The Death of Comrade President

by Alain Mabanckou

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘What if it goes wrong?’

  ‘What? You’re not frightened, are you? Would your uncle who was assassinated be frightened? When they came to his house to arrest him, I bet he got his gun out and shot, but there were too many of them; the captain couldn’t shoot them all down. The woman who owes me money is called Antoinette Ebaka and—’

  ‘She’s the leader of the Congolese Revolutionary Women’s Union at the market …’

  ‘You really have been listening through the walls! I don’t care if she’s a member of the Congolese Revolutionary Women’s Union. I want my money and I’m not going to put up with her telling me to come back next month when they’ve killed my brother! She has to pay me!’

  There’s a noise by the door and we both turn round: Papa Roger’s coming in to the house.

  ‘What’s going on here, are you plotting against me?’

  ‘I’m having a conversation with Michel! Have the Military Committee of the Party forbidden that too now, as well as killing my brother?’

  Before turning on his heels, my father says:

  ‘Pauline, don’t be naïve … Watch out or you’ll get our family into trouble. Antoinette Ebaka didn’t kill Captain Kimbouala-Nkaya …’

  Papa Roger is already on his way back out as my mother yells:

  ‘No, but her northern brothers killed him, it’s the same thing!’

  Maman Pauline goes outside too, and picks up her brush again. I go back and see my father, to ask him if can go out for a few minutes.

  ‘Is it for your mother?’

  ‘Well, actually …’

  ‘Is it Mboua Mabé you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Michel, your dog may already be dead. And besides, I’m not an idiot: you spent too long fetching my wine and tobacco, I know you took a different route to go and look for the dog. If you didn’t find him then, what makes you think you’ll find him this time? So the answer’s no. Now don’t mention that dog to me again …’

  I don’t answer, but I can see he feels sorry for me.

  ‘Listen, you can go, but talk to Pauline first, I don’t want her to go on at me about it …’

  I go and stand by Maman Pauline, but she doesn’t even turn round. She just says:

  ‘I heard all that, and the answer’s no.’

  Ma Moubobi’s rage

  Ma Moubobi hasn’t set foot in our house for a very long time; the last time was maybe four or five months ago, when she came round to ask Maman Pauline the name of the girl who did her braids so beautifully. My mother told her it was Célestine, the child of one of her trader friends from the Grand Marché. Célestine is the best braider in Pointe-Noire, daughters and mothers chase after her, she’s so much in demand you have to book an appointment three weeks or a month ahead. But Maman Pauline doesn’t have to worry about appointments because Célestine’s mother, Ma Kilondo, says directly to her daughter:

  ‘Don’t keep Pauline waiting or she won’t keep me the best bunches of bananas for my stall.’

  So Maman Pauline only has to ask and Célestine changes all her appointments and comes and spends a whole day with us, doing my mother’s hair. Maman Pauline prepares some nice food, something she really likes, spinach with palm oil and salted fish and peanut butter. In the evening she pays for her hairdo and also gives her money for a taxi. She learned from the West Africans, who are the best at complicated braids. Her fingers are really slender, and when they move they look like a spider’s legs; she goes really fast, flicking about, tugging, winding, then bringing the hair together to make a knot and when it’s finished, the result’s amazing, it’s like magic! When Célestine does a woman’s braids, even if the woman has a really ugly face, she suddenly becomes beautiful, like the mermaid, Mami Wata, who lives in the rivers in our villages, with her golden hair and her fish tail. A woman who’s had her hair braided properly by Célestine needn’t worry: men will turn round in the street, ask her for a drink in a bar, then go somewhere private to do things I’m not going to go into here or people will say Michel always exaggerates, and sometimes he’s rude without realising.

  Anyway, a few months ago Ma Moubobi had the same braids done as Maman Pauline. Sadly it only lasted two days, because the poor woman was in pain and said her head hurt. She spent a night having her braids taken out by some other girls who all criticised Célestine’s work and when I went into her shop I found her with an Afro big enough for a sparrow to nest in, thinking her head was a palm tree.

