Awu's Story
Page 2
Awu’s Story: A Significant Work
Although Gabon’s people are diverse, the Fang ethnic group makes up nearly forty percent of the country’s total population and is found in significant numbers in neighboring countries.10 One original element of Mintsa’s writing that is especially true for Awu’s Story is how this author integrates aspects of the Fang language, culture, and oral traditions into the contemporary novel. This technique only adds to its richness, however, and is not meant to alienate readers in any way: it is nonetheless Mintsa’s way of “decolonizing” the novel written in French.11 Thus, Mintsa can be considered not only a Gabonese author but also a writer of the Fang diaspora.
Interestingly, there are many words, symbols, and references in Awu’s Story that may escape a reader who is completely unfamiliar with the Fang language and culture, but this hidden layer of meaning is actually one of the most brilliant aspects of the work. While Awu’s Story is easily understood by anyone regardless of culture or background, it nonetheless holds a myriad of treasures for readers in the know. This additional layer of meaning, although hidden for some, potentially provides a much more evocative read than initially thought. It can even be said that while Awu’s Story addresses a wide audience, the extra layer of meaning serves as Mintsa’s unique gift to her Fang readers not only in Gabon but also to those in the region and of the diaspora.
In fact, one has to go no further than the title and the name of the novel’s star protagonist to start unlocking some of the hidden elements of this work. The word awu in the Fang language means “death,” and it is the shortened form of the character’s full name, Awudabiran', which translates as “death disturbs” or even “death, it destroys.”12 This detail imbues the title of the novel with a new layer of meaning; this is not only Awu’s story, referring to the protagonist, but it is also a story that revolves around death.
Admittedly the novel does touch upon the subject of death quite often, commencing with the death of Bella, the beloved first wife of Obame Afane who, unable to bear a child, dies of a broken heart the moment Awu and Obame’s twins are born (33). Next, Obame’s sister, Akut, declares the symbolic death of her daughter, Ada, who becomes pregnant at the age of twelve while away at boarding school (47). There is, of course, Obame Afane’s own death in a bus accident as he is travelling to the capital to straighten out his long-awaited pension (97), and finally, Awu clearly threatens to kill Nguema (Obame Afane’s brother who has inherited Awu according to custom) if he dares to touch her (109).
True to the meaning conveyed through the phrase Awudabiran' in Fang, death undoubtedly disturbs the lives of many individuals in the novel. However, upon realizing the meaning behind Awu’s name, the reader may be confused as to why this endearing character has a name with such an apparently dark meaning. Mintsa has placed the Fang ritual pertaining to widows at the center not only of Awu’s Story but also of her latest novel, Larmes de cendre, thereby joining other African women writers, most notably Cameroonian playwright Werewere Liking, who have also introduced similar rituals in their works. In Liking’s play, The Power of Um (1996), the protagonist Ngond Libii also rebels against the harsh treatment of widows in her own Bassa society. Awu, Biloa, and Ngond Libii are all examples of protagonists who have been ritually silenced; what is gained through their rebellion in their respective situations is indeed something positive that has resulted from otherwise tragic circumstances. It is important to realize that these African rituals taking place after the death of a spouse also designate a period of atonement; death has upset the order, and the ritual is the society’s attempt to reflect and analyze what has gone wrong to bring about such misfortune. The ritual becomes a way that the spirit of the deceased is appeased, a requirement if the members of the community hope to rebuild and continue on in harmony with one another. This is the positive aspect of the meaning embedded in Awu’s name; her actions work to make her society better and more just for all.
In addition to highlighting certain Fang customs such as the widow’s ritual, Mintsa has also rewritten examples of Fang oral literature. These contemporary versions, too, are perhaps hidden to the reader unfamiliar with Fang culture, symbols, and legends, but the lack of knowledge of such references does not render the narrative less coherent.
