No reader is left indifferent after reading Awu’s Story. Either in the original French or in English translation, the novel is arguably a classic of African literature. It is both poignant and instructive, and its characters are inspiring yet wonderfully ordinary at the same time. The text can be used as an introduction to African literature, yet it is equally fascinating to the well-seasoned reader. Mintsa is indeed a masterful writer with poetic prose that remains entirely accessible. Awu’s story thus comprises a lifetime of events that leave an indelible impression on the reader, for whom the chain stitch soon takes on new meaning.
Notes
1. Author Sylvie Kandé’s Lagon, lagunes (2000) was also among the first five titles published in Gallimard’s series. However, Kandé is considered a diaspora writer, having been born in Paris to a French mother and a Senegalese father.
2. For more information on the history of the Continents Noirs series, refer to Gallimard’s site at http://www.gallimard.fr/Divers/Plus-sur-la-collection/Continents-noirs/(sourcenode)/116076 or an online article from the Nouvel Observateur dated January 18, 2000, at http://tempsreel.nouvelobs.com/culture/20000118.OBS1345/gallimard-sort-une-collection-de-romans-africains.html.
3. Personal interview with Justine Mintsa in Libreville on January 5, 2015.
4. Also from Gabon, Michel Ndaot is an acclaimed actor, writer, musician, and director of theater and film. He is best known internationally for his roles in award-winning films such as Le grand blanc de Lambaréné (1995) and L’ombre de Liberty (2005).
5. Personal interview with Justine Mintsa in Libreville on January 5, 2015.
6. In French, Mintsa’s official title was “Directrice générale de la Culture au Ministère de la Culture et des Arts.”
7. In French, Mintsa’s official title was “Conseiller du Premier Ministre, Chef du Département Education, Culture, Jeunesse, et Sports.”
8. Writer and critic Alain Mabanckou unfairly criticized Mintsa in a now infamous April 17, 2006, blog post entitled “SOS: pays africains cherchent désespérément des écrivains.” Mabanckou wrote “Pour le reste, si vous voulez mon avis, le voici: il est clair que Ludovic Obiang, auteur de nouvelles, semble le plus sérieux espoir des lettres gabonaises tandis que Justine Mintsa—auteur d’Histoire d’Awu, roman paru en 2000—a créé une grande déception en regressant de la collection Continents noirs de Gallimard à l’Harmattan!” (“As for the rest, if you want my opinion, here it is: it is clear that short story writer Ludovic Obiang seems to be the most serious hope for Gabonese literature, whereas Justine Mintsa [author of Histoire d’Awu, her novel that appeared in 2000] created much disappointment, downgrading herself from Gallimard’s Continent Noirs series to L’Harmattan!”)
9. Edna Merey-Apinda is considered the leader of Gabon’s second generation of women writers. Born in 1975, Merey-Apinda is the author of several novels and the writer and / or editor of several collections of short stories. Some of her best known works include the collections Ce reflet dans le miroir (2011) and Entre nous (2016).
10. Many sources confirm that the Fang indeed make up forty percent of Gabon’s population. One of the best sources on this ethnic group is Paul Mba Abessole’s Aux sources de la culture fang (2006).
11. There are several linguists, such as Kwaku Gyasi, who do interesting analyses of the decolonization of the African text written in French. See Gyasi’s The Francophone African Text: Translation and the Postcolonial Experience (2006).
12. Ovono-Mendame (2006) translates the phrase Awudabiran' as “death disturbs” or “death destroys.” If one analyzes this phrase with the help of Akomo-Zoghe’s L’art de conjuguer en fang (2009), however, the translation is perhaps more accurately “death, it destroys.”
13. All translations from cited works are mine.
14. According to Akomo-Zoghe’s book Parlons Fang (2010), the French equivalent for the word akagha is “ordalie.” Dictionaries define ordalie as “a judgment handed down by god(s).”
15. La Bonne Page operates through Facebook or through its own web address: www.librairie-labonnepage.com.
References
Akomo-Zoghe, Cyriaque Simon-Pierre. 2010. Parlons Fang: Culture et langue des Fang du Gabon et d’ailleurs. Paris: L’Harmattan.
