We nod our heads, though we still don’t understand. He takes this as encouragement, and he goes on, ‘It’s blindingly obvious: all social relationships are of necessity founded on confrontation, textually speaking you might almost say on the class struggle. Our relationships are based on our everyday experience and not on ideology, I mean, the superstructure, since we now know that ideology will never change the world for us in the sense that it changes our living conditions, or our social relationships, etc. Marx is quite clear about that, he set it down in black and white, and I quote: The new materialism sees things from the perspective of human society, or social humanity, unquote.’
Talking about Engels, Lenin and Karl Marx, and the immortal Marien Ngouabi makes him sweat heavily. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. He’s just realised that in fact we haven’t understood a word he’s been saying and once more he turns to my mother. ‘Well, I’ll leave it there. I get the feeling I’m preaching in the Sahara desert. You come with me, we need to sort out a few things. But not in front of the boy.’
They leave the house and go and talk out in the yard. But they talk too loud, and I hear everything. Yet again, it’s about the inheritance of my grandmother Henrietta Ntsoko’s land. She was married to my grandfather, Grégoire Moukila, the chief of Louboulou village. My grandfather had land, chickens, sheep, goats, pigs, cattle, manioc fields and maize. He left it all to my grandmother. Now she’s dead, Uncle René claims everything’s his, because he’s the older brother and my mother will have to wait till he dies to recover my grandmother’s inheritance, along with Uncle René’s.
Maman Pauline disagrees.
‘René, this is family, not your politics that come from books by Angèle.’
‘Engels!’
‘Whoever! This is about our family. Why are you telling me these lies? You’ve already taken our brother’s house, when it should be his children who get it!’
‘Are you kidding? Why should his children get the house?’
‘Because children should be the ones who inherit!’
‘Oh no, that’s a typical capitalist point of view. You see – we’re still all under the sway of imperialism! We need to get back to our own traditions, get back in touch with ourselves. This house belonged to my brother and it’s my job to look after it because I was the one who paid for his medicines when he was in hospital. And don’t forget, I bought Albert’s coffin and fed the people who came to his wake! What did Albert’s children actually do for him while he was ill at the Adolphe-Cissy Hospital?’
The deceased brother they’re talking about was my grandfather’s oldest child, and worked for the electricity company in Pointe-Noire. He died when I was very small. Now I realise the beautiful house where Uncle René and his wife and children live is in fact Uncle Albert Moukila’s house. My mother sometimes talks to me about his children, who I’ve never met. Some of them, apart from the older sister, Albertine, have names that make me giggle. The cousin they call ‘Abeille’ comes after Albertine and has studied in the USSR. Then there’s ‘Pretty Boy’ Firmin, who has a little amateur band in the Rex quartier. Then there’s Gorgeous Djoudjou, who’s finishing his studies in France. Finally, there are the twins, Gilbert ‘the Magician’ and Nzoussi ‘Miss Picky’, who call my mother ‘Papa Pauline’. Uncle René threw them all out of their father’s house and took the inheritance for himself, as if he’d earned all this wealth through hard work.
‘This time I’m not going to let you take all our mother’s things,’ Maman Pauline continues.
‘You only have to wait till I die, then you’ll get everything that’s mine, mother’s things and the house I inherited from Albert.’
‘And what if I die before you?’
‘There’s your son, Michel. He’ll get everything!’
‘Michel isn’t our mother’s son, he’s my son! And don’t forget, there are other people in the family too!’
Then I hear the names of my aunts and uncles, who I haven’t met yet: Aunt Bouanga, who lives in Dolisie, over two hundred kilometres from Pointe-Noire. Aunt Dorothée, who’s married and lives in the village of Moussanda. Uncle Joseph who lives in Louboulou and is the youngest in the family, just after my mother. They’re just names to me. I haven’t met them yet. Maman Pauline often tells me they’re all very nice, that they think of me, and would like to see me too, one day.
