by Rob Spillman
at exactly midday, just as the entire population sat down to a delicious meal of chicken-bicycle, the President and General of the armies took over the radio programmes and the only tv channel in the country, it was a solemn occasion, the president stretched taut as the skin of a bamileke drum, it was hard to choose exactly the right moment for leaving a phrase to posterity, and on that memorable Monday he was dressed in his Sunday best, wearing his heavy gold medals, looking from then on like a patriarch in the autumn of his reign, in fact he was so much dressed in his Sunday best, on that memorable Monday, you’d have thought it was the day of the Feast of the Goat, which we celebrate in memory of his grandmother, clearing his throat to overcome his nerves, he began by criticising the countries of Europe, who dazzled us with the sun of independence, when in fact we’re still dependent on them, since we still have avenues named after General de Gaulle and General Leclerc and President Coti and President Pompidou, but in Europe there are no avenues named after Sese Soto, or Idi-Amin-Dada, or Jean-Bédel-Bokassa or any of the other fine men known personally to him, and valued for their loyalty, humanity and respect of the rights of man, in that sense we are still dependent—they take our oil but withhold their ideas, they cut down our forests to keep themselves warm in winter, they educate our leaders at ENA and the Polytechnique and turn them into little white Negroes, the Banania Negroes are back again, we thought they’d disappeared into the bush, but here they are, ready for action, thus spoke our president, his breath short, his fist punching the air, and this speech on the ills of colonialism led him on to a denunciation of the cruelty and challenges of capitalism, he said all that was utopia, and worst of all were the homegrown lackeys of the colonialists, the guys living in our country, who eat with us, dance in our bars, sit next to us on public transport, work in our fields, our offices, our markets, these double edged knives who do things with our wives which the memory of my mother who died in the river Tchinouka prohibits me mentioning, these men are actually moles of the imperial forces, and let’s just say the President and General of the armies’ anger shot up by ten notches at this point, because he hates those lackeys of imperialism and colonialism, as one might hate chigoes, bugs, fleas or worms, and the President and General of the armies said they must be tracked down, these criminals, these puppets, these hypocrites—“Tartuffes,” he called them, “Malades Imaginaires,” “Misanthropists,” and “Paysans Parvenus,” he said the proletariat revolution will triumph, the enemy will be crushed, driven back, wherever he may appear, he said God was with us, that our country was eternal, as he was himself, he called for national unity, the end of tribal warfare, he told us we were all descended from a single ancestor, and finally he came to “The Credit Gone Away Affair,” which was dividing the country, he praised the Stubborn Snail’s initiative, and promised to award him the Legion of Honour, and finished his speech with the words he was determined to leave to posterity—and we knew these were the words because he said them several times over, arms stretched wide as though clasping a sequoia, he said “I have understood you” and his phrase too became famous throughout the land, which is why, for a joke, we common folk often say that “the minister accuses, the president understands.”
FATOU DIOME
• Senegal •
from THE BELLY OF THE ATLANTIC
1
HE RUNS, TACKLES, dribbles, strikes, falls, gets up again, carries on running. Faster! But the wind’s changed: now the ball’s heading straight for the crotch of Toldo, the Italian goalie. Oh God, do something! I’m not shouting, I’m begging you: if you’re the Almighty, do something! Ah, back comes Maldini, his legs knitting up the turf.
In front of the TV, I leap off the sofa and give a violent kick. Ouch, the table! I wanted to run with the ball, help Maldini get it back, shadow him halfway down the pitch so he could bury it in the back of the opponent’s net. But all my kick did was spill my cold tea onto the carpet. At this exact moment I imagine the Italians tensing up, stiff as the human fossils of Pompeii. I still don’t know why they clench their buttocks when the ball nears the goal.
“Maldini! Oh yes, great defending from Maldini, who passes to his keeper! And Toldo kicks it away. What a talent, this Maldini! A truly great player. Still staying loyal to AC Milan. Over a hundred caps for Italy! Amazing. Cesare, his father, was a fine player too; the family definitely has talent!”