Although the published novel arrived relatively late in Gabon, literature had certainly not; all of Gabon’s ethnic groups have rich oral traditions and sophisticated epic poetry that have been the subject of many academic and artistic studies. The Fang epic poetry known as the mvet is no exception and, in fact, remains some of the most widely studied and respected oral literature among Africanist scholars. The origins of the Fang people are the fabric of the mvet, and it is believed that the original leader of the Fang was a wise, fifteenth-century warrior known as Oyono Ada Ngone, who had led his people from north to south. At one point in his journey, he was severely wounded and left unconscious. His people remained loyal to him, however, and never abandoned him. When Oyono Ada Ngone awoke, he related to his people how he had been visited in his unconscious state by a divine spirit who taught him how to create an instrument that would be the tool for educating his people and calling them to action (Nguimbi 2012, 144). This is generally believed by the Fang to be the origin of the mvet, the name that refers to the epic poetry as well as to the musical instrument used in its performance.
In his brilliant essay entitled “De la mort du maître à la mort symbolique de l’école: pour une pratique stylistique dans Histoire d’Awu de Justine Mintsa,” Arnold Nguimbi relates how Mintsa has rewritten the fifteenth-century hero and founder of the Fang as Obame Afane in Awu’s Story. This is a significant detail because the mvet is typically an art form that is interpreted exclusively by men. Presenting us with her contemporary version of the epic is Mintsa’s way of paying tribute to it, but doing so as a woman writer may also be seen as a defiance of the male-dominated aspect of the tradition. Mintsa is therefore sending a strong message that women need to appropriate the epic before such traditions are lost forever. Mintsa clearly believes that women are as responsible as men for preserving traditions worth keeping. Mintsa’s contemporary rewrite of the mvet offers a less violent version than the original, replacing the warrior’s weapon with a more useful one for Obame Afane, the schoolteacher—a writing utensil: “In his right hand, Obame Afane, the son, held a stylus, the weapon of his time” (105).
There are yet other ways that Fang oral literature has inspired Awu’s Story. Throughout the novel, the reader notes the importance of the local river; Obame Afane and his family go there to swim, but more importantly to become reenergized both physically and mentally. For Obame, this river became a place where he “surrendered his body to the whims of the water” (41). Having been born on its banks, Obame had such an intimate relationship with the river that Awu was almost jealous of it (41). His morning routine included swimming there every morning before teaching his students, but he also went there to muster up the strength and wisdom needed to confront exceptional circumstances in his life, such as the meeting of the elders that he had to lead to decide the fate of his pregnant twelve-year-old niece.
Of course, water is a universal symbol of life and rebirth, but it is interesting to explore the probable connection between the Fang and the river in Awu’s Story. Among the oral tales of the Fang, there is an origin myth that speaks of Ndabiare, the woman recognized as the founder of the first Fang village. In his work about the history of the Fang, Mba Abessole notes that the expectation is that women will transmit the values of Fang culture and the history of its people. This role comes directly from the aforementioned origin myth, adding another empowering aspect to motherhood which does not exist in the same way in Western cultures (Mba Abessole 2006, 10). Even though men may ultimately be regarded as superior to women in Fang culture (Ngou 2007, 225), the Fang woman’s obligation to her community cannot be understated. As fellow Fang and Gabonese writer Honorine Ngou notes, a new bride is often given the name ndâ ngoura�
�literally, “the entire house” (Ngou 2007, 170), or midzâ “the pillar of the village” (Ngou 2007, 231)—and indeed there are references in Awu’s Story that both Awu and Bella had become pillars of the village upon their marriage to Obame Afane (34 and 32).
So considering this cultural context, it is interesting to analyze both the importance of this origin myth that places women at the center of society and Obame Afane’s relationship with the river. In the original tale, Ndabiare is alone when she gives birth, just as Obame’s mother is for a time until her mother-in-law is able to join and assist her. Ndabiare gives birth to two “children”—one human and one egg (Mba Abessole 2006, 9), and immediately has a vision that her human son will become a great leader of his people. Ndabiare walks with her newborn children until she comes to a body of water, where she decides to settle for good. She keeps her human son with her on land and tosses her egg-son into the river, always keeping an eye out on the water as a way of looking after him (Mba Abessole 2006, 10). Both water and egg are strong symbols of life, and in this context they are linked to the hope for the longevity of the Fang people.