—. 2009. L’art de conjuguer en fang. Paris: L’Harmattan.
d’Almeida, Irène Assiba, ed. 2009. A Rain of Words: A Bilingual Anthology of Women’s Poetry in Francophone Africa. Translated by Janis A. Mayes. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press.
Endamne, Alice. 2008. C’est demain qu’on s’fait la malle. Saint-Maur-des-Fossés: Jets d’encre.
Essono, Fortunat Obiang. 2006. Les registres de la modernité dans la littérature gabonaise: Maurice Okoumba Nkoghe, Laurent Owondo, et Justine Mintsa. Vol. 2. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Gyasi, Kwaku. 2006. The Francophone African Text: Translation and the Postcolonial Experience. New York: Peter Lang.
Kandé, Sylvie. 2000. Lagon, lagunes. Paris: Gallimard.
Kuoh-Moukoury, Thérèse. 1969. Rencontres essentielles. Paris: Adamawa.
Liking, Werewere. 1996. The Power of Um and a New Earth: African Ritual Theater. Translated by Jeanne Dingome. San Francisco: International Scholars Press.
Mabanckou, Alain. 2006. “SOS: pays africains cherchent désespérément des écrivains,” April 17, 2006. http://www.congopage.com/sos-pays-africains-cherchent.
Mba Abessole, Paul. 2006. Aux sources de la culture fang. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Merey-Apinda, Edna. 2016. Entre Nous. Paris: La Doxa.
—. 2011. Ce reflet dans le miroir. Saint-Maur-des-Fossés: Jets d’encre.
—. 2004. Les aventures d’Imya, petite fille du Gabon. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Mintsa, Justine. 2010. Larmes de cendre. Béjaïa, Algeria: Éditions Tira.
—. 2000. Histoire d’Awu. Paris: Gallimard.
—. 1997. Premières lectures. Lomé: Haho.
—. 1994. Un seul tournant: Makôsu. Paris: La Pensée Universelle.
Mintsa, Justine Elo, and Grégory Ngbwa Mintsa. 2003. Protocole du mariage coutumier au Gabon. Libreville: Polypress.
Ngou, Honorine. 2007. Mariage et Violence dans la société traditionnelle Fang au Gabon. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Nguimbi, Arnold. 2012. “De la mort du maître a la mort symbolique de l’école: pour une pratique stylistique dans Histoire d’Awu de Justine Mintsa.” In La mort dans l’espace littéraire gabonais. Edited by Clément Moupoumbou and Pierre Ndemby-Mamfoumby, 130–49. Libreville: Éditions Odette Maganga.
Ovono-Mendame, Jean-René. 2006. “Histoire d’Awu de Justine Mintsa: Entre soumission et révolte: les paradoxes d’un destin ambigu.” Africultures (6 April 2006), http://www.africultures.com/php/index.php?nav=article&no=4368.
Rawiri, Angèle. 1980. Elonga. Paris: Silex.
Toman, Cheryl. 2016. Women Writers of Gabon: Literature and Herstory. Lanham MD: Lexington Books.
Part One
Interlocking rings took shape, obediently lining up one after the other. With her tiny steel tool in hand, the focused miracle maker was unfazed as she toiled relentlessly, as if she had been desensitized to the beauty of her work. She seemed to have only one goal in mind: to accomplish her task for the day. Like a bee, she barely took any time at all to marvel over what she had created. She found nothing extraordinary in it. Her purpose in life was to create stitches, just as the bee’s purpose was to produce honey. And the slender servant of the art was also there to continue making her small rings that connected one to the other, almost with pleasure, as if they were delighted to be linked, to belong to one other, to find meaning only in being together.
As for her thread, it never ceased to twist itself lasciviously under the unsympathetic yet steady stress of the iron instrument whose cold stiffness oddly contrasted with the inviting expression of the chain stitch.