Uncle René acts like he’s the big brother in this family, when in fact Aunt Bouanga and Aunt Dorothée are older than him. These two aunts are afraid of him, they can’t stand up to him and he’s just waiting for the day someone in the family dies so he can dash to the wake and announce, ‘Everything belonging to the deceased is mine.’ And if Maman Pauline dies, will he come and take our house and throw me out like he threw out Uncle Albert’s children? I can’t believe he will because this house was bought for us by Papa Roger and my name is on the papers. How could Uncle René come and take it? Papa Roger would wage a world war on him first, because usually the inheritance should go to the children. I try to understand why Uncle René acts the way he does, and I tell myself, ‘Perhaps if you’re rich in this life, you always want to get richer, and you stop noticing that the people around you have nothing.’
Before he left, my uncle threw a 1000 CFA franc note on the ground. My mother refused to take it. As soon as his car had started up, I quickly picked up the note, before the wind blew it away and into the middle of the street in the Avenue of Independence and everyone started fighting for it and saying it was theirs and we’d have no proof it belonged to us.
Lounès has been to the Rex with his father to see Mandala, daughter of India. They said people were weeping in the cinema, including Monsieur Mutombo, and it’s not every day you see him cry.
While we’re walking over to the football pitch in Savon, for a match between the Tié-Tié Caids and the Voungou Dragons, Lounès tries to explain the film to me. He tells me about a prince called Samsher and his sister, princess Rajshree, who live a life of such luxury that compared to them even capitalists look like paupers. They have elephants, tigers, lions, a beautiful palace in all the colours of the rainbow, rivers full of flowers and beautiful women, bathing and dancing, swaying their Netherlands. I listen to him, envy him, I feel jealous of him. But I do rather wonder if Lounès isn’t adding a bit of spice to his story, to get me to ask Papa Roger to take us to see it, because children aren’t allowed to go to the cinema on their own.
He describes how the prince and princess are cruel to the villagers. They’re like the capitalists are towards the Wretched of the Earth. And yet they’re rich, the princess and prince, why can’t they leave the poor people in peace? Fortunately there’s a young man called Jai who decides to fight back. It’s not easy for him to attack an entire kingdom. He’s a very courageous young man, besides which, he wants princess Rajshree to be his wife, which is no easy fix. The princess is too proud and she refuses to listen to all Jai’s fine words, though they’re sweet as honey. Thank God there’s a country girl who loves Jai and sacrifices herself to save him from death. This is the point where the people all clapped in the cinema and Jai gets his own back and shows that just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you can mess the poor people around.
When I hear Lounès telling the story, I feel as though he’s actually been to India and visited the palace he’s describing in such detail. Then it occurs to me that it’s a bit like what’s happened to me with Caroline, now she loves Mabélé, when she should love me. Because I’ve got lots of plastic lorries and spades and rakes, I’m a bit like the peasant boy in Mandala, daughter of India. I should go and chat up princess Caroline but I don’t want some peasant girl loving me and sacrificing herself for me and saving me from death. Mabélé is very proud, and thinks he’s the only one who reads the work of Marcel Pagnol, and can write poems for Caroline.
‘Michel, you’re talking to yourself!’
I hadn’t even noticed I was speaking out loud.
‘I don’t
like Mabélé, you know,’ he says.
‘D’you know him then?’
‘No, but I often see him in the street with the boys from over on Block 55.’
‘I want to see him too, I want to know if I’m better looking than him…’
‘You are better looking than him, I’ve already told you.’
‘Really?’
‘Anyway, you’ll see him later, for real.’
‘Where?’
‘On the pitch.’
‘What? On the pitch?’
‘He’s the number 11 for the Tié-Tié Caids.’
‘But Jonas, the one they call Little Pelé, always plays number 11.’
‘Jonas is out, he got dropped for being rude to the coach. He plays for the Voungou Dragons now.’
‘You mean, Little Pelé’s going to be playing against his own old team?’
‘He’ll be playing against our Tié-Tié Caids.’