The commentator would have liked to make up a poem in praise of Maldini, but in the heat of the moment he could only utter a string of exclamations.
Why am I telling you all this? Because I adore football? Not that much. Why, then? Because I’m in love with Maldini? No way! I’m not that crazy. I’m not starstruck. I don’t crane my neck gazing up at the sky. My grandma taught me early on how to pick up stars: all you have to do is place a basin of water in the middle of the yard at night and they’ll be at your feet. Try it yourself, you only need a small dish in the corner of the garden to see twenty-two stars, Maldini among them, chasing round in circles on the grass like rats in a maze. So, since I’m not writing Maldini a love letter, why am I telling you all this? Simply because not all viruses land you in a hospital. Some just work inside us like they do in a computer program and cause breakdown.
It’s 29 June 2000 and I’m watching the European Cup. It’s Italy v. Holland in the semi-final. My eyes are staring at the TV, but my heart’s contemplating other horizons.
Over there, people have been clinging to a scrap of land, the island of Niodior, for centuries. Stuck to the gum of the Atlantic like bits of leftover food, they wait resignedly for the next big wave that will either carry them off or leave them their lives. This thought hits me every time I retrace my path and my memory glimpses the minaret of the mosque, rigid in its certainties, and the coconut palms, shaking their hair in a nonchalant pagan dance whose origin is forgotten. Is it one of those ancient funeral dances that sanctifies the reunion of our dead with our ancestors? Or the oft-repeated one that celebrates marriages at the end of the harvest, after the rainy season? Or even that third kind of dance sparked by storms, during which, they say, the coconut palms imitate the shudder of young girls given in marriage to men they don’t love? The fourth is the most mysterious, the dream tango, and everyone has their own version that follows the rhythm of their breathing.
It’s nearly ten years since I left the shade of the coconut palms. Pounding the asphalt, my imprisoned feet recall their former liberty, the caress of warm sand, being nipped by crabs and the little thorn pricks that remind you there’s life even in the body’s forgotten extremities. I tread European ground, my feet sculpted and marked by African earth. One step after another, it’s the same movement all humans make, all over the planet. Yet I know my western walk has nothing in common with the one that took me through the alleys, over the beaches, paths and fields of my native land. People walk everywhere, but never towards the same horizon. In Africa, I followed in destiny’s wake, between chance and infinite hopefulness. In Europe, I walk down the long tunnel of efficiency that leads to well-defined goals. Here, chance plays no part; every step leads to an anticipated result and hope is measured by appetite for the fight. In the Technicolor world, you walk differently, towards an internalized destiny you set yourself regardless, without ever realising, for you’re pressed into the modern mob, caught up in the social steamroller ready to crush all those who dare pull over onto the hard shoulder. So, under the grey European sky, or in unexpected sunlight, I walk on, counting my steps, each one bringing me closer to my dream. But how many kilometres, how many work-filled days and sleepless nights still separate me from that so-called success that my people, on the other hand, took for granted from the moment I told them I was leaving for France? I walk on, my steps weighed down by their dreams, my head filled with my own. I walk on and have no idea where I’ll end up. I don’t know which mast the flag of victory is hoisted on, nor which waters could wash away the stain of failure. Hey, you, don’t nod off; my head’s boiling over! Pass me the wood
! This fire needs stoking. Writing’s my witch’s cauldron; at night I brew up dreams too tough to cook.
The noise of the television shakes me from my reverie. Every time the commentators shout Maldini’s name, a face fills the screen. Thousands of kilometres from my sitting room, on the other side of the earth, in Senegal, on that island barely big enough to accommodate a stadium, I picture a young man glued to a battered old TV set, watching the same match as me. I feel him next to me. Our eyes meet on the same images. Hearts thudding, gasps, outbursts of joy or despair, all our emotions are synchronised while the match plays, because we’re right behind the same man: Paolo Maldini.