Long, plump fingers with short fingernails guided the needle so skillfully that it seemed to move effortlessly. The thumb and index finger holding on t
o this tiny bit of iron with such reassurance and agility stitched the fabric that had been pierced with the help of the calculated efforts of a thimble-less middle finger. Suddenly all the fingers twitched, and from underneath the white fabric appeared a small spot of intense red. And almost immediately afterward, the wounded finger took off in search of comfort toward a gracious mouth that wasted no time in gently sucking and nibbling it; a mouth with thick lips whose harmonious contours were suddenly upset by this urgent need. At times the mouth formed two beautiful horizontal lines revealing a solid row of small, vertical rectangles the color of ivory; at other times the two lines converged toward their center to jut out like a suction cup. Two half circles just above these lips palpitated at the semi-salty taste of blood, while still higher, two normally bright celestial bodies were fading as the thick eyebrows that harbored them briefly knitted together. All of these waves produced themselves on a befreckled oblong face whose high forehead and pointed chin reminded one of a partridge egg.
Awudabiran' was the second wife of Obame Afane, the schoolteacher.
They say Obame’s first wife died of a broken heart and that for six years she was unable to bear the fruit of a love consummated in intense moments of total ecstasy. But a man in Ebomane thought twice about purchasing land without the overwhelming evidence that it was indeed fertile; after six years of waiting, there was only one conclusion to be made.
When all hope was lost and he could no longer stand the pressure from the family, Obame Afame was forced to consider acquiring more fertile land, and he had to be absolutely certain that planting seeds there would yield an abundance of fruit, even without the ecstasy he so much enjoyed. Yet he feared that his beloved first wife would feel betrayed, even humiliated. She understood, however. She knew that this was the natural order of things and that, in fact, it was supposed to happen in this way. The fate of an arid plot of land, was it not to be abandoned for a more productive one? By marrying Obame Afame, however, she had become the mother of the entire village and one of the pillars of her husband’s family. But in Ebomane, where the blessings of a household are measured in terms of its ability to reproduce, she knew that despite all her qualities, she did not have the right one. Arid lands do not choose to be arid, and yet it happens, much like fertile lands do not decide to be fertile. It comes down to luck. Some have it, others do not. You can perhaps push your luck, but it doesn’t always work out. What else can you do besides resigning yourself to the facts?
One morning they found Obame’s first wife dead in bed, even though she hadn’t been sick. It just looked like she was sleeping peacefully. It was the same day Awudabiran' and Obame Afane’s twins were born.
Awudabiran'’s traditional marriage had taken place during her second pregnancy. Obame Afane had wanted to ensure that his land was indeed fertile before taking the plunge. Little Ondo Obame was proof of that—he was the twins’ big brother.
Awu had been provided with a healthy dowry—and for good reason. She was the only woman in the entire region who held a degree! She was certified to teach elementary school and she was also a master seamstress! How could you not give a proper dowry to such a rare specimen? The family dispossessed of such an asset had to be consoled. Such a loss required good compensation, and what was offered was indeed on par. In exchange for their daughter, the family received a hefty sum and respectable quantities of pagne,1 alcohol, and livestock. It was indeed understood that the purpose of this dowry was merely to concretize the implied agreement between the two families joined in marriage; the woman would be leaving to support her new family and to increase its size, which is why her in-laws in turn were supposed to express their gratitude by regularly aiding her parents. This was customary for any girl entering marriage. Only this time, in the case of Awudabiran', her diploma was a definite “plus,” and it was indeed her in-laws who would reap the benefits of that, a fact that was terribly frustrating for her own parents. But after all, wasn’t the husband a great schoolteacher himself, who was living in a beautiful terracotta brick home? There were not even ten such homes like that in the entire area. Soon Awu could very well be a grande dame in a big, sturdy house. This would be seen as a step up for the entire family, who had been used to seeing such brick houses only from afar; they themselves were living in homes made out of tree bark.
Obame Afane the schoolteacher had found fertile terrain in Awudabiran'. With the death of his first wife, he had lost a friend and partner. However, his second wife had now made him a full-fledged man. In Ebomane, anyone who did not ensure descendants was not a man. Nonetheless, now that his first wife was gone, Obame Afane could not help but feel a void that even the sight of his children and Awu could not fill.
