Mount Pleasant

by Patrice Nganang

  The whole of the universe resided in his words, but more than anything, they concretized the memory of his life’s events. He wrote one word after another, one figurine after another, one story after another, revealing anew in his writing the sinuous fullness of life. Yes, he saw the world take shape again before him; he saw the new palace he had built, where he had not yet lived, take shape on the hills of Nsimeyong, not through the accumulation of bricks, but of words. He saw the House of Stories in whose corridors he was imprisoned connect with the Palace of All Dreams, letting him know he was free. For when he wrote, Njoya was free, free and sovereign! From his bedchamber in Mount Pleasant, he was free to wage war against the infamous forces that had spread their miasmas across Foumban. He didn’t even need to hear the echo of Mose Yeyap’s felonious voice.

  Holding his writing tools firmly in his hands, Njoya battled for his survival, convinced that he would win by beginning to write the history of the Bamum once again: Here again is the book of the history of the Kings of Rifum. The year was 1932, the seventeenth day of the month of March: the day he awoke. According to all the history books I’ve been able to consult, Njoya had only another fifteen months, two weeks, twenty-four days, and twelve hours to live, so I can tell you this now: it was his most loyal servant, Nji Mama, who would oil his body and return it to the earth of Foumban that he missed so terribly, burying him alongside his mother, Njapdunke, who was seated and waiting for him. But that, of course, the chief architect didn’t yet know.

  6

  Mose Yeyap’s Manifesto

  Even today there are many in Foumban who still believe that Njoya’s battles began in 1920, in the time of Lieutenant Prestat and Njapdunke. The profound wound that event left on the soul of each person in the city is still as painful as the scar Bertha bore around her neck. However, Captain Ripert, who in 1922 took the place of the irascible lieutenant, had decided to let the fire beneath the Prestat affair burn out by itself. This man—whom people remembered most for his seven identical outfits, in the same cut and beige color, which led everyone to believe he never changed his clothes—would also have liked to disappear, humbly, beneath the silent piles of paperwork. In fact, Ripert would have been quickly forgotten by the Bamum had he not had his own episode with the sultan, one that discouraged all those who had hoped Prestat’s replacement would have better or, as Nji Mama put it, “more civilized” manners.

  Yet when he arrived in Foumban, Ripert took the dusty file he found on the table and read the reports in just one night, eager as he was to open new chapters. His attention was tripped up by some of the names written in large letters, but no matter. One of those was Monlipèr. Ripert soon happened upon that man’s name again; during his tours of the city, it seemed that “Monlipèr” was the most popular name among the artists. Mose Yeyap explained to him that in Shümum, “Monlipèr” meant “teacher,” adding as well that the Monlipèr referred to in the text was probably Nji Kpumie Pemu, the chief of the Artists’ Alley. Mose continued, although Ripert hadn’t asked, adding that the young man whipped two years before was working for that same Monlipèr at the time of the incident with Lieutenant Prestat. The new French commander cocked his head.

  Maybe that’s when the captain concluded that Nebu must have learned to dream dangerous dreams from that man. Mose Yeyap, very chatty that day, also mentioned Nji Mama’s name, which Ripert hadn’t recalled, because it hadn’t stood out in the confusing mass of Bamum names all beginning with Nji. Ripert hadn’t given much thought to what his translator told him, but did he really need to think about it? A Cartesian, as all French colonizers pretend to be, he had seen a logical chain linking cause and effect and had drawn the necessary conclusions, though he didn’t yet voice them. The red line that connected Nebu to the sultan seemed quite clear: it had already been traced in the report found on the table. Prestat had, in fact, stressed the details of his poisoning by his maid, Njapdunke. He had written in large letters the name of the man who had given her the poison (Nebu), the names of those who had plotted his poisoning (Monlipèr and Nji Mama), and of course the name of the man who, in his palace, pulled the poisonous strings (Njoya). He hadn’t forgotten to wrap it up by warning his colleague about fish heads. Captain Ripert didn’t need any additional arguments to convince him that here all the omelets were made with the same ingredients, but his first decision was to remove Monlipèr from his position in the Artists’ Alley. Maybe he would have gone even further. All evidence suggests that Nji Mama was beyond his reach, since the chief architect worked in the palace. No need to say that from then on, the worksite of the Palace of All Dreams became the officer’s main target.

