? It has nothing to do with you and you’re not bothering me.”

  I’ve observed that as soon as we broach a serious subject, Mumbi reacts more slowly. She looks at me in a peculiar way and I feel she is very careful about what she says. Quite often, though, she is content to nod her head up and down and it is difficult to decode her actions.

  “I know that I don’t bother you. But I’ve already told you, it’s absurd for a man my age to stay here just like that.”

  I wanted to philosophize about this idea of being “in waiting” but I held myself back at the last moment.

  “There’s no hurry, Colonel. They have almost forgotten you. In a few weeks, you can leave the country safely.”

  There was another silence. Always the same embarrassed silence. N’Zo Nikiema’s shadow crept between us. Under our feet, there weren’t just the abandoned human remains in the garbage. There was also a life and some dreams. There was, whether Mumbi Awele wanted it or not, a part of herself. I have difficulty believing that she and I will never speak about it.

  We continue cleaning and polishing furniture in this somewhat heavy atmosphere. It’s not possible, however, to bring it all back in before nightfall.

  “We can leave the armchairs and ottomans outside until tomorrow morning,” I say.

  She agrees after a moment’s reflection. “You’re right. That’ll allow them to breathe. It’s also too late to assemble the bed piece by piece.”

  In the end, the most important thing for Mumbi is the decor inside. The house smells good with the scent of incense. Over the previous days, she did the laundry. We hung the bogolan curtains back on their rods and Mumbi came up with the idea to move everything around. Airier and more pleasant, the living room has a completely new look.

  Mumbi has to leave. She says she has a meeting in the city to prepare for the exhibit. This surprises me.

  “There has to be a meeting for that too?”

  “There are a dozen of us exhibiting our work.”

  “Ah. . . .”

  I thought it was a solo show. I hold back from saying so. I believe she’s not the best painter, but I don’t want to offend her. After Mumbi leaves, I start watching Panafrica, a famous TV show about sustainable development. In my previous life, I never missed it. A young woman in glasses, black and frail, lost in a huge white boubou, is answering a reporter’s questions. From what I understand, she’s the minister of projects and capacity building. I catch some snatches of her sentences. She says in a halting shrill voice, “. . . To know how to put up these projects, it’s a veritable science. I would even say it’s an exact science. Some people like the convenience, the Africans are like that, but the donors know all our tricks. We can no longer deceive them. We’ve got to get to work and come up with good projects—you have to learn this like everything else in life. There are too many imposters who spoil the image of the continent. If we don’t come up with good projects, no one will agree to help us.” It is obvious that the minister in the white boubou is very pleased with herself. She knows all about the art of starving with an outstretched hand. She continues speaking for a long time about advocacy, capacity building, donor funds, and then donor funds again.

  This gibberish means that the war is really over, I say to myself. There are words that do not lie. Castaneda’s Lil Boys will no longer sever people’s wrists. What will happen to us if people no longer have their two hands to receive alms from the big-hearted nations? Precisely, the woman says, “Let’s not discourage the rich countries who want to help us—it would be really irresponsible.” She adds, “Since the fall of the Berlin Wall, they must also think about their brothers in the former states destroyed by Communism, like Lithuania, Poland, and Belarus. And there is also Asia; a huge amount of money has gone to them since the tsunami. That tsunami was a real catastrophe for the African continent. We are not the only ones and the West has other things to do. Those people must live too. Their parents worked hard and now that they have the money to eat, it’s not polite to disturb their meal with all our problems.”

  Listening to her, something surprising happens to me: I burst out laughing. Begging as an exact science? Is she sick or what? We should not let such stupid people speak. But my indignation almost amuses me. Maybe she’s sincere but quite late. I’ve heard such things several times without finding them good or bad. Still, it’s not like I’m going to start talking like those salon revolutionaries whose confessions describe in detail the Satellite cellars I had torn up.

  I turn off all the lights around one in the morning while thinking about the details of my plan to leave the country. I cannot decide which would be the most secure border for me. I keep changing my mind and this means that maybe I am not ready.

