Tomorrow I'll Be Twenty

by Alain Mabanckou

  He said: ‘Michel, I promise you, if you put sugar in the tank of a moped, it’ll break down and won’t start. Sugar’s nice, we all like sugar, and mopeds like it too. And the moped will like it so much it’ll take off suddenly at two hundred kilometres an hour.’

  I couldn’t think of anything better, so I said to myself: ‘I might as well try Lounès’s secret. What have I got to lose?’ So I did, because it made me really angry to see the man talking with Maman Pauline, and the way she listened to him, laughing, instead of shooing him away like I shoo away mosquitoes that come and bite me till all hours of the morning, Flytox or no Flytox. I’d never seen her laugh like that with Papa Roger. What did this guy have that my father didn’t? What could he be saying to make Maman Pauline laugh like that? And anyway, are you meant to make women laugh like that? Did I ever make Caroline laugh like that? I don’t like making Caroline laugh, whenever a woman laughs I feel embarrassed for her, I avert my eyes, so she won’t be embarrassed too. A woman looks awful when she laughs, you can see her teeth, and her tongue. Now you shouldn’t show your teeth or your tongue to just anyone in the street. Perhaps that’s why since the beginning of time, people have always hidden in the shower to brush their teeth.

  So, I took a sachet of sugar and I went round the back of our house where the nasty man had parked his old moped, emptied the sachet into the petrol tank and came back and sat down by the front door, like a good boy. Maman Pauline and the nasty man were still laughing, showing each other their tongue and teeth. It felt like the whole thing lasted about a hundred years and ten days.

  At last the nasty man said goodbye to Maman Pauline and put his arm round her waist. I thought: He’s suffocating my mother! But Maman Pauline just laughed again, while he was suffocating her. She showed him her teeth again, and her tongue was hanging out. I was embarrassed for her, she’s always so beautiful when her mouth is closed. I spat angrily on the ground because my mother hadn’t moved her body away from the rude man’s arm. She even seemed pleased he was squeezing her, she put her arm round the bad man’s waist, and the two of them carried on suffocating each other and laughing.

  The man went off round the back of our house, he was pleased with himself, singing as he went.

  A few minutes later he came rushing back, just as though he’d seen the devil himself.

  And he was shouting, ‘My motor! My motor! My motor’s not working!’

  At first I didn’t realise he was talking about his moped.

  ‘Where are the kids round here? Get them to come and push my bike!’

  But there were no children around. They were all at mass that Sunday, and mass at Saint-Jean-Bosco lasts so long, even God starts yawning after a bit, the prayers go on forever, and they all say the same thing over and over in the hundreds of different languages of our country. I think God has a pretty heavy workload round here, even on public holidays.

  Maman Pauline and I pushed the moped. It was no good, it still wouldn’t start. We went on pushing like slaves or the cart-pullers from Zaire you see at the Grand Marché. We got as far as where the Avenue of Independence gets so steep that cars always break down. This man saw us and took pity on us. I thought he was going to help us push the bike, but he said he was a Solex repair man, and though he was only really supposed to mend Solexes, he would take a look at this moped for no charge. That really annoyed me, I didn’t want him to fix the bike. He leaned over the moped, concentrating hard, like a watch mender. He opened the tank, tilted the moped so all the petrol ran out on the ground and discovered there was something white in there. He tasted it, and his eyes grew big and green as limes.

  ‘It’s sugar! Whoever did that’s a cunning rascal! Oooh, this is serious, really serious. I know this problem, believe me, this bike’s not going to start, not even if you push from here to the border with Cameroon!’

  He looked about him, as though in search of whoever could have played this trick on him. I was sitting pretty in my corner, no one could accuse me since I’d been pushing the bike myself. You can’t accuse someone who’s been helping you. So he thought it was some jealous guy in the Trois-Cents who’d sabotaged his bike.

  Anyway, the Solex repair man accepted a note for five hundred CFA francs. He advised our man to go and fill up at a petrol station, and off he pedalled towards the Savon quartier.

  Maman Pauline and I walked back home in silence. I was happy I’d just saved her from the bad man, but she was sad.