  Ripert’s rather surprising second decision was to promote Mose Yeyap. He had hired Mose as a translator because his name appeared several times in his predecessor’s report, each mention more flattering than the previous one. In French, and in a style far livelier than Prestat’s listless prose, Mose Yeyap had told him the story of the fish and the poison, of the palace and the sultan, of dreams and lovers, of the public whipping and the girlfriend. Amazed, as he couldn’t stop repeating afterward, “that a black could speak our language so well,” Ripert had put the Artists’ Alley under the translator’s control. It was Mose’s first promotion in the ranks of the French administration, and it came just after he’d been hired. It had been facilitated, of course, by testimonials, each as flattering as Prestat’s, as well as by a letter of recommendation from Madame Dugast describing him as a trustworthy man “who in 1915 had gone to Douala, at his own expense, to welcome us.” Madame Dugast had also written in her letter, “He’s our Man”—with a capital M.

  Nebu was never invited to the French commander’s headquarters. Maybe Ripert had concluded that the sculptor was just a small footnote in his Book of Accusations. Only Nji Mama was summoned to answer some “routine questions.” The master emerged from the French commander’s office totally changed, convinced of the truth of the assertion we’ve already heard, which at that point he only murmured: “They want to kill the sultan.”

  Of course no one believed him. He repeated the phrase again and again, repeated it so often that it was finally lost in the silence with which everyone from then on took note of Captain Ripert’s decrees.

  “He only asked me questions about the sultan”—that’s what Nji Mama confided to those who came to ask him for the truth.

  Replacing Monlipèr would not be easy: Mose Yeyap could perhaps translate everything the French said into Foumban’s multiple languages, but he’d never be respected by the artists and artisans, not to mention the apprentices. He wasn’t of the same stuff. Giving him control of the Artists’ Alley was like putting an army in the hands of a praise singer. Mose knew he would need to impose his authority on a world that was foreign to him, and no doubt hostile as well, but he didn’t refuse the promotion. Instead he ran to borrow several books from the French school and quickly learned the basics of Western art. Then he invited all the artists to what he called a “very important” meeting. That day he dressed in his best gandoura. With the French commander at his side, he declared that a myopic tradition was limiting the potential of Bamum art.

  “From now on, art is free,” he announced. “A new era has begun for Bamum art, my dear friends!”

  Captain Ripert agreed.

  “Have you ever thought of becoming your own masters?” the translator continued amidst the general silence. “How can you declare yourselves artists when you submit your creative powers to an authority figure? Times are changing, my brothers, and art must reflect those changes. In fact, it is through art that the upheavals of our times find their best expression!”

  Mose Yeyap knew those words would hit home with these artists.

  “You are the eyes in our head, the guardians of our imagination, the conscience of our people. You hold the roots of our future in your hands. In your hands, you have the truth of our condition, for you see what we cannot and you hear what is hidden from us. Your hands have the extraordin
ary power to give a name to our era! Even the sultan doesn’t have that power!”

  Though everyone was already listening attentively, they all jumped at the word “sultan” and then listened even more closely. Muluam and Ngbatu, for example, felt a new power surge through the tools they held in their hands, and they weren’t the only ones. Behind them, the deposed master, Monlipèr, commented sarcastically on the words of the new chief of the Artists’ Alley. This time he wasn’t blind to what was going on. In another corner, Nji Mama grumbled along with him.

  “The artist must represent the changes taking place across our society,” Mose Yeyap continued, “and in doing so, each must choose sides in history’s battles.”

