Awu took the knife out of her husband’s hands, touched the blade in admiration, and then put it delicately back into place. Effortlessly, she closed the crosspiece. The headboard once again took on its ordinary appearance.
“No,” said Awu turning toward her husband, “it’s no longer your secret but our secret.”
“And now,” whispered Obame pulling his wife against him, “I have work to do. I’ve got to try and dislodge a certain guy from my wife’s head.”
Obame Afane had indeed completed a new file during a third trip to the capital. Exactly two years later, the long-awaited notice finally arrived. The pension was ready. He would even get back pay. Obame felt that this time it was for real.
He asked his wife to accompany him. She had never been to the capital before. And she had several table linens to sell. They would have a good time. Didn’t they deserve it? Awu wanted her husband to believe that this was all his idea so she held back a bit before agreeing. But she was actually dying to go.
One more time, the village was abuzz. Awudabiran' was leaving for the capital with her husband. She was overjoyed but tried to appear indifferent in order not to bring bad luck upon them.
That morning she and her husband took a longer swim than usual.
The big bunches of banana trees spread out on both sides of the road leading to the village always had a profound effect on Obame Afane, but this time they moved him in a different way, although he wasn’t quite sure why. All along his route they seemed to stand in attention, as if they were giving him VIP treatment. The large leaves swayed gently to the rhythm of the morning breeze as if whispering a lullaby. The foliage glistened with thousands of droplets of fine mist. The soft earth gave way beneath him with each step. He thought he heard in the distance the echo of the name that his grandmother had given him. Sikolooo! Sikolooooo! However, he refrained from answering. But his heart started to beat like a tam-tam. He stopped and asked his wife:
“Awu, did you hear something?”
Awu then stopped as well, lending an ear with utmost concentration.
“No,” she said, “I don’t hear anything. I didn’t hear a thing.”
And they returned to the village in silence.
Komandé, the former police chief, always hoped that his pension would arrive sooner or later. After many years of waiting, his confidence and optimism remained unwavering. However, his financial situation was in constant decline to the point where he had been forced to resort to drastic measures of which he was not very proud.
In fact, he owned an old clunker of a car; anyone who laid eyes upon it would have thought that it wasn’t capable of withstanding the smallest bump or any excess weight. When times were rough, he transported villagers to earn some spare change, barely making it from the bus station and back. He didn’t have a fixed rate. Each person gave what he could. And most of the time, they couldn’t give much. But Komandé didn’t complain. It’s certainly the reason why no one thought of turning him in for going to the highway at the entrance of the village dressed in his old, but well-ironed uniform to stop all of the truck drivers; those who weren’t in compliance paid a fine on the spot. Each time he had a good day, the next day he would bring along villagers free of charge on his way to get gas or to run errands.
In spite of the fact Komandé did not formally believe in God, he refused nonetheless to resort to such activities on Sundays.
Although the route was dusty and the passengers would be packed tightly in the bus like sticks in bound bundles of wood, Awudabiran' put on her prettiest dress—a beautiful kaba in red cotton imprinted with big green leaves. She wore a matching scarf on her head with a touch of playfulness; she had raised the scarf at the nape of the neck, allowing two little braids to escape out on each side while a third in the middle stuck out onto her forehead, much like a fern leaf. The folds in her kaba started out tiny near her chest, gradually creating a graceful ripple-effect at the ankles. Obame was wearing his handsome, well-starched yellow dress shirt. It was a little worn out, but it was still decent. He was saving the nice white boubou that Awu had sewn for him for the capital. That is, once they dusted off and cleaned up. They both looked like newlyweds who had been prematurely projected into their future. They were a beautiful couple. They loved each other. And curiously, they were still flirtatious. In twenty years they had never taken a single long trip together. This was like the start of a new life for them. They made up their minds to live life together to the fullest—for themselves and for their children. They had come to an agreement. All this time lost. All this time spent taking care of others. The moment had finally come to think about themselves and to enjoy the good things in life together, because there were certainly good things ahead. And the retirement pension was one of them.
Part Three
Afane Obame, the father, had left his house earlier than usual. The village was still sleeping; here and there, the hens and their chicks were already on a quest for those late-night worms and the early-riser ants. Afane Obame had been wide awake all night long. His mind had been put on alert by the menacing song of the clairvoyant owl. As he was walking toward the corps de garde,1 Afane Obame noticed an eerie patch of darkness chiseled into the bright early morning sky; the patch got bigger and bigger as it raced toward the earth at lightning speed. Its shape was becoming clearer; within a split second, the talons of a sparrow hawk closed in one of the chicks, lifting it off the ground. Afane Obame followed the bird with his eyes until its image shrank little by little, eventually evaporating into the vastness of the sky. He kept his eye on the heavens for a moment, then looked inquisitively and imploringly toward the summit of the Wood-Girded Hill. Finally, he went to take a seat in the corps de garde. The writing on the wall was clear.
It was no surprise to see Pastor Gambier coming up hurriedly from a distance. He was out of breath by the time he reached the corps de garde. He remained standing without saying a word, as if to catch his breath. Afane Obame looked at him calmly.