  The next morning, when I was getting my bags ready for school, she came and said, ‘Michel, I’m not stupid! I don’t like what you did yesterday! And since there’s no sugar left in the house, you’ll just have to go to school without breakfast!’

  Now Maman Pauline wants to go out this Sunday. I want to protect her because Papa Roger sometimes says ‘people don’t like people’. Another thing he says is: ‘another man’s wife is always sweeter’. And the bad men down the Avenue of Independence are going to think my mother’s really sweet because her clothes and her hair are really nice. I’m going to wipe out those bad guys, one by one. I’m really strong. Oh yeah, I’m like Superman, the Incredible Hulk, Asterix and Obelix, like Spiderman, Zembla or the Great Blek. I’ve read about the deeds of these true immortals, Lounès gave me all that to read. I’ve got big muscles, too, like them, that swell up when I’m angry.

  But my mother asks me to stay home because on Sundays schoolchildren do their homework for Monday. I’m not ok with that: ‘I’ve already done my homework, I knew we were going to go out this Sunday and…’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to check it and see if there are any mistakes!’

  I had no answer for that, so I said: ‘Maman, did you know bad men always go out on Sundays? They don’t have public holidays like Papa Roger, they don’t go to church, they’ll catch you and hurt you and take you to a bar where it’s all dark inside and then to a bedroom, to do nasty things to you.’

  She laughs, tells me no one’s going to attack her. I don’t agree, and I keep on saying so because the people out there are the ones stopping Maman Pauline from giving me my good night kiss each evening. She can see I’m not going to calm down, that I’m going to follow her.

  ‘Michel, think carefully: you really want to come with me?’

  ‘Yes’, I say, in a small voice, like I’m about to cry.

  ‘Ok, ok, come with me then!’

  It always worries me when she says ‘ok’, in that voice that seems to be hiding something really bad that’s going to happen to me. I worry when I see that little smile at the corner of her mouth, as though she’s thinking: ‘You come with me and see what happens, if that’s what you want.’ But I don’t care today, I’m happy, nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m already smiling, I’ll go along with her. We’ll walk out together. I’ll protect her.

  I put my hat back on straight again and button up my shirt to the neck, and she comes up behind me and takes me by the shoulders. ‘My, you’re well dressed today! But do you know where we’re going?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘To Uncle René’s.’

  I take a few steps backwards.

  ‘D’you still want to come?’

  I shake my head. No I do not want to go to Uncle René’s house. I can just picture old bald Lenin. Marx’s beard, too, and Engel’s, and the sideburns of that well-known immortal, Marien Ngouabi. And I picture Uncle René, his wife and my cousins, eating with their eyes on their plates.

  No, I don’t want to go to Uncle René’s.

  Maman Pauline can see I’ve decided not to come, and off she goes on her own. I stand outside the house, watching her go. I can smell her perfume in the air. I breathe in deeply, with my eyes closed. Then when I open them, I see my mother, walking along the Avenue of Independence. Every now and then she turns around to check I’m not behind her. I want to see which direction my mother goes in. Usually, to go to my uncle’s house, you turn right at the end of the avenue, then carry on straight towards the Savon quartier.


  There she is, getting into a taxi further on down. The car sets off but doesn’t turn right, it turns left, in completely the opposite direction to Uncle René’s, and disappears, heading for the Rex quartier. I’m standing in the middle of the road, a car could just come and knock me over because I’m busy thinking. I guess the taxi’s going to turn round and come back, that he’s set off the wrong way.

  The cars drive round me, hooting their horns at me. One driver yells at me, says I’m mad, a street child, a son of a proletariat.

  Me, son of a proletariat? Sounds like my uncle talking. But coming from Uncle René, proletariat’s a compliment. The proletariat’s someone who’s exploited by a capitalist, a bourgeois. I shouted back at the driver, ‘Opium of the people!’

  He didn’t hear. If he had he’d have stopped to punch me in the face.

