Africa39

by Wole Soyinka

  Tina rose up and briskly walked back to the gravity mobile she used to run errands and carry out her usual Room Service duties. She had parked far away from Kamoto’s house. She had not noticed it becoming dark. This was not surprising, as the lights in the streets were bright enough to make one forget when the real light of the sun had ended and the artificial light of the streets began.

  The Central Square, especially, located right in the mid region of the kingdom, was known to have the brightest lights. It was there that Tina reported for work at the Department of Room Service, and it was from there that she and other Room Service workers received their instructions and directions about what items needed to be delivered to which homes.

  She drove off, exhilarated by the thoughts that her stakeout had sparked in her mind. She did not know anything about Kamoto, and this left her with more questions than answers. She was anxious to get home and she thought of flying her gravity mobile but decided against it for fear of attracting attention. One had to have a good reason to fly. She chose to drive faster instead, but not enough to put her at risk. She drove through the woodland that was at the end of Kamoto’s neighbourhood and joined the road that went uphill. There were a few cars. Right after going uphill, the road descended steeply, requiring one to have a foot on the brake pedal all the way down into the valley below. She turned east and joined the highway, speeding towards the woodlands that lay beyond the glistening lights of the high rising scrapers that formed the luring skyline of the City Square.

  When she reached home she went straight to her TC, opened the file for House No. G8. The file provided live video footage of Kamoto’s house. Kamoto himself was sitting quietly on the couch in his living room, watching a video on the TC that dominated the northern wall of the room. He looked tired, with his legs stretched in front of him, resting on the coffee table that matched the couch and the drapes. In his hands he held an object which Tina could not identify as she watched him on the video feed. She knew better than to jump to conclusions about what the object was, because things on the curtain did not always appear the way they were in real life. So she was not surprised that Kamoto’s black beard, which she had just earlier seen to be neatly shaved to a single-lined sideburn running down and around his chin, now appeared grey. His face, compact and sturdy and full of life, now looked slightly elongated and sickly. Even his complexion, a smooth and natural dark brown, looked slightly pale.

  Tina tried to be even more observant of Kamoto on the curtain than she had been when she saw him in person earlier that afternoon. But there was nothing interesting about what Kamoto was doing; he was simply slouched on a sofa, staring blankly at the screen on the wall. Tina found this frustrating, especially since the camera that enabled her to view Kamoto was facing away from the screen, making it impossible for her to see what he was watching. The cameras had been positioned in this way so that no one could see what another citizen was watching for personal entertainment. Not even the Super Curtain that ran the Central Square could access such intimate details about the activities of the Occupants.

  She switched off the TC and headed for the kitchen to make herself a meal, a privilege that she had as a Room Service agent. Tina made herself soup and a sandwich, then she sat down in the kitchen to sift through the events of the day. All she could wonder about was what Kamoto was looking for when he went for a walk around the premises of his house. But was it right for her to be spying on an Occupant like that? At that moment, it occurred to her that subjects of the kingdom, especially Citizens, had taken their freedom for granted for so long that they no longer felt the need to exercise it or the need to explore why freedom should be exercised. In fact, she realised that most of them did not even think of themselves as free, because even though they were free, they did not know enough about bondage to go beyond being free, to reach the place of feeling free. Freedom had become commonplace, and therefore meaningless.

  The Professor

  Edwige-Renée Dro

  The marquee was set. Waiters and waitresses wearing the blue and white colours of our uniforms weaved around, carrying hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes on trays. Here and there, I spotted an old teacher and waved from a distance before making out that I needed to speak to someone else. But there was only one person I was waiting for and that was you. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Ever since the reunion was advertised on Facebook, I had known it was just an exer­cise in boasting. Reunions always were, and one where even old teachers and headmistresses were invited was taking the art of boasting to another level. Yes, mention was made of the fact that funds would be raised to bring the library of our lycée up to the standard of a library of a lycée of Excellence . . . but still. So I came, because I would then be able to share my suspicions about the reunion with you. A few times I had thought about calling you and then decided that the element of surprise would work best. But for an hour I’d been participating in conversations I had no interest in and you were nowhere in sight. So I decided to mingle. Parties were not your thing anyway so perhaps you had decided not to turn up. And if that were the case, I would visit you at home.

  ‘Ah, Essien! There you are.’

  ‘I hope you’re not about to give me a job, chieftain,’ I groaned inwardly but managed to keep a smile plastered on my face.

  Chantal has always been the bossy one of us girls and I had been trying to avoid her lest she roped me in on some task. Apparently the reunion was her idea. But then again, only Chantal had the persuasive power to gather together 120 girls living on at least three different continents.

  ‘Well, it’s not really a job. By the way, how’s you, Mrs Professor?’ she planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘And don’t fear,’ she waved her hand as if swatting away a fly, ‘my lippie doesn’t stain. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for a lippie that doesn’t . . .’

  ‘Please tell me I didn’t spend close to a thousand pounds on air fare to hear you talk about a lippie that doesn’t stain.’