Lounès and I have always supported the Tié-Tié Caids because we like the way Jonas dribbles from the halfway line to right in front of the other team’s goalkeeper. That’s how he got the nickname Little Pelé. There’s no stopping him when he’s got the ball at his feet. He flies through the air, taking off like a rocket, and when he kicks the ball with his left foot you know for sure it’s going to hit the back of the net. The other teams often said: to win the match, someone has to break Jonas’s leg. So they’d stick a really tall, muscular defender on him, someone who looks like they must be twenty already, though in fact all the players are about Lounès’s age, never older.
I say to Lounès, ‘If Jonas isn’t playing for the Tié-Tié Caids and Mabélé’s playing instead, I’m not going to support the Tié-Tié Caids, I’m supporting the Voungou Dragons and I want them to win this match!’
Now we’re at the Tata-Luboka pitch, Lounès points out Mabélé from a distance.
‘Look, he’s over there. He’s the one doing up his bootlaces near the goalkeeper.’
The stadium’s already full. People are standing all round the pitch, which is full of holes. The smallest bring their own stools and climb up on them, otherwise they wouldn’t see anything.
While I’m still looking at Mabélé and thinking there’s nothing he’s got that I haven’t, Lounès whispers in my ear, ‘Look who’s just opposite.’
‘Caroline?’
‘Shush! Don’t look that way, she’s looking at us.’
Caroline’s wearing an orange jersey, the colour of the Tié-Tié Caids. So she’s come to support Mabélé.
‘You told me she was gong to your aunt’s, and…’
‘Yeah, she’s still staying there. Maybe Mabélé invited her.’
‘I’m going home, I don’t want to see this match any more!’
‘No, stay, I’ll take care of Mabélé, just watch what I do in front of everyone. Maître John’s already taught me some advanced katas you only learn when you’ve got your orange belt. Just you wait!’
‘No, I’m going.’
He holds me back by my shirt. I struggle, manage to break loose, but I hear my shirt rip.
I’m already two hundred metres away from Lounès and I’m running like a bullet. People yell after me when I push past them. I don’t care, I just keep on running.
I hear Lounès’s voice in the distance.
‘Michel, come back! Come back! Come back!’
I don’t go down the Rue des Plateaux, I cut through the yard of Placide’s house – he’s one of my classmates. It’s a short cut I know well, Placide’s big brother, Paul Moubembé bars my way.
‘Michel, stop, why are you running like that, have you stolen something?’
I pretend to run to the left, then duck back to the right and manage to dodge Paul Moubembé, who stands there, like a post, watching me run. I go through Godet’s parents’ yard – he’s another classmate. This is a short cut too, that brings you directly onto the Avenue of Independence. I’m sweating like Uncle René when he’s talking about Engels, Lenin, Karl Marx or the immortal Marien Ngouabi. I wipe my forehead with my right arm. My shirt is flapping where it’s torn, as though I’ve got wings on my back. I might just take off, running this fast.
I’m on the Avenue of Independence now, and at last I turn round. Lounès hasn’t followed me, he’ll watch the match even if I’m not there. I don’t know what will happen between him and Mabélé. Will they fight? Will Lounès do the karate Maître John taught him? What are these advanced katas his teacher’s shown him? Does Lounès take off like Bruce Lee when he lays into people who are bigger than him? I don’t actually want him to fight Mabélé, Caroline will only blame me.
Lounès likes me being with his sister, but when he yells at her to go and see me, Caroline screams like she’s having her throat cut. He’s told me now, it’s our business, no one else’s. He’s not going to mention it to her again. Caroline is too complicated and Lounès says that whenever she cries, Monsieur and Madame Mutombo blame him and stop his pocket money for a week.
I get back home, and bump into Maman Pauline who’s just packing a big bag. I turn my back on her so she won’t ask me why my shirt is torn. She’ll think I’ve been in a fight, though in fact I’m afraid of fights because I’ve never won one yet.
‘Is the match finished already?’
‘No, I’m hungry, and it’s too hot there.’