  “Aha,” said Monlipèr. “What camp are you in, then?”

  “You artists cannot remain neutral! You have been thrown into the Nshi River, and you must swim if you don’t want to sink. Of course, you haven’t been locked up in a madman’s tower, but still, you must free yourselves from the authority of your master even if he’s the sultan!”

  This time the word “sultan” sent a wave of flames through the gathered artists. Such outrage had never before been felt among the Bamum.

  “There you go!” said Monlipèr.

  Having cleared his throat, Mose Yeyap was starting another subversive phrase when he was interrupted. “Do you mean that now our art must serve the white captain?”

  The disgust with which the voice pronounced “white captain” had been lost on no one. The question was followed by a tumult, from which Ripert would have recorded many comments insulting the French administration if only he understood Shüpamum. He demanded a translation of the chattering, but his translator had mastered the art of liberal translation whenever necessary.

  “They don’t believe,” Mose said, moved by inspiration, “that art is free in Europe.”

  Then Ripert laughed. “Tell them,” he added, following up where Mose Yeyap had left off, “that Europe has produced great artists! Talk to them about the grandeur of the French artists who decided to listen only to their own inspiration. Talk to them of Gauguin and Delacroix…”

  Even if he peppered it with the names of Gauguin and Delacroix, Mose continued his tirade about artistic freedom in his own way. His gestures grew more emphatic. He seemed to be boxing an invisible but dangerous foe.

  “The best artists,” he said, “are those who have freed themselves from the authority of their master and who obey only the laws of beauty, for beauty cannot be governed—”

  “Does that mean,” Muluam interrupted, “that we can create works of art that oppose the sultan…”

  “Answer him,” Monlipèr shouted from behind the young man. “Tell us the truth, you palm rat!”

  Mose knew he was on dangerous ground, but he also knew he didn’t have to answer impertinent questions, especially those from the apprentice of the man he had replaced. Yet Muluam hadn’t finished his question. Ngbatu did it for him: “… or against the white man?”

  This interrogation by a tandem of voices unleashed a din that forced Mose to move on to his conclusion. There was too much chaos and too many whispers. For the first time, the Artists’ Alley was caught up in a strange fever. Even his French master looked in surprise at the inflamed crowd.

  “What are they saying?” Ripert asked.

  Mose Yeyap hesitated.

  “Will you translate what they are saying?”

  The tumult had overtaken the crowd. In truth, what could Mose have said? He had provoked a generalized anger, less because he had asked the artists to work according to his new rules than because he had reminded them that the palace had grown too poor and was no longer able to buy the works they produced. Njoya had always sponsored the artists; he was the one who had built the alley for them. It had been constructed long ago, when his demands for works of art had grown so much, requiring the efforts of so many hands, that the artists employed had needed to set up shop outside the palace walls. The sultan needed decorations for the palaces in and around Foumban destined for his wives, and he needed numerous gifts for his growing number of interlocutors. What he couldn’t give away, he sold in stands that he opened in neighboring lands. This artistic flowering was possible only because of the stability of his reign. The arrival of the Germans, followed by the English and now the French, and the restrictions they placed on his trade had diminished the demand for works of art.

  The last and most important order Njoya had made—can you believe it?—was a gift intended for the German governor, Ebermaier, in 1908. Later he had commissioned a new Mandu Yenu, but only after the Germans had confiscated the original throne. Who among the artists could fail to see that the palace’s power was waning? Gone were the years when even the land of the Bamum reserved its best fruits to satisfy the palace’s life of luxury. Njoya’s income had been greatly reduced when the German colonizers had placed limits on his lands, his trade, and the work of his subjects. They had confiscated the best land in the sultanate for their banana, palm, cocoa, and coffee plantations, paying Njoya only a small dividend. Today, on Ripert’s order, the sultan lived on an annual pension of a mere eighteen thousand francs. Even if he was still the only one who owned a vehicle in Foumban, and even if he maintained his prestige in the colony in other ways, in reality, Njoya no longer had the means to be the sole patron of the Artists’ Alley. Clearly, when Mose Yeyap gave his impassioned speech on Bamum art (Nji Mama called it the Manifesto for the Prostitution of Bamum Art), colonialism had already bankrupted the palace of the Bamum sultan.