So, over there, at the ends of the earth, I see a young man on a mat or an old bench stamping his feet in front of an ancient TV, which, despite its sputtering, commands as big an audience as a cinema screen. The owner of the only TV in the area generously sets it up in his yard and all the neighbours flock unannounced. The place is open to everyone; the sex, age and number of spectators vary according to the programme. This afternoon, 29 June 2000, the weather’s good, the sky’s a perfect blue and the TV isn’t crackling, even if the owner had to bang it with his fist to get it going. The eyes trained on it have all the freshness of innocence. Boys in the flower of youth, their bodies formed by long years of running after balls made of rags, then unhoped-for footballs, jostle and press together, liquid energy streaming down their smooth foreheads. Alert to every move, they yell out their predictions.
One of the young men is silent, concentrated on the images. He leans towards the screen; his gaze weaves among the heads. Jaw clenched, only the odd jerky movement betrays the passion inside him. At Maldini’s first tackle, his foot spontaneously strikes the bum of the boy squatting in front of him, hoofing him into the air. The victim turns round in a fury but, seeing the guilty party’s face utterly engrossed, doesn’t count on an apology and finds a place a little further off. You don’t step on a blind man’s balls twice, the saying goes: once is enough for him to pick up his merchandise as soon as he hears the sound of footsteps. The boy should shift his arse anyway, because the match was only just beginning and there’d be many more exciting moments. Already it’s enough to make you commit hara-kiri: a red card for Zambrota, the Italian number 17. That’s too much for the young man. As frustrated as Dino Zoff, the Italian coach, he straightens up and mutters something the ref wouldn’t have liked. You get it: he supports the Italians and from now on you’re not allowed to support any other team, out of respect. Fate really is against them: a yellow card for Francesco Toldo, the Italian keeper, who just grabbed hold of the Dutch number 9. The young man stands up, clutching his head in his hands, waiting for the inevitable punishment which soon follows: penalty against Italy.
Do something, God! Should I stop shouting? No, but you’ve no idea! It’s not important? Of course it’s important! Yes, I know, it’s not Hiroshima. If that was all, I couldn’t care less, but don’t you see they might score a goal that will break Madické’s heart! Who’s Madické? Who’s Madické? You think I’ve got time to tell you that? A penalty’s not a coffee break; it rips out as fast as a footballer’s fart! So are you going to do something or what? What about all my prayers, what about Ramadan? You think I do all that for nothing?
Toldo, the Italian goalie, saves it. Madické gives a violent kick, but this time no one’s in the way. Phew! We’ve avoided the worst. His chest heaves with a long sigh, he relaxes, and his face lights up with a smile I know won’t last. The match goes on.
Every time the Italians make a mistake, he puts his hands together in prayer. Just before half-time, Maldini argues with the ref’s decision and is rewarded with a yellow card. Madické’s smile’s wiped off his face; he knows a second yellow card is the same as a red and his idol will be sent off. He squeezes his head in his hands with worry: he doesn’t want to see his hero relegated to the sidelines. He’d like to talk to him, tell him the tactics he’s devising, right there on his bench. Short of playing alongside him, he’d like to lend Maldini his legs, so he’d have a spare pair. But there, on that bench, his feet burrowing in the white, burning sand, how many dream kilometres separate him from the traces of mud Maldini will leave in the dressing rooms at half-time?
Transforming his despair into dialogue, he screams words that catch in the tops of the Niodior palms, never to reach Maldini’s ears. I’m his devoted messenger: Madické and I have the same mother. People who only love by halves will tell you he’s my half-brother, but to me he’s my little brother and that’s that.
So tell Maldini his yellow or red cards are too much to bear, they’re crushing my heart. Tell him to save his skin, stay in one piece, not land a ball in the face, not let the opposition mow him down. Tell him I groan every time he cops it. Tell him his hot breath is searing my lungs. Tell him I feel his injuries and bear the scars. Tell him above all that I saw him, in Niodior, chasing the bubble of a dream over the warm sand. Because one day, on waste ground, my brother turned into Maldini. So tell Maldini about his wrestler’s body, his dark eyes, his frizzy hair, his gorgeous smile and white teeth. That Maldini is my little brother, swallowed up in his dream.
