He greeted her by giving her a piece of white merino with silver lamé. She sparkled with pleasure and invited him to stay and talk:
“So you’re the white man my husband told me about. You want to walk all the way to Timbo, right?”
“That’s right, Princess.”
“My husband told me so. He also told me something so bizarre I’ve almost put it out of my mind. I’ve heard that over there, where you’re from, you have a strange machine you want to bring here, to Fouta.”
“A railroad, Princess, something that can travel from here to Labé in the time it takes you to make a meal.”
“That may be true over there, but not in Fouta.”
“It’s true everywhere, Princess.”
“Well, even if I see it, I won’t believe it.”
She was relaxed and lighthearted. It amused her to learn that in France the rain was like salt, powdery and white; that people prayed before a cross and ate pig; and that men, who were all uncircumcised, were only allowed to marry one woman. She took a long look at him and laughed at his pale skin and smooth, long hair, the hair of a newborn. Then her face froze as she realized that she didn’t even know his name:
“You must take me for a fool—we’ve been talking for some time now and I haven’t even asked your name. I suppose they must give you a name, over there in the land of the whites.”
“They certainly do, Princess. Even our streets have names. Mine is Aimé.”
“Yémé? That’s not a bad name. But you are quite astonishing, Yémé, to want to bring that machine to us. Do you think the Fulas will want it?”
“I fully intend to win over the almami. You’ll help me, Princess, won’t you? You’re the wife of the future king of Labé and everyone on the coast says the almami holds your husband in high regard.”
“Yes, for the time being, but who knows what will happen when it will be the Alphayas’ turn to rule.”
Lawrence had spent an entire night trying to make him understand the situation between the Soryas and the Alphayas. But a short history lesson in Taïbou’s soft, steady voice finally succeeded where Lawrence had failed. He learned that the Soryas and the Alphayas made up the two branches of the almamis’ family. Power alternated between them every two years. At least, that was how it stood on paper. What were the real determining factors? Poison, daggers, and civil war!
To rule this land one day, he had to understand that Fouta Djallon was a theocratic federal kingdom comprising nine provinces. Each province had a king. Based in Timbo, the almami ruled over all the provincial kings. The almami, or rather the two almamis—the reigning one and the one impatiently waiting in the wings, lying “dormant” in his capital, waiting to capture the throne!
The ferocious, touchy, and mistrustful Fula people were governed by a subtle balance of power. Ultimate power resided in Timbo, but Fogoumba, the religious capital, crowned the almami, voted on legislation, and declared war.
“You have a very complicated system.”
“Everything is complicated here, Yémé, that’s why we’re Fulas!”
She taught him the thousand and one ways of approaching the prickly Fula race, reputed to be cunning, suspicious, fanatical, and treacherous, always on its guard and never genuinely friendly. He listened to her for nearly three hours, as overwhelmed by her advice as by her well-defined lips and wildflower smell. He bade her farewell in a casual, nearly intimate tone:
“I put myself in your hands, Taïbou. The road is blocked and I’ve lost sixty of my men. I’m stuck here at the edge of Fouta. Each passing day costs me energy and men. But I know I can count on you, can’t I, my princess?”
“The road was opened this morning, Yémé. My husband sent me a message just before you arrived. He is waiting for you in Guidali, where I will join him in a few days. An emissary will soon arrive to lead you to him. I’ve given orders that your men be found or that you are provided with captives. If you have any trouble, don’t hesitate, call on Taïbou. Now go in peace, Yémé. I bless you and pray for you.”
The moment he got back to his tent, he opened his journal:
“Honey, flowers, natural springs, and a princess said to be cruel but in actuality courteous and pleasant to look at. If that’s what Fouta is like, well, give me more!”