Obame Afane had set his hopes on the lovely, young, and intelligent Awu. In his state of mind, he could not have known at the time that Awudabiran' was the last woman he should have chosen. Awu, in fact, expected so much from a man and from that very place in his heart that he wanted to forget about forever; he refused to betray his first wife by completely devoting himself to another woman. As for Awu, however, she had been saving herself for the man who would pick her among all of the possible choices in his garden. And for her, this man was Obame Afane.
Awu had always dreamed of sewing her life like a chain stitch: first tying a knot with children and marriage, then succeeding in every way through harmonious relationships in her married life as well as in her social and professional interactions. It is for this reason that throughout the duration of her studies, she remained like the closed bud of a flower. Once she acquired her professional standing, she wanted to blossom in the most complete fashion, basking in the warmth of love.
Even though her own father was polygamous, Awu was irritated to the very core of her being by the firm impression that she was still sharing her husband with her co-wife, even after her death. Of course, Awu had Obame all to herself every night, but she suspected that his mind was elsewhere while he was making love to her. She would have liked to have a man exclusively for her—body and soul, just for her. And to think that her own father had had two wives! And her mother had never complained of having her man all to herself just one out of two nights! But come to think of it, between Awu’s mother, who had had her man all to herself every other night, and Awu, who had just half a man every night—who deserved the most sympathy? Strangely, when Awu would dream about her husband, she imagined him surrounded by a myriad of captivating smiles, the object of thousands of gazes and thousands of embraces. All the while he, with a distant look, was searching in vain to leave everything behind in order to join one woman in particular—but that woman was never Awu.
No, Obame Afane the schoolteacher didn’t really know what type of terrain he had acquired. He had a general idea that the land was fertile and in great shape, which was a plus. But he didn’t know that there was more to this land than just its fertility and good looks. He didn’t know—and how could he have—that this land was in need of very special treatment.
With the coming of each dry season, Awudabiran' would fall hopelessly in love. Was it because of the way nature wore her dress of fire? In any case, this red-hot atmosphere used to set ablaze every single fiber of her being. Her lover was not anyone she could name. But in her mind, she knew exactly what features he had. If she had to sketch his image, she would be forced to make many of them, each one highlighting a major aspect of his appearance. It was not like he was an ensemble of disjointed parts, however. No, her lover was, in fact, a puzzle in which each piece mattered and held its independent meaning apart from the whole. As Awu pictured in her mind each one of these features in succession and up close, the rest would fade away into the shadows; it seemed to her that her lover could be metamorphosed just as many times, spontaneously generating just as many emotions and feelings in her heart and throughout her body.
Although Awu’s husband was proud of her, he would never really look at her. For example, she would walk with much grace while balancing her sewing basket at
op her head—she had a natural grace and was well aware of it. Yet Obame would only take a peek at her as she came toward him, and all the while she was yearning for him to be captivated by her and to show this through an honest, deliberate, and, of course, admiring look. So in her dreams her lover became those Eyes, eyes whose glance was somewhere between persuasive and domineering, eyes that were all over her, staring at her, exploring her, then contemplating her. Just the thought of this would leave her feeling as light as air, radiant, overwhelmed.
As for Obame Afane, he made it a source of honor to be a good father and a responsible husband.
Sometimes, when Obame had no papers to grade in the evening, he would go outside to tell stories. On such occasions, it was inevitably his brother Nguema Afane’s job to build a large, wood-burning fire in the courtyard. For his trouble, the villagers always rewarded Nguema with at least two bottles of sugar cane wine and some malamba,2 which gave him the energy necessary to fan the fire until his brother finished. It didn’t matter which hill the children came from; they were all permanently enchanted by those stories. At home, Obame also meticulously nurtured the development of his own children.
At other times and for no specific reason, he would surprise Awu with spools of multicolored thread. Or he would bring her back some brightly colored scraps of poplin or percale. Or better still, he would entrust her with a few kilos of meat along with one or two superb pagnes for her to give to her parents.
Awu's Story Page 4