“Afane Obame,” he finally said, “get up, we are going to pray.”
“Are you out of your mind, Pastor? Do you realize that you are speaking to Afane Obame, the high priest of the Ancestors’ religion, he who protects the Wood-Girded Hill? Because of your long robes, I never really considered you a man. But if you have come here to provoke me as such, we can go at it man to man! Don’t expect to tarnish the memory of my Ancestors with such impunity!”
“I have to tell you something very important. And I can’t tell you without first praying with you to Our Creator.”
“Your creator, not mine! And if what you have to tell me is so important, you can go ahead and pray all by yourself! Or else, take your news with you, good or bad. You are the head of your flock. I’m the head of my flock. If you are moving the Wood-Girded Hill to put it next to the Cross-Topped Hill, come ask me again to come pray with you. But until then, you haven’t said anything and I haven’t heard anything.”
Seeing that it was no use insisting, Pastor Gambier, still standing, closed his eyes and started to mutter a prayer. At the end of it, he opened his eyes once more and sat across from Afane Obame, who was looking off in the distance, in the direction of the Wood-Girded Hill.
“Obame Afane is dying,” said the pastor as calm as he could be.
Afane Obame was startled. Then he jumped up into the air in a way no one would have ever thought possible for a man his age.
“Pastor, what are you saying?”
“Exactly what you heard. Your son Obame Afane is dying in a hospital in the capital, where he was transported along with his injured wife and all the other passengers of the bus involved in the accident. One of my parishioners was traveling with them, but he wasn’t hurt. He gave the message to the new missionary, who arrived in Ebomane just a few minutes ago.”
“Tséééééééééén! Oh, Pastor! Tsééééén!”2
The piercing cry shook the entire village. Men and women came running from all around, everyone asking the
same questions:
“What is it? What’s happening? What? Who died? What is this craziness?”
Meanwhile, Afane Obame sat back down, staring at the ground. The pastor, who was also sitting, remained silent. The villagers quietly and slowly came toward them with an inquisitive look and their mouths agape; they expected shocking news. The pastor got up again, but refrained from asking people to pray.
“Obame Afane has been in a very serious accident on the outskirts of the capital. He is in the hospital in critical condition. But nothing is impossible with God. So therefore, don’t despair, my brothers! If I have come all this way, it’s not only to bring you this sad news, but it’s also to urge you to take action right away, to try to save our son and brother. Listen to me! Listen, my brothers! Obame Afane was transported to the hospital, but so far he hasn’t received any care because he must first hand over a deposit of 50,000 CFA3 before being operated on. His wife was able to put down a total of 30,000 CFA. She doesn’t know the capital and doesn’t know how to reach any family member living there. She is hospitalized as well, but in a less critical state than her husband. We have to find 20,000 CFA in a hurry, my brothers! Time is of the essence. The missionary is going back this evening. Today is Sunday. In a bit, I’m going to ask the faithful of my church to make a special donation during the regular collection. All together, we can do this. Between the two Hills, we must come up with the money before the sun sets!”
Ada, who was listening from afar, holding her child by the hand, let go of him suddenly; she thrashed about on the dusty ground, screaming like a possessed woman. The child started to cry. Without another word, Pastor Gambier went off in the direction of the Cross-Topped Hill, leaving the Wood-Girded Hill in shock.
Between both Hills the necessary amount had been raised, and Pastor Gambier gave the money to the missionary, who took off early afternoon in the church vehicle. He was delayed a few seconds by Komandé, who had flagged him down and was running toward him waving his arms, having just parked his old car off to the side of the road. The missionary waited for Komandé who, all out of breath, gave him a few coins and said to him in a broken voice:
“God will understand. This is for Sikolo Obame Afane.”
That night, each of the two Hills made a plea for mercy to their respective God.
But neither one of them was victorious.
The writing on the wall was clear, even before the missionary left.
The money arrived much too late.
Back from the burial, Awu felt them undressing her. She was cold. They wrapped what felt like a worn-out pagne around her chest. They made her sit on the ground. Then she felt them shaving her head. She shivered at the sight of her doomed braids rolling off her naked shoulders and free-falling to the ground. But her shivering was neither from cold nor from anger. With her head lowered, she continued to endure the rest that was in store for her, just like a martyr.
Passively, she submitted to the ritual inflicted upon a widow by her in-laws and, in particular, by her sisters-in-law. Akut was at the head of the line. The hostilities started by Akut slapping Awu hard in the face:
“Just how proud are you now of your table linens and your thin waist?” she began before spitting in Awu’s face. Awu was not allowed to wipe it off. “What does that make you now? A loser, doesn’t it? Why didn’t you die with your husband? Huh? It’s not so you can hang around lending out your vagina to any man who comes along, enjoying my brother’s possessions all by yourself ? Bring the hot pepper! Let’s burn it a bit, this vagina that belonged to us; she’ll waste no time letting others left and right have a piece of it! Is that what you call love? Don’t you know that in some places, a woman who really loves her husband lets herself be buried alive right along with him?”
A woman brought over a little bottle containing a blackish mixture, and a stick had been plunged inside.
“All right now. Lie down and spread ’em . . . I mean, if you really loved your husband, that is!”