FROM BUBA, YOU COULD SEE the first foothills of Fouta Djallon. O the rapids and blossoming hollows, the gold around the neck of a beautiful woman in Buba! The women were as miraculously splendid as the landscape. He was in seventh heaven. Writing after a stroll, he could not contain his enthusiasm: “How could you avoid dreaming of claiming a little piece of a land where laurels stand fifty feet tall? Which of life’s vanities offer a better semblance of reality than to conquer a kingdom and organize a state?”
The arrival of Aguibou’s emissary was finally announced. On March 3, Olivier’s column set off, leaving at six in the evening to avoid the sun, which even at those altitudes could be lethal at midday. He had intended the trip from Bolama to Buba to serve as a practice run, an opportunity to evaluate the best load for his porters, set the pace, determine the length of each stage and study his men’s behavior—distinguish the thieves from the merely greedy, the cowards from the recalcitrant, the profiteers from the spies.
Now they were getting down to serious business. He was heading for the mountains, to those fierce and unpredictable Fulas, so slow to open their hearts and so quick to pull out their knives. The first steep trails began near Sambafil. His men got off their horses and mounted the donkeys. He was already on foot—horseback riding never suited this rugged man who felt most comfortable on the peaks of Mont Blanc and the volcanoes of Iceland. He used his mount only to cross ditches and backwaters and led it by the reins or left it to an attendant the rest of the time. They began counting the first waterfalls and cliffs, the first sprains and snakebites. For every flower there seemed to be a natural fountain. Everywhere they turned, there were birds sweeping out of the trees, stunning them with their extravagant colors, and packs of monkeys pulling off hilarious stunts.
Some of the porters took advantage of the curves in the trail to run off with their loads; others embraced freedom and threw their burden away at the first detour.
As promised, Aguibou was waiting when the column reached Guidali, three days after it left Buba. The reception took place in a vast gravel courtyard decorated with citronella, surrounded by large huts with terraced roofs and verandas on which shaggy-haired, snotty kids frolicked with young goats and chickens
“Welcome to the land of the almami! Are you well? Is the place you came from free of trouble?”
His weeks among the Fula and Nalu had taught him all he needed to know about local customs. Or so he thought.
“I have come from Buba. There is no trouble there, only good things. My trip went well, without any problems.”
“To your wishes, white man, to your wishes! I have heard your name. Fouta Djallon says your name is good. Timbo is ready to welcome you, the court has examined your request. It is said you want a road to make the steam come all the way to Timbo.”
“That’s exactly it. I intend to discuss it with the almami, as soon as…”
He did not need Mâly’s assistance to realize he had just made a blunder potentially more grievous than his memorable misadventure on Bubaque. All he needed to see was how his hosts’ faces suddenly turned hostile and their hands tightened around their clubs and knives. Aguibou motioned to calm the crowd, but the look in his eyes was far from reassuring. He winked at his griot, who immediately berated the stunned toubab:
“You, discuss with almami! Fulas, do you hear this?”
Whispering, Mâ-Yacine told Olivier he had committed an unforgivable crime of lèse-majesté. The almami was a sacred symbol, second only to the Good Lord and the Prophet. He did not ask, he demanded; he did not receive, he summoned. And though he was known to talk, he only did so with princes and kings.
“Are you a king or a prince? Answer, you ungrateful guest, you di
shonorable, ignorant man!” the griot proclaimed, while other voices stirred to demand that he be beaten, that his men and goods be seized, that he be expelled to the coast or thrown to the crocodiles.
Mâly, frantically blinking as he racked his brains to find a solution, now calmly cleared his throat. In this Fula world where everything was bowing and whispering, allusion and suggestion, this meant he requested the court’s authorization to speak.
“Forgive this thoughtless white man, Prince Aguibou! He should have begun by conveying his uncle’s highest regards to Fouta…”
The bold interpreter humbly asked that they look beyond appearances: this unfortunate toubab, ugly with diarrhea, filthy from the trail, bloodied by thorns, was no less than the nephew of the king of France—understand, the son of the brother of his land’s almami, same mother, same father. There were four people in line for the French throne: the king, his son, his brother and then him, Olivier de Sanderval, despite the dust plastering his hair and the thick coat of mud on his soles. Fouta would bring honor upon itself by receiving him as is his due, wallahi! This, good people of the court, was what he, Mâly, wanted to say, this was what he had finished saying.