I’m staring at her bag. It’s a travel bag, so she must be going somewhere.
‘I’m going in two weeks’ time, but I’m preparing my bag now, otherwise I’ll forget things.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Oh no you’re not. I’m going into the bush to buy bunches of bananas, then taking them to Brazzaville to sell. The bush isn’t safe for children.’
At last Papa Roger has given her the money for her new business, I think.
‘I’ll go and make you something to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry now.’
‘Michel, it’s a surprise: beef with beans, I’ve made it specially for you!’
‘I’m not hungry.’
I go to my room and lie down on the bed with my eyes shut, but I’m not asleep yet. I hear a slight noise: rain drops on the metal roof. A voice inside me exclaims, Oh no! Not rain! I don’t want it to rain – if it does the Tié-Tié Caids will postpone the match. That’s how they win so often. They go and see a fetisher, and he promises to bring rain to wipe out the other team’s fetishes. If the Tié-Tié Caids win, Caroline will carry on being crazy about Mabélé because it’s always the number 11 shirt that gets to dribble, always the number 11 people love, and cheer for, always the number 11 shirt the girls come to see after the match.
The Shah of Iran’s become a kind of vagabond, wandering from country to country, while the Monster, Idi Amin Dada, is fine, no one’s after him, he’s just chilling out in Saudi Arabia. He used to be swimming champion of Uganda, so perhaps he’s got a great big pool and goes swimming every day. He must have a room where he does boxing, because he also used to be Ugandan boxing champion. The people running his country are saying: let him stay there in Saudi Arabia, we haven’t got time to go running after him, but if he does come back we’re going to put him away, he can pay for his crimes. And I think: Even if he can’t read and write, is he really going to be stupid enough to go back to a country where they’ll kill him? So he’ll just go on swimming up and down his pool all day, and doing his boxing training with his cook and gardener.
The Shah still hasn’t found a place where he can live with his family without being threatened from Iran. He left his Prime Minister behind, but now he’s done a runner too. He might get executed by the new government, who have it in for anyone who worked with the Shah. Besides, Papa Roger says that since the Ayatollah Khomeyni returned from exile in France he’s been ruling with an iron fist and the only thing he’s interested in is catching the Shah and sentencing him, not governing his country for the good of the suffering Iranians at home.
While my father’s busy talking like Roger
Guy Folly, I try to count in my head the number of countries the Shah’s been to. Every time the American journalist named one, I made an effort to memorise it. First of all he went to Egypt to see his great friend the Egyptian president, called Anouar el-Sadat. His friend wouldn’t allow him to become an international beggar, him and his wife, the empress Farah. Out of the question. So Anouar el-Sadat said to the Shah: Don’t you worry, my friend, you come and hide out here in Egypt, it’s your country too, you’re my life-long friend, a friend of all Egyptians, I won’t let you fall into the hands of those who seek to put you on trial and execute you, like they’re executing your former ministers.
But then Iran made it clear to Egypt that they weren’t happy about them sheltering the Shah. Anouar el-Sadat wanted to keep his friend anyway, and said to him: I won’t hand you over to the Ayatollah Khomeyni, you’re my friend. But the Shah chose to leave Egypt, so as not to be a nuisance to his Egyptian friend.
The Shah went to Morocco, where he had another friend, a king called Hassan II, who offered to take him in.
I’m still counting the countries when I hear Papa Roger yelling at the radio like he’s really angry with Roger Guy Folly, who’s still speaking. My father turns the sound down and turns to us: ‘The American president has abandoned the Shah! How can he do that? That’s what they’re like, these Americans! What do they think they’re doing? It’s them that’s screwing everything up in Angola, because they’re so scared of the Communists, and it was them and the Belgians that plotted to kill Patrice Lumumba and put that thug Mobutu Ses Seko Kuku Wendo Wazabanga in power, who for years has been making speeches and robbing the people of Zaire. Maybe the Shah should have been a dictator like Idi Amin Dada, maybe then they’d have helped him!’
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