Like a robot, Awu lay down and complied. And at the very moment when Akut was getting ready to apply a dose of hot pepper in the most intimate part of her sister-in-law’s body, a powerful voice made her freeze in her tracks.
“Akut, no! If you really loved your brother, for his sake, don’t do this!”
“So, let her pay!” said Akut, clearly annoyed.
One of Awu’s sisters sitting near her feverishly undid a knot from one end of her scarf, took a coin from it, and was ready to drop it in the basket reserved for this purpose since Awu had to pay in some way if she did not want to endure the physical abuse prescribed. But by paying, this also meant that the widow wasn’t ready to make sacrifices for the person she loved.
“Wait, no! She has to pay the way I’ve said!” exclaimed Akut, not accepting the alternative. “Come on, open up! Perhaps deep down, you’re gonna like it, a whore like you! Light-skinned women are such damn whores! Especially those with freckles, like you! Come on, take that!”
Without any reserve whatsoever, she drove in the stick and swirled it around in the Door of Life.
A loud and totally unexpected slap on the back startled Akut who got up once more, dropping the weapon she used to commit the crime. She turned around in order to identify the agent of this act and found an emotionless Ntsame who simply said to her:
“You are the absolute last person who should be doing this.”
Awu was sweating profusely, shaking with pain, her teeth and fists clenched to prevent her from screaming.
Akut went to sit down, mumbling under her breath and ashamed because everyone knew her story.
Soon, another slap resounded, but this time it was between Awu’s shoulder blades. She could tell who did it because of the voice. It was a sister-in-law from the village, just out for some fun:
“Take that for having taken advantage of my brother the way you did. You didn’t even have a co-wife! You were housed like a queen in her castle . . . with windows and doors made of solid wood! Isn’t that what your house is like? Huh? And all the while I, Obame’s own sister, was living in a house made out of bark. What makes you more special than us that you deserve all that? Let’s see how proud you are now! I hope that all these blows will bring down your ego a notch or two!”
For almost a week there was abuse after abuse. Awu got slapped for each and every gift she had ever received from her husband, and she paid for all the hearty laughter that had livened up her household during those happy times. She got kicked in the ribs for the beautiful table that had a place of honor in her home. She was elbowed in the back for having been the queen of the house. She received a torrent of abuse. She received a torrent of insults. On several occasions she had to pay for merely surviving her husband. Awu’s mother constantly kept urging her daughter to endure because, as she kept saying, by obediently subjecting herself to all of these ordeals, Awu would bring honor not only to her family but also to the memory of her late husband. She had even told Awu that she should consider herself lucky to be the object of such unrelenting punishment, since after the period of mourning had passed, a widow would surely find serenity once again. But if the widow refused to submit to the ritual or if, for some reason or another, her in-laws decided not to subject her to it, she would be considered condemned—not to death—but to insanity. To sum it up, submitting to this ritual drove away evil and appeased the spirit of the dead spouse.
Surrounded by her sisters and friends who had come to help her, Awu slept on the ground for seven days. Seven days during which it was forbidden for her to raise her head, to speak, to eat without permission, or to wash.
Finally, it was the last night of the ritual that Awu would spend on the ground. Having trouble containing her hatred, Akut wanted to try one last torment, sticking her index and middle fingers into Awu’s nostrils while forbidding her from opening her mouth—all this just so Awu could prove that she had really loved her husband. After a few long seconds without taking a breath, Awu’s veins began to bulge out
of her temples and neck and Ntsame intervened once again. As she pulled her fingers out, Akut showered her in a hail of spit that eventually mixed with Awu’s own tears and snot. With a voice emitting a combination of fear and anger, Ada exploded:
“Yes, mother, Aunt Ntsame is right. I will go so far as to say that it isn’t only in memory of Uncle Sikolo Obame Afane that you should leave Aunt Awu alone, but it is to honor her as well because of all that she has done for me, your only daughter, and for your grandson, my child, Sikolo Ntok. You can’t even hold a candle to this woman on whom you have just spit. I will no longer keep silent, Mother. I’ve remained silent for too long. You always find yourself on the wrong side in situations like this because you always make bad choices. This woman means everything to me, your own flesh and blood. You are trying to perpetuate the same kind of injustice that took Uncle Obame Afane away from us. Instead of attempting to find out what had really happened to me, you sent me away and abandoned me. You never even asked me how I had gotten pregnant, but now I’m going to tell you how. You got rid of me by sending me away to boarding school so that you could go about your business. But the people in charge there have no morals at all and take advantage of students, especially those like me, whose parents never visit them nor provide money for their everyday needs. I have at least five witnesses here in this room. Do you want to know what the people in charge at the Mbiosi boarding school subject us to? The school monitors ask us for two cigarettes for each hour we are absent. In order to get a passing grade on an assignment, students whose mothers sell palm wine must provide the teacher with a bottle. Good student or not, to ensure a passing grade in a subject for the three trimesters, you have to pay 15,000 CFA to the teacher or, if not, prepare to give him three sessions of gratification.”
A young man came up, yelling at the top of his lungs:
Awu's Story Page 10