  In the middle of the night, I hear a noise inside the house. This could only be Mumbi.
I half open my eyes to be sure. In my half sleep, I figure out that she is with a man and I hastily go back under my blanket. The guy, leaning on Mumbi, is staggering a little and stinks of alcohol. I can’t rid my mind of the impression that she is a woman who leads a disreputable life, that bastard. In that moment, I really want Mumbi. A violent desire, furious but quickly suppressed. It is the first time I feel this way about her. You know, one of those dirty thoughts that always ends up entering your head from behind. It comes from a dark, distant, and improbable place and it lays siege upon your soul with its obscene grimaces and you have no way of knowing what it really wants.

  I must confess: I also try to take advantage of this opportunity to discover things about Mumbi without her knowledge. Just having these thoughts makes me feel ashamed. I know that everyone won’t agree with me, but according to me, Mumbi is a good woman. I want to remain loyal to her.

  I think I go back to sleep after a few minutes. Around three or four o’clock in the morning, Mumbi wakes me up. This has never happened before. Just out of the shower, her body is wrapped in a cloth tied over her breasts. Her hair is wet, with large drops of water trickling down that she keeps wiping with the palm of her right hand. I sit up on the edge of the bed. Fortunately, I have my pajamas on and I’m not too embarrassed by this situation.

  “Colonel, I know you weren’t sleeping,” she says. Something in the tone of her voice indicates that this is an absolute obvious fact and that my answer means little.

  “It’s true, I heard you come in. But I went back to sleep.”

  “You saw me with someone, right?”

  After hesitating briefly, I decide to be honest. “Yes I did.” I want to add that I don’t want to meddle in her life. The words don’t come out of my mouth because I don’t have enough time to let them form. It is horrifying for me to give her the impression that I am judging her.

  “I want us to talk tonight,” she says.

  She stands up and holds out her hand. There is a moment of great confusion in my head. For a few seconds, I feel terrified. What does Mumbi want from me? She is half-naked and we are alone in this small house. I also don’t know her very well. She shows all signs of having a split personality and I dread to discover, in spite of myself, her demonic side during the night. I don’t want all these stories to continue mixing like circles in infinity that never touch. I say to myself, Why are things with us human beings never simple? I am afraid of her but I am also afraid of myself because I feel desire rising up within me, the kind of desire that can also be an urge for destruction.

  I follow her into the studio. For fear of offending her, I have not dared to let go of her hand which burns within mine. On the wooden table in the middle of the room is a big calabash with a black-and-white motif. Mumbi lifts it and says, “Look.”

  I recognize Pierre Castaneda’s head at once.

  It has been sliced very cleanly at the base of the neck. Another skull has been placed across from it. Undoubtedly that of N’Zo Nikiema.

  Mumbi speaks again: “The rest of the body is in the basement.” She is silent for a second and then points at N’Zo Nikiema and Pierre Castaneda. “With these, I’ll make an installation for Bastos II.”

  I remember that Kaveena had been kidnapped in this area a few years ago. It was not even the typical story of a little girl who strayed from her mother while playing in the park and wasn’t found. At that time, Mumbi dreamed of becoming a dancer. She was coming home with Kaveena after a rehearsal at the Bastos II Youth Center. Near the intersection, a van had stopped at their height. A smiling, well-dressed man got out. He seemed to be looking for directions and Mumbi was about to help him when he quickly made her inhale the contents of a gas bottle. When she woke up after a few hours, it was night and Kaveena was no longer at her side. The few passersby later admitted that they had not noticed anything unusual that day at the Bastos II intersection.

  That said, what does Mumbi mean by “installation”? I’m not familiar with artist jargon and don’t know this word. I guess the meaning after watching Mumbi choose, in a way that appears arbitrary to me, the elements of her composition. Pebbles and shells. A small waste-basket. Spoons, etc. She then leaves me alone in the studio and goes to get dressed. Upon returning, she throws all these objects—including, it must be said, the inert skulls of N’Zo Nikiema and Pierre Castaneda—in a bag. She heads to the door, and a moment later I hear a car start in the silence of the night.

  It rained a lot last night. Almost all the roads to Maren are blocked. The inhabitants of the city are having difficulty making their way through puddles and fallen tree trunks. All morning, I’ve been seeing them hopping over yellowish puddles, umbrellas in hand. The sky is still overcast and the weather is mild. Without the potholed embankments and the windswept trash, it would be nice to walk randomly through the streets of the capital.