In Awu’s Story we find a rewriting of this original myth within the narration of the birth of Obame Afane; it is not Mintsa’s intention, however, to stray too far from the symbols, beliefs, and general core message present in the original myth. The story of Obame’s own birth next to the river is essential to the novel as this event coincides with the building of the first school in the village. Thus, Obame’s greatness as a leader in education has already been determined at birth. His arrival into the world also signals the coming of change and new-found values generated by a society in transition. Obame as the ultimate educator is the antithesis of his colleagues at Ada’s school, who are accountable for the sexual abuse of their students.
However, the similarity of the two aforementioned tales is not limited to the prediction that the respective newborn sons will grow up to be leaders of their people, nor to the proximity and importance of the river. Although the egg is absent in Mintsa’s rewrite, there are equivalent symbols of life in Awu’s Story. Mintsa quite often refers to the “Nourishing Mass” (her term for the umbilical cord) and the “Mass of Life” (the placenta). The capitalization of these terms merely emphasizes Mintsa’s personification of them and indeed, the fact that they are “throbbing” (43) suggests they have a life of their own, or at least a relevant energy. If Ndabiare’s tossing of her egg-son into the river may seem mysterious, Mintsa’s rewrite may actually aid the reader in interpreting the meaning of that action. In Awu’s Story Obame’s grandmother buries both the Mass of Life and the Nourishing Mass in a hole dug with the help of an almost regal machete that had severed Obame from his mother. Mintsa writes: “The Mass of Life saw the light of day one last time before taking up residence in its new womb: that of the earth—this same earth that it would also rejuvenate” (44). The Mass of Life clearly had a new mission: “to fertilize and impregnate the earth, to itself produce in order to sustain the life of men and women who were themselves called upon to perpetuate the lineage” (44).
Thus, these universal symbols of life—egg, water, earth, umbilical cord, and placenta—all serve the same purpose in the Fang origin myth as well as in Mintsa’s retelling of it. The egg becomes one with the water just as the Mass of Life is protected by the earth surrounding it. Since Obame has deep connections with these symbols his entire life, it is no longer a mystery why the river gives him undeniable strength as he swims in it. After reading this beautiful segment in the novel, the reader is all the more shocked and affected by the horrific conditions in which Ada gives birth in the provincial hospital, where any water present is tainted with the blood of dozens of previous patients, and the magnificent machete has been replaced by a rusty razor blade (67). Even the “Mass of Life” has been reduced here to a mere “mass of flesh” (67).
Recounting these fascinating and striking aspects of Fang culture is Mintsa’s way of disorienting the reader a bit, causing him or her to question if Westernization and urbanization necessarily lead to development and a more modern society. At one point after Ada gives birth, Awu is standing bewildered outside the hospital, holding a bloodied steel tray containing the placenta. An elderly woman nearby senses that Awu has lost her bearings and has no idea what to do next. She reminds Awu, however, that “this Mass of Life must fertilize the city” (71), which conveys a highly symbolic message—positive aspects of tradition must remain to nourish contemporary society and to ultimately drive its progress. While other African authors may also express similar messages in their texts, few do so as eloquently as Mintsa has done in Awu’s Story.
A Summary of Mintsa’s Other Literary Works
Histoire d’Awu was not Mintsa’s first novel, even though it was the one that has brought her the most critical acclaim. First published in 1994, Un seul tournant: Makôsu marks Mintsa’s first official venture into literature. The first edition of Makôsu was published by La Pensée Universelle in Paris, but was republished in 2004 by L’Harmattan, also in Paris, leading to confusion in some literary sources on the original publication date of the novel. This common and recurring mistake leads one to believe that Premières lectures (1997) was actually Mintsa’s first novel.
