by Gavin Chait
‘The genii appeared before her in the form of her younger sister and took her hand, leading her back to Tessèm.
‘When her parents saw her walking with her sister, they fell to their knees, fearful of the ghost.
‘“This is not a ghost, my parents,” she said. “This is the genii of myth who has become real so that she may help us.”
‘Word spread, and all the different peoples came together to hear the genii speak.
‘“I am not here to show you the way,” she said. “This brave daughter of Tessèm will guide you, and I will walk with her.”
‘And so the young girl led them through the secret ways of the desert, guiding them from waterhole to waterhole.
‘Each evening, the genii would tell stories such as they had never heard. Over time they forgot their old stories, forgetting that there ever was a time they were not one people.
‘Eventually, they reached a place where there was plentiful water and the soil was fertile and they built a new village. A place where all would live and work in peace.
‘On a certain day, when the village was thriving, then the girl and the genii walked out into the desert and were never seen again.
‘The people of that village mourned their passing and told their children stories of their deliverance and passed their tales into legend.’
Shakiso smiles at Hollis, his eyes wide.
‘I heard all these stories without hearing them,’ she says. ‘I think I understand now. Every story starts with myth to explain reality and create a common legend. The seekers are us too. That’s what we’ve all been doing, creating a new founding story that might eventually unite us.
‘Children will hear the stories of our time from their parents and grandparents. Each generation will tell the next to remember, but the stories will change. The specifics lost, the actual people forgotten. We will become enigmas. Story-shaped holes filled with all the hopes and dreams of those who come after.
‘I was fighting that, wanting – I don’t know – something that doesn’t seem clear any more. I’ve let all of that go,’ her eyes the blue clarity of the desert sky. ‘There’s a place Viviane told me about, a place I can leave my memories so they won’t hurt so much. I’m going there first.’
‘Does that mean you’re leaving us?’ asks Hollis, sadness in his eyes.
‘No,’ she says smiling. ‘Never, but I will live my life. When I’m ready, I’ll join you guys on Mars. Ismael said it would be a new beginning, and I look forward to that. For now, I’m going to work on answering the question of what we do while we wait for all our myths to pass into legend.’
51
Glass fragments, like the shattering wave of an explosion frozen in time, lean out from the cliffs near Dakar city centre.
Within each fragment is etched a single name: one who has died and whom others would honour. Far too many have been added during the long war with Ansar Dine. Family, friends and survivors come to this place carrying the names of those who are gone and add them to the Place du Souvenir.
The glass is no longer transparent. Eroded and encrusted with the salt from the ocean lying still and placid, gently washing the rocks below.
Sundiata holds a single fragment between his hands, thinks on the name – Adama Camara – and places it tenderly into position. Each glass piece is a geometric puzzle, adding to the monument, giving it strength and allowing it to grow indefinitely.
He likes to place the names early each morning so that the air still carries the coolness of the night and the sun is still rising. That the names feel the hope of the dawn softening the darkness behind and the ocean glowing before.
He smiles and nods, touches the controls, the long arm of the work platform folding itself up and setting the carriage upon the ground. He steps off, and the vehicle drives itself to the administrative buildings behind the museum. Mentally, he begins organizing his day. Counting the number of new names he will cut into glass, and wondering how many will visit, clutching crumpled pieces of paper carrying the names they wish remembered.
As he walks back to his tiny office, he sees a young white woman standing with the sun at her back and a strange, tawny cat at her knee. Her hair burns like a flame, and she stands as if she would tear at the very earth.
‘My child,’ he says. ‘It is well.’
‘My father,’ she says.
He stands with her as he does for countless mourners.
‘It is beautiful,’ she says.
It is early for such a caller, but Sundiata knows that, sometimes, he must guide his visitors through the process of grieving.
‘Is there someone you would remember, my child?’ he asks.
She nods, saying nothing, her fists clenched.
He waits. In her own time, she relaxes her hands.
A small piece of paper, folded over and over. She offers it to him. Her eyes the colour of the most distant ocean.
He opens it. He reads the name, ‘Simon Adaro.’
‘There is another,’ she says quickly.
He examines the paper and, on the other side, he reads, ‘Michèle Tillisi.’
‘They will be remembered, my child,’ he says.
The young woman smiles, and she and the cat walk away.
EPILOGUE
There was never a plan, but there was an intention. To create rather than destroy. To counter those who would do otherwise without becoming one of them. To live life with as much fun and excitement as I am able in the time granted me and in a kind of hopeful optimism. And to do so with honour, friendship, love, and laughter. What more dare heroic hearts ask of Fate?
Simon Adaro
52
Amadou stands near the fire, his coffee cup warm between his hands. The dawn is rising before him, over the dust on the solar collectors reflecting orange and red against the guelb.
The hard rocky plateau is softened in the light and takes on a gentle beauty which he takes time to appreciate each morning.