  I’m a bit worried to see Ma Moubobi at our house, remembering how I annoyed her with my stupid explanation about my father wanting to get rid of a dirty note in her shop. So she hasn’t even waited a day to come and sort out the problem. Out of respect for her, Papa Roger turns off the radio, which was tuned to the Voice of the Congolese Revolution. He was going to turn it off anyway because they still hadn’t mentioned Captain Kimbouala-Nkaya; they were busy telling us that people have placed explosives in a petrol station in France. This happened in Corsica, which, according to the journalists, is an island where the people are having a difficult time because they don’t want to be French any more, they want to be Corsican and they’re always going on at poor President Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, the one who was elected president thanks to Jacques Chirac, who became mayor of Paris last Sunday. Fortunately no one died as a result of the Corsicans’ explosives, otherwise our radio station would have gone on and on about it, right up till the funeral of Comrade President Marien Ngouabi and in the end we’d lose track of who we were meant to be in mourning for. But this wasn’t the only thing that had annoyed Papa Roger, there were other problems, again in France, in a town called Rennes, where the people generally referred to as Bretons destroyed State buildings, again by putting bombs in them – Boom! Boom! Boom! So the people responsible for this chaos are not the Corsicans because Rennes is too far from their island and there would be no point them going to plant their explosives in a place where the people generally referred to as Bretons inherited the stubbornness of their ancestors, who liked to fight all day long, a bit like Africans. But the people of Corsica and the people of Brittany are annoyed about the same things: they want their own country, they don’t want to just be regions of France where they’ll have to speak French, which has too many rules, and will have to ignore their own ethnic languages, which if they’re not careful, as the journalists explain, will eventually disappear. The Bretons cooked up this attack, and the leaders are so pleased with what they’ve done they want the whole world to know about it. Which is why they put out information straight away, before other people in other regions of France steal their victory from them …

  Actually, my father started to turn down the radio as soon as he realised our journalists had nothing more to say and that they’d started going on about all the bad things that happened yesterday, especially what happened to our brothers in Comrade President Nicolae Ceauşescu’s Romania. According to the Voice of the Congolese Revolution, we now know how many people died there two weeks ago in an earthquake. There were more than one thousand five hundred dead, not forgetting the eleven thousand injured and the thousands of people who now have nowhere to sleep.

  I can see from Ma Moubobi’s face she’s not very pleased and that I’m going to get into trouble today. She doesn’t say hello to Papa Roger, she sits down where I was sitting before, because I have to give my place to her, out of politeness.

  Looking around, left to right, she asks my father:

  ‘Where’s Pauline?’

  My father’s head sweeps from left and right too, as if Maman Pauline’s hiding somewhere.

  ‘I expect she’s in the kitchen. Do you want me to call her?’

  Ma Moubobi turns to me:

  ‘Michel, you go and call her, not your father! I can tell from your manners you’re a spoiled only child!’

  I trail off towards the kitchen, and peer in the door, without entering: but my mother’s not there. I�
�m in the house now, and since I can’t find Maman Pauline in the living room, I go into their bedroom: she’s there, weeping in a corner, with a lighted candle and an old photo of Captain Kimbouala-Nkaya. From where I’m standing I can see the picture clearly, thanks to the light of the candle. My uncle is wearing his military uniform, but not his combat gear, soldiers never go into battle wearing a tie, war isn’t about showing the enemy you’re better dressed than them. The captain is wearing a white shirt, gloves as white as the shirt, stripes on his shoulders and badges everywhere, on either side of his chest. His head is turned to the right a bit like in the photo of Comrade President Marien Ngouabi where his eyes are also turned to the right, but unlike our leader of the Revolution, who’s wearing a cap, the captain is bareheaded, he has short hair, a little moustache and is smiling as though someone was distracting him while the photo was being taken. Maman Pauline must have taken this photo out of the case where she hides her really expensive wax wrappers, her jewellery, important documents like her birth certificate, papers that prove she is the owner of our plot, identity papers and my school reports, going back to primary school.