  There’s still no taxi turning round in the street to bring my mother back, but I’m still standing there. I know Maman Pauline didn’t tell me the truth. Sometimes she tells me that the truth is a light and that you can’t hide a light in your pocket. That’s why the sun’s always stronger than the night. Yes, it was her that told me God created the sun so that men would know the truth. But men prefer the night, because it’s easier to cheat people in the dark. I have eyes that can see in the dark. My eyes are torches that never go out. Why did Maman Pauline hide the light and pretend day was night? Has she gone to meet the man with the old moped? Is there another guy, apart from this bad one with the gorilla arms?

  I can almost feel myself starting to hate her. I want to destroy everything, like a caterpillar, or a bulldozer, or one of the National People’s Army tanks. I’m deaf to the noise of the street. I’m surrounded by immortals. I’m Superman, I dream that I’m flying over the city of Pointe-Noire to where my mother is. You can’t hide the light from Superman. Superman can light up the sun at midnight, and put it out on the stroke of midday. So I decide I’m going to put the sun out now, to punish Maman Pauline. I close my eyes and spread my arms wide. But nothing happens. I can’t take off like Superman. I close my eyes again and imagine I’m pressing a big red button to put out the sun, which has stolen my mother. I open my eyes, the sun’s still there. It’s shining even brighter now. And it’s very hot.

  I know Maman Pauline isn’t going to Uncle René’s house. I know it’s often Uncle René who comes here to shout at her about the inheritance of my Grandma Henriette Nsoko, the fields and animals she’s left to us in the village of Louboulou. Or sometimes he just comes by the house to give me a little plastic truck, a spade and a rake, so I can play at being a farmer. My uncle has told his white bosses that I’m one of his sons, that way the white people give him lots of money at the end of each year. Apparently the more children you have, the more toys and money the white people give you. I’ve even heard that some fathers in this country have children on purpose so the white people will give them lots of presents. And if they haven’t got any children they go and fetch their nephews from the villages and bring them back to town and alter their birth certificates. The white man never checks it, he just hands over the present, without even trying to work out why the faces of the father and child are as different as night and day. It was easy for me because I have the same name as Uncle René. He comes to our house before Christmas, leaves the toys – always the same ones – and a 1000 CFA franc note which Maman Pauline refuses to accept. Uncle René throws the note on the ground, my mother takes it as soon as he starts the car. When they’re arguing, I hear Maman Pauline threatening her brother: ‘If you keep our mother’s inheritance all for yourself I’m going to tell those white bosses of yours that Michel’s not your son, he’s your nephew, and you’ll be kicked out of your job! If you’re lucky they might let you stay on at the CFAO, but you’ll have a tiny little office like the kiosks down the Trois-Cents!’

  My uncle replies, ‘What are the Whites going to do to me, eh? Michel’s got my name, I gave it to him! I delivered you from shame, Pauline! You should shut up and be grateful! And while we’re on the subject, why did Michel’s real father run off when he was born, huh? Why doesn’t the child have his father’s name? Simple: he has no father!’

  ‘Michel does have a father, it’s Roger!’

  ‘Oh yeah! Roger’s just his foster father! Besides, he’s already got a wife, her name’s Martine! And they’ve got children, real children!’

  And they go on arguing like that. They only stop when they hear me cough. Uncle René starts up his car, winds down the window and throws a 1000 CFA note, without even looking at us. It’s me that runs to pick it up.

  We’re sitting at the table, eating beef and beans. Maman Pauline and Papa Roger are opposite me. From where they’re sitting they can see everything going on in our lot, because the door’s often left open, but not me, because I’ve got my back to the door. I pass the salt and hot pepper when they want it.

  Maman says: ‘Michel, salt!’

  Papa says: ‘Michel, pepper!’

  Maman says: ‘Michel, top up your father’s wine!’

  Papa says: ‘Michel, look, your mother’s glass is empty. Pour her some beer!’

  I feel like a referee, all I need is a whistle and some cards.