It has been a good season. He has doubled his herd once more, and added two hundred sheep. He looks with gratitude down at the long shed filled with the automated milking machines and further towards the enormous cooled shelter. Opaque grow-tubes run almost all the way to the solar farm, filled with the fast-growing grass he now feeds his animals.
Golden dust shards linger in the air as his men shuttle harvested grass to the shelter, and goats – their udders sagging and full – to the milking sheds.
It will soon be time for the ceremony, and they are working quickly to ensure all is well for their absence. Not all of Senegal yet has access to the grid, but it is seen as auspicious to make a show of switching on the connection now, a year since the last election.
‘Grandfather?’
The small boy is visiting. His mother, Amadou’s youngest daughter, tells him the boy is interested in farming. It may be that this herd will support further generations of his family.
‘Yes, my child?’ he says.
‘Look, grandfather. Someone is coming,’ and pointing along the pathway up to the guelb, where a silhouetted figure in a delicately embroidered ochre-brown boubou and matching kufi skull-cap is walking.
‘It is well, my child. The griot is honouring us.’
The small boy’s eyes are wide. He has not yet met the griot.
‘Azul, Amadou, ma idjani?’ says the griot. ‘And your grandson? Come here, my child,’ and shaking his hand formally. ‘You are most blessed to have such a wise grandfather.’
‘Yes, my father,’ says the boy, smiling at the old man.
‘Are you enjoying the season?’
‘Yes, my father. I have been helping the men and learning to care for the herd. It is good to work here.’
‘It is well, my child.’
Amadou masks his pride with a brusque gesture. ‘Go, child, our guest will want coffee.’
The boy grins as he rushes to the small kitchen.
The griot stands alongside Amadou, looking across th
e plateau. Neither says a word, comfortable in the silence.
‘My father,’ says the boy, carefully handing the griot a mug.
‘Thank you, my child,’ says the griot, resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘Prepare yourself, child, we shall be leaving soon,’ says Amadou, and the boy grins once more and leaves them.
‘You are at peace, Griot?’ asks Amadou.
‘I mourn for what is lost, but, yes, I am at peace.’
‘It is well.’
There is a gentle resonance, as of the progression of many people, on the road leading to the guelb.
‘It is time,’ says the griot. ‘Shall we go?’
Amadou nods, and they walk down the path to the sheds where the men are waiting, the boy amongst them. From there they walk to the road and join the procession.
Thousands have come, travelling by coach from Rosso and walking from Mbalal. There are young and old, weak and strong. They walk arm in arm, umbrellas raised to the sun.
Many carry djembe, and their drumming rumbles like distant thunder.
The griot walks out before them, and his voice lifts their rhythm into melody.
His voice is filled with joy and memory, telling a story of conflict and redemption.
The walking thousands take up his refrain.
A helicopter swings overhead, landing near a small stage that has been set up alongside the transmission station. The president has arrived, waving as he steps out of the craft and climbs the stairs up to the podium.
From up ahead a woman emerges from between the solar collectors and walks towards the arriving crowds, a tawny cat at her side. Her eyes are the colour of the most distant ocean and her hair burns like a flame.
Behind her, a ripple on the surface of the solar roses and the sands of light begin to sing.
And somewhere out on the plateau, it is that time of day between breakfast and dinner.
The horizon is a shimmering mirage that unites myth and legend, and Painted-dog’s child is running through the desert, always hopeful, always hungry.
She hunts the endless dusty ochre of the hamada, her paws bouncing lightly on the scalding stones, her tongue hanging loose in a way unbecoming of a matriarch.
Her white-patch tail blazing, her oversize paws tangled beneath her, she runs in her hopping, loping way, yipping cheerfully as she goes.
Author’s Note
I set out to tell a story of how dramatic social change will re-forge our sense of community and identity, and of how memory and history choose their own heroes. I had no anticipation of how much the steady drumbeat of contemporary events would demand attention.
As I was tracing the threads that would become Our Memory Like Dust, others were risking their lives in leaky boats attempting to cross the Mediterranean. In Europe and the United States, those who dared to merely seek refuge from conflict have been vilified by far too many people willing to throw away the lessons of the last world war, opening space for the old politics of division and fear to take hold.
And amidst all this is the strident call of nationalism and the wilful determination of majorities to concentrate power in ever-fewer hands. For the narrative of our time is of how so many permitted so few to have dominion over so much.
I drew on a host of sources during my research, and these will take you deeper into the world I describe:
Genii of the River Niger, Jean-Marie Gibbal (1988);
City of Thorns, Ben Rawlence (2016);
Griots and Griottes, Thomas A. Hale (1998);
La Belle Histoire de Leuk-le-Lièvre, Léopold Senghor & Abdoulaye Sadji (1953);
Sustainable Energy – Without the Hot Air, David MacKay (2008).
Jean-Marie Gibbal’s work was a powerful motivator to include the mysticism of the people of the Senegal Valley into the narrative, as was Léopold Senghor’s mix of human and animal fairy tales. Ben Rawlence’s descriptions of life in one of the world’s largest and oldest refugee camps recalled the precariousness of existence in informal settlements where I worked in South Africa.