  My heart is beating really loudly, because I’m so upset to see her in this state, so Maman Pauline hears me breathing and turns round:

  ‘What are you doing here? Can’t you see I’m busy? Why didn’t you knock first?’

  I explain that Ma Moubobi is outside and wants to see her straight away.

  ‘She wants to see me straight away? If she wants me to call Célestine to come and do her braids, you can tell her I’m sleeping and I’ll stop by and see her at the shop!’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell her that …’

  I take one step, then another, but she stops me:

  ‘No, wait, I will see her …’

  When we get to the living room she stops, looks in the mirror above the wardrobe, licks her fingers and wipes away the signs of her tears. She tightens her wrapper around her waist, adjusts her top and the black scarf covering her head.

  We come out of the house, me in front, my mother behind …

  ‘Pauline, I shut up shop in a hurry to come over and see you and, as I was telling Roger, a customer has just told me that this famous captain who was murdered yesterday in Brazzaville was your brother … Is it true? Is that why you’re wearing a black scarf, Pauline?’

  My mother glances first at my father, who drops his gaze. Then she looks over at me, and I do the same. She answers:

  ‘No, he’s not my brother …’

  Papa Roger and I lift our heads and look straight at Maman Pauline. She looks away.

  But Ma Moubobi doesn’t stop there:

  ‘So what I heard earlier isn’t true?’

  ‘Don’t listen to people, they’ll tell you all sorts of different things, just to make trouble …’

  Ma Moubobi is pleased to hear this, but since she still looks unconvinced, Maman Pauline changes the subject to really confuse her.

  ‘How’s our little Olivier Moubobi? How is he getting on learning to be a bus conductor?’

  As soon as anyone mentions her son, Ma Moubobi turns into a different person, all happiness, and giving you free stuff from her shop. ‘Oh, my darling little Olivier? How kind of you to think of him, Pauline … Such an intelligent boy! He’s bringing in lots of money for his boss; next month he’s being put in charge of all the bus conductors who work for him. And that’s not all: he even has a girlfriend!’

  ‘Well, that’s good news!’

  ‘Isn’t it just, Pauline! I’m saved … OK, she’s a bit thin, I don’t like that, but my son’s made a good choice! He’s done very well for himself!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Rosalie, who may be my daughter-in-law one day, is not just anyone …’

  ‘So you’ve met this Rosalie’s parents?’

  ‘I have! She doesn’t have a father, which is always better; Olivier’s father bunked off too. But, wait for it Pauline, Rosalie’s mother is an extraordinary woman, you know her, she’s called Antoinette Ebaka, she’s the leader of the Grand Marché section of the Revolutionary Union of Congolese Women.’

  My mother, my father and I all look at each other. Once again, Maman Pauline acts like she’s just calmly speaking the truth:

  ‘No, I don’t know her …’

  ‘She sells bananas at the Grand Marché; you can’t not know her, you know all the traders, and all the traders know you! She’s spoken to me about you before and—’

  ‘I’m telling, you, I don’t know her! She must buy her bananas from someone else …’

  ‘Really? Oh well, never mind, if she drops into my shop one of these days I’ll bring her over to introduce her to you!’

  ‘Why not, Ma Moubobi?’

  ‘I swear you really have to meet her! Besides, she has another daughter, called Elika, she’s Rosalie’s twin, so your little Michel could see if—’

  ‘Michel needs to get into Karl Marx Lycée before he thinks about that kind of thing. He needs to finish his studies and, God willing, go to Europe, to take them further. Young people today start early with women, and if you’re not careful they drop their studies, have children and become gangsters down at the market …’

  Ma Moubobi looks put out. She thinks Maman Pauline is talking about Olivier:

  ‘Hang on, Pauline, it sounds like you’re getting at me there! Are you trying to say it was Olivier’s choice to give up his studies? It was the other pupils who upset him! Besides, Olivier has a job, and a good job! Do you think most of the young people who go to Three-Glorious-Days or the Karl Marx Lycée find work in this country?’