Naturally, the toubab immediately tried to deny this shameful lie. But his two servants winked and elbowed him into silence.
A long muffled murmur spread through the crowd before the griot turned to the strangers:
“Does the white man have a letter from his most venerated uncle?”
“Don’t you know the customs of France, you foolish and mule-headed bush people?”
Mâ-Yacine had spoken. As a Serer, he had the right to insult the Fulas through the ancestral custom of joking kinship. But the executioner drew his sword. Mâly barely had time to stop him:
“What are you doing, unhappy man! Aguibou, Fula prince, will you allow a Serer’s throat to be slit under your own roof? Will you?”
A growl of reprobation rose against the executioner:
“Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t know he was a Serer, wallahi, I didn’t know!”
The prince turned to Mâ-Yacine, who was aglow at having saved himself but still trying to catch his breath and nervously smoothing out his boubou:
“You won, Serer, the fault is ours. We deserve to pay the penalty. Will you accept a sheep?”
“Shame upon your race! A sheep is far too little for a Serer. A bull or nothing at all!”
Custom had it that a Serer had the right to heckle a Fula, even if he was a king or a prince. If the Fula didn’t react well, he had to pay a penalty.
“Give him a rope. Let him go to the pens and tie up the animal of his choice.”
“The incident is now closed,” barked the griot. “But what about those French customs?”
In his most serious manner, the Serer explained that the kings of France only wrote to their menial subordinates and exclusively communicated with their equals through the mouths of their nephews. And the current king of France had only one nephew, this poor toubab, roasted by the sun and devoured by mosquitoes. The poor man was so very far away from his orchards and palaces.
“So be it,” Aguibou decided. “The nephew of the king of France will be treated according to his rank. Let us slaughter an ox in his name and offer him the best huts in the village.”
The poor prince of France felt obliged to open one of his trunks: eight yards of cotton madras, twenty cubits of guinée cloth, eight butcher knives, five balls of Swedish amber, two pieces of white merino with silver lamé, two chassepot rifles, and three thousand francs went to thank his counterpart for his magnanimity.
A costly mistake!
Throughout the night, crooks and sycophants lined up at his hut. One said he was Aguibou’s cousin and wanted amber to guarantee him the prince’s favors. Another claimed to be the almami’s marabout and asked for pearls to ensure he would have protectors in Timbo. Yet another introduced himself as a customs agent for the princes of Timbi and requested a rifle to guard the trail. He quickly learned his lesson: among these jealous, greedy, and deceptive Fulas, it was best to distribute gifts at night, when only the stars and the Good Lord could see his riches.
Once he had finally gotten rid of these tedious interlopers, he decided to set things straight with his two subordinates:
“I am not a prince of France, is that understood? I pay you to serve as my interpreter and to provide me with food, not to tell tall tales.”
“You are here among the Fula people, white man,” Mâ-Yacine answered. “You have to be a prince here to make things go more smoothly.”
“Anyhow the damage is done. We are all wearing the same noose now,” added Mâly. “You are a prince of France whether you like it or not. If you say otherwise, we will have made a laughingstock of Fouta and our heads will roll.”
“And if they don’t roll, we’ll leave you right here and return to Dakar, is that understood, you stubborn white man?” Mâ-Yacine exploded.
He spent the night crushing cockroaches, too exhausted to look through his notebooks, too damaged by nature to sleep. He only wrote a few sentences on a piece of cardboard: “I suspected I would find strange customs in this land, but I never imagined joking kinship. I wonder what next: fairground ancestors? Strange Africa! Mischievous Mâly and Mâ-Yacine! Swindling Fula princes! So be it, I’ll be the prince of France, but only to save my head. To think that back home, the same lie would send me straight to the guillotine!”