David MacKay’s work is much thumbed, and I recommend it to anyone attempting to work out what we can do regarding alternative energy. For those of you looking to understand whether the solar farms are even theoretically possible, I suggest visiting my website where you will find links to my calculations. Briefly, though, the solar intensity in the Sahara is about 270W/m2, of which – theoretically – we could capture about 60 per cent. The solar farms in the narrative capture 135W/m2. Each person in Western Europe consumes about 125kWh per day, which I’ve reduced to 100kWh per day on the assumption that our devices should become more efficient even as more of what we use requires energy.
That implies each person requires a solar concentrator of 30m2 for their total energy consumption.
This calculation comes with a major caveat. In MacKay’s work, he used a solar capture efficiency estimate of only 14.5W/m2, quite significantly less than my own. To which I answer: hey, science fiction.
David MacKay passed away shortly after I started writing, and I can only offer my thanks and sadness that we have lost his insight and good humour.
Many of the events and locations in the narrative are based on my research in Senegal.
I spent a morning at the Hissène Habré trial in Dakar without expecting to understand anything but wanting to get a sense of the process. I came away with a deep impression of the importance of this trial where an African court tried and sentenced an African dictator for his atrocities against his own people. I thank Reed Brody, then of Human Rights Watch, for his patience in explaining the events of the day and providing needed context.
I would also like to thank Marie-Caroline Camara of Au fil du Fleuve in Saint-Louis, who helped me navigate the complexities of culture and location. She entertained some of my weirder requests and found drivers willing to take me to random spots I thought might work in the story. I won’t go into the bewilderment of drivers and locals as I would bumble around some dusty town on the Mauritanian border figuring out where things would happen.
Senegal is a wonderful place, and I deeply recommend including it on your travels.
Any horrible errors either in my calculations or in rabidly mixing up and misappropriating culture and tradition are entirely my own responsibility. My intention was to capture a flavour of this relatively unexamined (to English-speaking European eyes) part of the world, and I can only express my gratitude and appreciation for the people who helped me with my research and tolerated my inquisitiveness.
If you would like to immerse yourself further, here is the music playlist along with the relevant scenes where they belong:
‘Da’, Talé – Salif Keita [Simon and Oktar captured]
‘Red & Black Light’, Red & Black Light – Ibrahim Maalouf [Plane convoy forced landing]
‘Pour quelques dinars de plus’, Safar – Imed Alibi [Duruji and Khalil in the desert];
‘Baykat’, Sénégal – Ismaël Lô [Amadou and the griot];
‘Pitcha’, Under the Shade of Violets – Orange Blossom [Escape from Benghazi];
‘Ma Ikit (Not Found)’, Kelmti Horra – Emel Mathlouthi [Running in the Wet];
‘Traveller’, The Traveller – Baaba Maal [The Ballad of the Nodder and the Leaner];
‘Sina mali, sina deni (Free)’, Sambolera – Khadja Nin [Shakiso travels downriver];
‘Un regard étrange’, Séquences – Wasis Diop [Tales from Gaw Goŋ: Casamance, l’homme qui mourut deux fois];
‘Noir et Blanc’, Best Of – Ismaël Lô, Souad Massi [Simon and Shakiso on the beach];
‘Le passeur’, Everything Is Never Quite Enough – Wasis Diop [Tales from Gaw Goŋ: Baana, le génie des eaux indomptables];
‘La Clé / Thiabi bi’ – Souleymane Faye [‘Where is the child?’ in Just4Utoo];
‘Incha Allah’, Sénégal – Ismaël Lô [Tales from Gaw Goŋ: Dragon, la brèche dans le mur de la honte];
‘Take My Heart’, Black Rock
– Djivan Gasparyan, Michael Brook [A quiet death by the river];
‘Kelmti Horra (My Word is Free)’, Kelmti Horra – Emel Mathlouthi [Shakiso on the Faidherbe Bridge];
‘Wale Watu’, Sambolera – Khadja Nin [Shakiso and Viviane discuss the trial];
‘Soni’, Mariama – Pape & Cheikh [Sidiki listens to Gaw Goŋ];
‘Bounawara’, Safar – Imed Alibi [Shakiso and Ag Ghaly in the desert];
‘Mariama’, Mariama – Pape & Cheikh [The song of the farms of light].
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She was there when I began this tale, and she was patient as I traversed its paths in darkness and light. I am grateful.
–
@GavinChait
February 2017
About the Author
Born in Cape Town in 1974, Gavin Chait emigrated to the UK nearly ten years ago. He has degrees in Microbiology & Biochemistry, and Electrical Engineering. He is an economic development strategist and data scientist, and has travelled extensively in Africa, Latin America, Europe and Asia and is now based in Oxford. His first novel, Lament for the Fallen, was critically acclaimed (Eric Brown in the Guardian called it ‘a compulsively readable, life affirming tale’). Our Memory Like Dust is his second.