  Papa Roger intervenes:

  ‘Ma Moubobi, Pauline wasn’t saying that to get at you, she’s talking generally. I mean, what she was trying to say was—’

  ‘Roger, am I talking to you or your wife? I’m no fool. I know when I’m being got at in secret, and that’s what Pauline’s just done! And another thing – explain to me why, when you want to get rid of a five-thousand-franc note, you give it to your child so he’ll come and buy the same thing twice at my shop. That’s an insult to me, Roger! You wouldn’t do that in some white person’s shop in the town centre! So you think my shop is somewhere you can pay with a dirty note, do you?’

  Papa Roger is surprised:

  ‘Hold on, what’s all this about a dirty note?’

  Maman Pauline is surprised too:

  ‘A dirty note? What are you talking about? You’re picking a fight with us over nothing!’

  Ma Moubobi points her finger at me:

  ‘I’m telling you, your boy came into my shop today with a very dirty note, he said you’d given it to him to spend in my shop, Roger, because it was too dirty and you didn’t want it!’

  Papa Roger calms her down:

  ‘Ma Moubobi, we’ll sort that out with him. I clearly remember giving him a clean note.’

  Ma Moubobi rummages in her bra and takes out a note:

  ‘Here’s the dirty note in question, I’ve kept it! Look how dirty it is! I’m going to give it back to you, I’m not keeping this stinky thing in my shop, it will bring me bad luck!’

  Maman Pauline’s not having that:

  ‘Listen, Ma Moubobi, if that’s why you’ve come round here, you can just go straight back to your shop!’

  ‘You’re turning me out now, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m turning you out. First you come round talking about my brother who’s been murdered, I mean this captain I don’t know who’s been murdered, and now it’s some story about a dirty banknote! Even if it is dirty, does that mean what you buy with it is dirty too? If it’s dirty, why did you put it in your bra?’

  ‘I’m leaving!’

  She throws the dirty banknote on the ground and makes for the exit, where we hear her yelling:

  ‘My shop is not a rubbish bin! I don’t want any of you to set foot in it ever again! Pathetic people!’

  The moment Ma Moubobi’s out of sight, Maman Pauline and Papa Roger star
t attacking me. Too many questions, and I can’t wriggle my way out.

  ‘Is this story about the banknote true?’ Maman Pauline asks me.

  ‘If it is true, my boy, you’re in big trouble; you’ll have to go and apologise by yourself!’ my father says.

  ‘Answer me!’ orders Maman Pauline.

  ‘Yes, answer us!’ Papa Roger shouts.

  I wait a few seconds, and then I say: ‘No, it’s not true …’

  The cardinal’s cousin

  It’s maybe midnight or one in the morning. From my bed I can hear dogs barking far off. Is Mboua Mabé with them? Is he happy, surrounded by his friends, who are more important than me, though if it hadn’t been for me he’d have still been a wretched animal no one wanted to buy at the Grand Marché, even half price? If he thinks he’s better off where he is then I’m going to stop looking for him, and I don’t care if he’s in Voungou, by the River Tchinouka or down at the bins in the Mouyondzi. It’s over anyway, neither Papa Roger nor Maman Pauline want him back. I bet he’s picked up some bad habits since he’s been wherever he is, things I never wanted him to do with she-dogs and that I can’t go into here or people will think Michel always exaggerates and sometimes he says rude things without meaning to. But in my heart I am actually the kind of boy who doesn’t keep his anger in the fridge and heat it up later, so I forgive my dog his bad behaviour and because of that he’ll turn into a crane and protect Comrade President Marien Ngouabi, because it’s no coincidence that he vanished as soon as he heard the terrible news, news that no other dog in the whole country was capable of hearing.

  During the meal, after Ma Moubobi had left our place in a temper, I didn’t have much appetite left once Maman Pauline had said she wasn’t hungry, she couldn’t eat as her brother’s corpse was still not buried and she’d never know where it lay. Also, she brought us our food under the mango tree without once shouting that she wasn’t our slave. I was amazed by this pleasant behaviour given that she’s stopped talking much and spends most of her time in the bedroom, sobbing, praying as if our house was the mosque the Moslems go to at the Grand Marché.