  I eat fast because I’m hoping Papa Roger will give me his big piece of meat, which I’ve had my eye on for a few minutes. I’m already dreaming of the moment he puts it on my plate, how I’ll swallow it. First I’ll eat the beans, then I’ll start on the meat. I’ll scrape off all the flesh, than I’ll dig inside the bone with my fork to get the marrow out. When I’ve finished I must belch to please my mother, because she knows it’s my favourite meal. If I don’t belch she’ll think I didn’t like it, she’ll give me a cold look and say I’m the opium of the people in this house, which isn’t true. That’s why I’ve invented my own technique for belching after a meal I don’t like: first of all I drink lots of lemonade, then I hold my breath for a while, and press the base of my stomach. And the belch that comes out is so loud that they both look at me astonished. Maman Pauline can tell it’s not natural, that I’ve forced it, and she scolds me, saying: ‘Michel, are you trying to get funny with me or what? You don’t usually like spinach with salted fish! Anyway, that’s not the way you belch after beef and beans!’

  So Papa Roger often gives me his big bit of meat. That’s why this evening I’m giving him my hangdog look across the table, but he’s not looking at me very much. If he goes on not looking at me I’m done for because he won’t realise I really want the big piece of meat glistening on his plate. I’ve never seen a piece of meat glisten like that one. Maybe because today I can tell I’m not going to get it the way I usually do. Maybe, also, because the thing you’re worried you won’t get is always better than the thing you’ve already got on your plate or in your mouth. Maybe because in my head I’m telling myself I’m already eating my father’s meat.

  Suddenly I feel my heart drop into my boots: my father’s started clearing his beans to one side before starting on the piece of meat in question. Oh no, don’t let him do that, he mustn’t eat it himself, it’s mine, it’s mine! My head follows his hand as it moves, I close my eyes as the piece of meat finally disappears into his big wide mouth. For several minutes he can’t speak, that meat is so tender, so good, that if you talk too much you can’t appreciate it as you should.

  The moment he placed it in his mouth, I closed my eyes, imagining it was me, Michel, that had picked up the piece of meat, that was chewing it, me that had the aroma of tomato sauce and Maggi-cube in my nostrils, that the slab of meat had gone straight down into my little stomach, which is only too happy to continue the work begun in my mouth.

  I open my eyes and see that my dream has not come true. The meat did not go into my stomach, but into Papa Roger’s. I’m sad to have lost out, though I don’t let my father see. But I can see from the way he’s looking at me that he knew I wanted that piece and is pretending he didn’t. I hear him belch, picking the remains of the meat from between his teeth.


  To cheer myself up I think: ‘It doesn’t matter, maybe Papa Roger didn’t give me the big piece this evening to stop me getting greedy like my cousins, Kevin and Sebastien.’

  I’ve cleared the table. Maman Pauline will wash the plates before we go to bed. Maybe she won’t even wash them till tomorrow morning, before she goes to the Grand Marché, sometimes she leaves them when she’s tired.

  Now Papa Roger announces he’s got something very important to show us, something it seems we’ve never seen in our lives before. I’m still a bit cross with him because I didn’t get the piece of meat. He’s not going to wipe out my disappointment just by showing me something important.

  He raises his wine glass above his head, as if he’d beaten Brazil in the World Cup.

  ‘Let’s celebrate! You’ll see, it’s wonderful!’

  So my mother and I wait. We don’t know what he wants us to celebrate with him. We’ve checked there’s nothing on the table, nothing hidden underneath it, or anywhere else in the room.

  ‘Come on, raise your glasses!’

  I think of all the wonderful things there are in the world and I wonder what Papa Roger can be about to show us that will stop me thinking about the bit of meat in his belly right now. Perhaps he’s going to say he’s had a pay rise. Or that he’s found a better job than the one at the Victory Palace Hotel. Or that now he’s got a big office, bigger than Uncle René’s, with a beautiful secretary and bodyguards as big as black American soldiers, and the bodyguards will stop just anyone coming into his office without an appointment. Or that he’s bought a fantastic car. It’d be great if he’d bought a car, but I’m worried he’s going to tell me the car in question is red with five seats. He’s not allowed to buy a car like that. I’m going to buy one, so my wife, Caroline, will be happy, with our two children and our little white dog.