  Yes, Njoya’s position as patron of the arts had sometimes been seconded by the nobles’ love of fashion, which kept many jewelers and sculptors busy. However, since fashion is a fickle supporter of the arts, the alley’s masks and decorations fell out of favor after Herr Habisch opened his store in Foumban. The noblewomen wanted nothing but his gold chains; and Swiss watches, which enthralled them with their ticktock, were soon found on their wrists. Only a few remained faithful to the art of the alley’s master jewelers. One might say that with his speech, Mose Yeyap landed the last blow on an already bowed back. And you’ll recall all the elegant women of Njoya’s court leafing through Herr Habisch’s Quelle catalog and placing orders for things they certainly would have previously gotten from the Artists’ Alley. Perhaps many of the noblewomen were genuinely overjoyed by the death of Bamum art. As for Ngutane, she recognized that this death in some sense foreshadowed her father’s.

  The artists—well, they didn’t need anyone to explain the situation to them. They experienced it in the changes to the orders they received. They kept destroying more and more unsold sculptures in order to make copies of those sold by Herr Habisch. In fact, when Mose Yeyap gave his speech, the artists of the alley had already learned to bend to the desires of new patrons, artificially aging their sculptures “to give them an authentic look.” They had to, if they wanted to survive. Monlipèr was one of the few, even the only one, to resist money’s subversive influence.

  “So does this mean we should also sculpt prostitutes instead of noblewomen?”

  There was no end to the questions.

  “Should we sculpt in mud rather than gold?”

  All these debates, of course, had happened before Ibrahim’s hands-off approach allowed the workshops to produce what tourists wanted, which created work for everyone and killed the artist in each. Mose Yeyap saw that the workshops were stagnating. That’s why he could only smile at Muluam’s and Ngbatu’s questions, which he knew were inspired by old Monlipèr. He understood that these voices of dissent were the last-ditch effort of a frustrated, already defeated group to salvage its dignity by throwing itself into the dying embers. The old man was condemned, and his art along with him. Was the translator too impatient for the birth of the new? Would he have preferred to hurry along its arrival? Had anyone asked his motivations, he would have sworn it was his love of Bamum art, even though many thought he was driven by political ambition alone. The truth is certainly somewhere in between. />
  “What are they saying?” Ripert demanded.

  “They’re discussing what I just told them,” Mose Yeyap replied.

  The white man didn’t insist.

  7

  How Can One Be Both Black and Fascist?

  How could I forget what Arouna and his friends found in the archives? In 1922, the year of the events in Foumban, in the same month, September, and on the same day, the eighteenth, when Mose held forth, and just a few hours apart, a confrontation between two close friends took place in Yaoundé. This dispute is the first actual memory Sara has of her father, and the old lady was categorical: the friendship between Charles Atangana, the politician, and Joseph Ngono, the poet, couldn’t have continued on a high note. They were too different to forever be arm in arm. Their only regret was that their personalities clashed during a wedding, particularly since it happened during the celebration for Atangana and Juliana Ngono.

  It all started in the house of the young couple, whom Joseph Ngono had just honored with a speech in their language after they’d been sermonized and blessed by Father Vogt. It all started, yes, when the couple was still dressed in their festive clothes: the chief in his handsome tuxedo, a black top hat on his head and a long Cuban cigar in his left hand. Joseph Ngono was also wearing a tuxedo, borrowed but just as black, his handicapped hand in his pants’ pocket. Juliana was standing, dressed in white, waving her gloved hands, asking everyone to calm down, just to calm down, good Lord, to get a glass of wine, a beer, or something else instead of tearing each other down with awful, cutting words.