  She cackled. ‘Oh, Gabrielle Essien, always as cutting. Anyway, here’s the job. I see a cluster of teachers forming over there and that’s no good . . .’

  ‘So I’m supposed to go show them that this reunion is to break all barriers.’

  She blew me another kiss. ‘That’s why you were always my favourite deputy.’

  I was just glad for the excuse to enquire after you and once all the salutations were out of the way, I quietly asked one of your colleagues where you were.

  ‘Jacques?’ he frowned.

  ‘That’s the only Mr Sylla I got to know, Sir.’ I smiled.

  ‘No, I know who you mean. It’s just that Jacques is dead. He died a couple of years ago,’ he shrugged.

  I stared at him, wanting to ask more questions but the logical side of my brain told me he could not help. No question was going to bring you back. And despite the fans whirring overhead and the sea breeze, I felt hot.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve heard you’re now a professor in some big British university.’

  Was Reading a big British university? And I was a lecturer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I must . . .’

  I turned and hurried towards the exit. I walked as far away as my wedge heels would carry me on that sandy beach and found a rock I could sit on. Even though I could still hear the music, I knew I wouldn’t be going back.

  I lit a cigarette, for once not caring who saw me. The tears I had been holding in now fell. I wiped them with the back of my hand and put on my sunglasses. I took a drag and wished I was smoking with you, like that day in Paris. It wasn’t something I would have done with any of the other teachers, even those who smoked. They would have had their little word to say, along the lines of why a good girl like me shouldn’t be sucking on a cigarette. Well, if anyone dared to spout such things today, they would get theirs. Having the odd cigarette was something I have been doing since I was sixteen and I wasn’t about to stop now. I confessed this secret to you the day one of the girls was expelled for smoking.
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  ‘Trying to knock it out of you, hey?’ you’d smiled, but you also shook your head at the heavy-handedness of the administration.

  Unlike the other teachers, you did not think a satisfactory conclusion had been reached just because you’d shaken your head. You saw the headmistress and our friend was allowed back in class but not until after being subjected to a pep talk on the responsibility upon her and the rest of us to uphold the values of our lycée; values of rectitude, civic duty and camaraderie. We were the future elite of Côte d’Ivoire.

  The next day in class, you told us about those giants of French literature fuelling their imaginations with opium. And while the rest of the girls contented themselves with making surprised sounds before resuming their ever present bored expressions, I hung on to your every word.

  ‘Baudelaire, Gautier, Rimbaud, Lamartine; all these people, they did things,’ you mused and your eyes lit up.

  ‘It’s not all about flowers and love, you know. Look for the symbolism, girls!’ You banged the table and my heart leapt at your passion. It was your love for and knowledge of your subject that made me passionate about French literature. You made it interesting and fun, and soon I was trawling bookshops for the works of those men and women instead of spending my pocket money on clothes and make-up like all the other seventeen-year-olds. And just like you, I fell under the spell of their work.

  ‘Do you think it could be the opium?’ I once joked as we made our way out of school, you to your car and me to my chauffeur.

  ‘Pourquoi pas?’ we laughed.

  From that day on, we just needed to say ‘opium’ and we knew. We sometimes wondered who would turn the face of our own Ivorian literature upside down.

  ‘What about Bandama? Or Venance?’ you would ask.

  ‘Huh, interesting but don’t you think there is too much militancy in their books? Not subtle enough.’

  ‘Adoras then.’ You replied with a shrug of the shoulders, and we laughed some more. Books about dashing young men saving terrified little women were not what we considered literature.

  I have a daughter now. She is only two years old but I sometimes wonder what I would do if I were to find out she was having such intense chats with her teacher. Would I think it totally innocent or would I see something behind it? I mean, I used to know which class you would be teaching at every hour of the day. I also knew when you were off. I sometimes went to your house and we chatted. I telephoned you. We had such easy conversations. But we only ever limited ourselves to talks about literature and my ambition to open a literary salon one day, when I was older.

  ‘Why not now? Why wait till you’re older? How old is “older”?’ You would ask with such an earnestness that I felt emboldened.

  If you hadn’t been around, I wouldn’t have found an outlet for my thoughts and ideas, save for my diaries. These were not the kind of conversations we had in my house. Maman and Papa would’ve laughed at the thought of a literary salon where people debated, wrote and performed poetry. Their ambition for me was to go into the law. They would have preferred it if I had had an aptitude for the sciences of course. But with your encouragement, I went ahead and set up a poetry club. It didn’t quite catch on and I soon gave it up when, after three months, numbers didn’t go up to more than three.

  I didn’t stop writing, though. I wrote poetry, not about the ills of colonialism but poetry on love, ambition and sex and showed them to you. I liked that you didn’t raise your eyebrows and I liked that you didn’t bat an eyelid. Even during lessons, I found a way to communicate with you. My essays were a code to tell you what I’d been reading. And you appreciated it.

  ‘It’s always a joy to read your work,’ you would say and I’d beam, for it was my intention that my work should set the standard. I knew the other girls invariably wrote about those writers we had already studied. So I had to be different.