  I park up by Mayo’s fruit stall. Mayo is a young man with an oval face and a shady vibe. We know each other well. The stall was in the same place before the war, and upon my return to this area after Pierre Castaneda’s death—almost two years ago—he came knocking at my door. He also offered a helping hand to the workers hired by the new authorities to do up my home.

  After serving two young girls from the local high school, Mayo approaches my door. “Hello, Father,” he says. Depending on the day, he calls me “Father” or “Uncle” or “Boss.” It’s true, he could be my son.

  “I have no more fruit at home, Mayo.”

  He offers me solo papayas. I love them. Small and somewhat ugly at first glance, they have a bright red flesh that melts delicately in the mouth. I also stock up on bananas, green mandarins, and màdd. I love that, too. A fruit that is tender and acidic at the same time. Its orange color has always fascinated me. The mere possibility of making iced màdd in my own home means that I am again entitled to the simple pleasures of life.

  After paying, I’m about to start driving my little brown 205. But Mayo keeps his eyes fixed on me. I sense that he wants to tell me something and I encourage him. “Work is going well, Mayo?”

  At the end of the day, it is nothing important. He recites a list of government offices. I hear a few awful words: “Land registry.” “Primary approval.” “Registration number.” Mayo wants me to help him open a shop. He wants to sell something other than imported mangoes and apples and he has spotted a good location at the La Chaumière roundabout, etc.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It should be fine. I love to help. These solicitations are unfortunately becoming more and more frequent and I’ll definitely have to put a stop to them soon. My neighbors in this Lamsaar-Pilote neighborhood have a hard time admitting that I’m a lonely old fruit-and-crosswords amateur. For them, I remain the enigmatic and formidable Colonel Asante Kroma. This is largely the fault of the newspapers. After the fall of Castaneda’s regime, they invented all kinds of fables on my account. To hear them and their truth, it would seem that the only one to overthrow Castaneda was I, your humble servant.

  They found his famous striped hat next to Castaneda’s skull.

  It was Castaneda’s fault. How dare he take on the powerful Colonel Asante Kroma! A fatal mistake . . .

  The colonel with his clandestine networks, he’s really too powerful. The white guy met his match. Huh!

  To come on African soil and pretend to govern this country with a strong tradition of defiance and honor! What arrogance!

  Only a coward like Mwanke could accept being his lackey. That’s why he bolted like a rabbit the first chance he got.

  Seems like the colonel is waiting for the great N’Zo Nikiema to return. Together, they will take the country in their own hands!

  Phew! Not too soon, brother! So much for the corrupt ones!

  It was really unjust to Nikiema! We’ve got to prepare a really big welcome!

  It’s amazing how quickly people forget. If Nikiema were to return, it would be enough for him to give a good speech to reclaim his throne at the p
alace. They also claim that I am trying to form some sort of secret government of a republican type. Heads will roll, there will be blood, etc.

  And the colonel is really smart! He wants to play the part of a peaceful little retiree. We are not fooled, my brother! Hey! Hey!

  It doesn’t matter. When you are well informed and hear this nonsense, you can easily become cynical or dismissive. But I let them say it because it protects me. Mwanke’s successor has sent me emissaries several times. Each time, it goes something like this: “Colonel, the white guy has ruined everything. Now he’s dead and it’s time to straighten out the country. We can’t stay on the sidelines. The nation needs you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  They don’t believe me, of course. As I talk to them, they are hoping to read between the lines and figure out my secret plans.

  The only return that interests me is that of Mberi and our two children. These people will eventually realize this.

  I read the newspapers every morning and I like to dwell on—and this is new—the culture pages. I look for Mumbi Awele’s name. She has a normal career as a lesser-known artist.

  Mumbi and I will never see each other again. And it wouldn’t make any sense anyway.

  I owe the reader the story of my last night with Mumbi in Jinkoré. You’ll have to forgive me some inaccuracies since two years have passed. Besides, told from my perspective, the story is not quite the same. Far away from the small house in Jinkoré, my heart beats much more slowly. I’m not a fugitive exposed to a thousand dangers. The languor of my new life changes everything. It changes my mind. My look. Everything. As I write these lines, I don’t have the smell of death all around me. No blood pours out of my words and their rustling is not the same. Yes, it makes a big difference.