Mintsa rarely refers to Gabon directly in her works, preferring instead to plunge the reader into the everyday life of a fictional African country in order to take on issues that are pertinent to the continent as a whole. In this particular novel, the setting is a university campus named Makôsu in a city called Falaville located in the country of Govan. There is no doubt of the reference—the Masuku campus, better known as the University of Science and Technology in Franceville. Mintsa’s husband, who had a significant administrative role at the new campus, is clearly the inspiration for the vice-chancellor in the novel.
Knowing how Mintsa subsequently lived the tragic event and its aftermath that all led to the creation of this novel, one understands more readily the style in which Makôsu was written. The novel begins with a letter entirely in English to a friend and assumed former colleague living in the United States. There is no translation of this letter that nonetheless provides the context for the entire novel, but there are sufficient details and footnotes throughout the text that make up for any disadvantage a non-English-speaking reader may have in the beginning. The letter is actually an introduction to a series of diary entries recounting to the friend the events of the narrator’s personal and professional life of the past five years. Thus, Makôsu is both an epistolary novel and an example of narrative journalism, but there are yet other elements that make its style even more unique.
The first part of Makôsu essentially recounts the founding of the university and describes the special challenges of doing so in a developing country. The novel also shows how much of a role that France, the former colonizer of “Govan,” still plays in the country, and while some assistance is appreciated and even necessary in the building of the university, the text provides a unique perspective and commentary about the lingering effects of colonialism and neocolonialism and the struggle of former colonies to become truly independent from France.
The first part ends with the mention of a well-deserved family vacation by 4 × 4 vehicle in the surrounding region that the family has yet to discover because of their heavy workload (41). This is followed by a two-page poetic text that marks an abrupt break in the diary entries which, of course, is highly symbolic of the upset that the family lives as a result of the road accident that claims the life of the couple’s child, one of their twins: “Six of us came back, that very same morning, from the road to Ogonza / Five dazed souls and a lifeless body” (42).13 Incredible sadness and anger abound in these two pages of powerful text that use relatively few words but unmistakably demonstrate Mintsa’s enormous talent as a writer.
The narrative then picks up once again with poignant journal entries describing the tragedy in more detail and revealing insights into customs and beliefs surrounding death
in various African societies. Some believe that death never happens just by chance, and this belief leads certain family members in the novel to suspect that somehow the couple has “sacrificed” the deceased child to ensure their own success (46). This leaves the couple outraged, and the reader is then a witness to a subsequent purification ritual (also common after the death of a family member) allowing the family to move on from the tragedy (48).
The novel’s focus once again turns to the university in the following parts (identified as “Second Year,” “Third Year,” etc.), this time emphasizing political unrest and strikes that plague the campus and the country. The narration allows the reader to realize how individuals and families are personally affected by such challenging working conditions and the general atmosphere. Mintsa continues to pepper her prose with short poetic verses throughout, and this is her way of respecting her art as a creative writer; the novel may have been far less powerful if it had relied only on historical facts about the university’s beginnings.
Mintsa often refers to major world issues of the late 1980s, such as the fall of the Berlin Wall and the overturning of the Ceaus¸escu regime in Romania (108), which allow the reader to interpret the events in Makôsu from a different perspective. Mintsa does not miss an opportunity to relate the newly found freedom associated with the fall of communism in Europe with the restrictions and separation Africans face due to the reality of colonial borders: “Their dream is a reality. I know that my own is impossible. I have relatives in all of the neighboring countries. Because of these blindly drawn borders, they are all now considered foreigners” (108).
With an obvious reference to her own Fang ethnic group spread out over Gabon, Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea, and Congo, Mintsa allows her readers to realize the emotional toll that colonialism continues to have on African families. However, Mintsa also cites the liberation of Nelson Mandela (110) and the independence of Namibia (115), which both occurred in 1990, providing a glimmer of hope for Mintsa’s “impossible dream.” She nonetheless remains realistic: “Africa is entirely free, yes, but being independent doesn’t mean that it is free from domination; while this domination may no longer be political, it is certainly economic” (115).