  I also think we loved one another. We never said anything. Not while I was your pupil anyway. But do you remember that time in France?

  I invited you to come see me when you told me you would be visiting friends in Lille over the summer holidays. You came to the Sorbonne, which you had recommended to me as you’d also done your maîtrise in French literature there.

  It felt so good to see you, especially as five years had passed. Sure, we called one another, but on that occasion, it felt good to meet up. We strolled the streets of Paris, unfazed by the hordes of people who always took over the city in June.

  I took you to my favourite café in Montmartre where we sat on the metal bistro chairs outside – we both had coffee and you had an almond croissant – and lost ourselves in people-watching. We shared a Gauloise, passing back the cigarette after each drag. Even though there was a new packet lying beside our coffees we didn’t think to light another cigarette.

  ‘I’ll share with you,’ you’d said when I held the packet open to you, so that was what we did. You took that first drag, sighing as you did so. I imagined your eyes closing behind your sunglasses.

  ‘Why does the first drag always taste so good?’

  ‘Especially when you haven’t had one in a while.’

  You clicked your fingers in agreement.

  You noticed that I didn’t have any of the croissant.

  ‘I don’t want to get fat.’

  ‘If you’re worried about fatness, what about me?’ you patted your stomach.

  I turned towards you then, ‘You’re not fat at all.’

  ‘Middle-age spread then.’ You smiled and even though your sunglasses hid your eyes, I felt them dancing behind the mirrored lenses.

  With any other man, I would have felt the need to fill the silence with chat, any type of chat. With you I enjoyed the companionable silence. And there wasn’t that need to do something, anything, just so we could say we were doing something. Even when we finished our coffees and our cigarette, we whiled away a few minutes just sitting there. Every once in a while you would comment on a building that wasn’t there in 1975 and I would realise then how old you really were. In 1975 you were finishing your first degree. In 1975, my father was fifteen; my mother was twelve years old.

  I did not share those thoughts with you. You were fully aware of the age difference between us. In fact, while we were sharing the Gauloise, you mentioned how those passing by would think what a cool father I had to be sharing a cigarette with. I looked at you then and you turned your head towards me. You lifted your sunglasses and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Hey, we could do it like the French,’ you said, your eyes dancing with what seemed to be mischief, and thus closing the gap you’d opened with that comment about me sharing a cigarette with my father. ‘Oh my goodness!’ you sat up and started pointing at something across the road.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘That bookstore.’ You jumped up, taking my hand in yours and we crossed the road. ‘I used to spend my days in that place.’

  ‘I thought every African student had to work like a little demon?’

  ‘No. These were the days Côte d’Ivoire was competing with Singapore. The government was sending every student at least a million French Franc . . .’

  And again, I would be reminded. The French Franc went out of circulation when I had started university and I only seen one at Le Musée de la Monnaie, but you’d touched it and handled it.

  ‘The guy who owned this place used to let us sit in there with a cup of coffee and just read to our hearts’ content.’

  It did look like the sort of bookstore where one sat to watch the world pass by. Although it was in the main square, stepping inside felt like shaking off the madness of Montmartre. Shelves and rickety tables groaned under the weight of books. The floor shone with the number of people who’d walked through its doors. Shabby sofas and armchairs were placed in the alcoves. A benevolent member of staff walked up to us and asked if we needed any help.

  ‘We are browsing, thank you,’ you told him and to me, you said, ‘Come on, darling.’

  My
heart melted at that. Thankfully you’d let go off my hand by then.

  ‘Oh, look, the new owners haven’t made many changes. Here is the rare books section,’ you continued, unaware of the avalanche of emotions you were causing in me.

  It was from that section that you got me a collection of stories by Balzac and I gave you some poems by Jeanne Duval.

  ‘Do you know, people said she didn’t write? But obviously . . .’ You held the tattered booklet out to me as proof.

  ‘Maybe they didn’t want to take the star away from Baudelaire. Besides, imagine the time she used to live in. Not only was she a woman, but she was Black.’

  ‘Hum,’ you agreed with me. ‘She was also the woman Baudelaire loved the most, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I winked. As if I wouldn’t know such a thing.

  That was when I told you I loved you, and I was so glad when you didn’t look at me with shock or worse, pretend you hadn’t heard me. Or say something about how young I was and therefore couldn’t pos­­sibly know what I was talking about. Because I was twenty-two then, not a seventeen-year-old who didn’t know her mind.

  But you said, ‘I love you too,’ and brushed my cheek with the back of your hand before pulling me into an embrace. ‘But I’m fifty-five, ma chérie. Un vieil homme,’ you’d sighed.

  I smiled and burrowed my face against the material of your boubou, smelling your spicy eau de cologne. You were not old at all, not for me. But I didn’t tell you that. We pulled away from one another. You planted a kiss on my forehead. The same member of staff who accosted us before rang up our books and we left the shop, with you holding my hand. We stopped by the entrance to the store. We looked into each other’s eyes, wondering whether to kiss or not. In the end, we didn’t. We just smiled at each other and went to a bistro where we did it like the French, consuming alcohol at lunchtime, that is.