He met with Aguibou again, but this time face-to-face, meaning he was accompanied only by his cook and interpreter. Aguibou still had the affected air of a negus, confident in the privileges of his birth and throne. Yet he also seemed worried or, rather, on his guard.
“Maybe you really are the nephew of the king of France, maybe you aren’t—he who comes from abroad is the only one to know what kind of woman his mother is. You can lie to me, that is not so serious, but in Timbo, it would be three times more serious. Believe me, my poor toubab, heads roll quickly in Timbo!”
“That is…Listen, my prince, I have to tell you—”
“I give you my word, Prince Aguibou,” Mâly cut in, “this man is as noble in the court of France as you are in the court of Labé.”
“Very well, very well!” Aguibou was growing impatient. “We’ve said enough about this!”
“What about the trail?” asked Mâly.
“The village chiefs are under obligation to ensure your security and provide you with porters and huts to rest in. For the rest, each one of them will do as it suits him. Welcome to our land, stranger!”
“Thank you, Prince, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, toubab. It is only my duty as a Fula. How long do you intend to stay in Timbo?”
“A week, maybe two. Then I’ll go to Dinguiraye.”
He did not notice that the prince’s face grew somber again.
“To Dinguiraye?”
“And then Siguiri, Sakatou, Kayes. I want to explore the Sudan after seeing your magnificent Fouta.”
“That’s the white man for you! You give him your thumb, he tears off the whole arm! Dinguiraye! And what next? The throne of Fouta, Mecca, and Medina? You would do better to stop at Timbo, I tell you that you would do better.”
With that, he brought the meeting to an abrupt end.
The next day he received a visit from Taïbou. She walked in with that carefully studied slowness that denotes nobility and rank among the Fula, looking even more stunning than the last time he had seen her—more braids and jewels, more sparkle and grace. Her shoulders were covered with a thin lace shawl revealing a glimpse of her luscious, firm breasts and honey-colored nipples, against which a dense tangle of bangles and pearls rested. Her face’s even features glowed like copper in the light of the rising sun. Seen in profile, she looked like a little girl, despite her willowy figure and round breasts. But her beautiful pod-shaped eyes had the intensity of those born to scold and command. She was only twenty-four—twenty-eight at most—no one knew exactly in t
his isolated country where only a few Arabized families had ever heard of a civil registry. Yet she was the most powerful woman in Fouta, reputed to be rich, independent, and aggressive. She owned as much land and gold as her princely husband. Her lovers numbered in the dozens and her slaves in the thousands. An unrivaled rider, she personally led her six thousand warriors into battle. The wildest legends circulated about her. It was said she mutilated her slaves and ordered the throats slit of the young men who no longer pleased her. Anyone she set her heart upon would eventually face a terrible dilemma: Aguibou’s knife or her own poison.
She was sitting sideways in a corner of the hut. Everything was sideways among the Fulas: sitting, eating, talking, making alliances, going to war, and reconciling. Approaching things head-on indicated a lack of refinement; looking someone straight in the eye was unforgivably vulgar. Among the coastal people, directness was considered man’s greatest quality; in Fouta, duplicity was a sign of nobility and refinement.
He had now been among the Fulas for over a week. He knew that a person’s upbringing could be gauged by the length of his greeting and his ability to mask his feelings, to remain discreet and reserved in the most extreme situations.
She was sitting sideways and spoke in that same soft, steady voice. From time to time she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t understand everything she said, but in this kind of situation there was no need for an interpreter—smiles, gestures, and the two hundred words of Fula he had absorbed would do the trick.
“Is Yémé truly comfortable among us? Has he fallen ill? Has anyone insulted him? Has he been refused water?”
He answered that no, everything was going well, he had never felt as good as since he got to Fouta. Thank you, Labé thank you, Timbo; thank you, almami! Even if he had been beaten, mutilated, and robbed, propriety demanded he express his gratitude.
The King of Kahel Page 4