The King of Kahel

by Monénembo, Tierno; Elliott, Nicholas

  When she was done speaking, Taïbou covered her face with a corner of her shawl and chuckled:

  “Why does Yémé look at me like that?”

  “You know very well why,” the white man said as he drew closer to her.

  “Of course I know,” she sighed. “A man and a woman all alone in a hut…”

  “I’ve only met you once, but it’s as if I’ve always known you. And yet I know it isn’t true.”

  He tried to take hold of her hand, but she pushed him away:

  “You know who I am. Fouta speaks about me the way other places speak about rain. Foreigners know my secrets as soon as they cross the border. You must have heard that I don’t love my husband and that I’m rather eccentric for a Fula woman.”

  The white man couldn’t take his eyes off her neck, lips, and breasts. He could feel his eyes blazing, his blood pulsing, his heart on the verge of leaping out of his chest. Usually, it was matters of the mind that brought him to the edge of panic; he had always managed to keep his cool in matters of the flesh. But now, staring into the eyes of this young girl, he felt his good Christian principles melting like candle wax. His reason was faltering, his senses escaping him, the gates of his virtue bursting open one after the other. This, too, was Africa’s magic.

  He wiped his brow and took a deep breath.

  “So you don’t love your husband. Which of your lovers do you like best?”

  “If I ever told, all of Fouta would go up in flames.”

  “It’s hard to believe there are Fula women like you!”

  “We have a tree here called the kourahi. A single one of its many fruits always grows without a pit.”

  He spoke again after a long silence.

  “I like you, you know.”

  “I know. All the men I meet like me, alas.”

  She rearranged her braids and was lost in thought for a moment. Then she added:

  “I like you too.”

  The white man started, his mouth gaping as if her words were suffocating him:

  “You’re a beautiful man. And I’ve never known the bed of the white man. But I won’t give myself to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “My life is already too complicated without a white lover.”

  “I see. You want to test me and choose the moment yourself. But I could refuse you, my dear, don’t you think?”

  She adjusted her shawl and signaled to a captive waiting on the veranda that she was ready to leave. Then she answered:

  “You couldn’t. There are three things that no man can resist: gold, power, and a woman. And I’m all three. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “If you won’t give me your body, at least grant me your protection. Your Fouta is a worrying place.”

  “I’ve told you before, I bless your path.”

  “Thank you, Princess, thank you!” he said, his breath coming quickly as he took hold of her shoulders.

  But she pushed him away and turned on him with the face of a tyrant:

  “Take care, stranger, I am the wife of the future king of Labé. Let me go or I’ll scream!”

  As she crossed the hut, she added:

  “After Dabalâré, take a detour to greet the prince of Kâdé on my behalf. You’ll see, he’s a great prince, his name will resonate throughout Fouta.”

  Before leading his caravan onward, he went to take leave of Aguibou. The honorable husband’s recommendations clashed with his wife’s and filled Olivier with foreboding:

  “In Dabalâré, don’t stray from your path, white man. Go straight to Timbo or you’ll regret it.”

  ONCE AGAIN IT WAS time to do battle with the bush, the rapids, the perilous mountain passes and the unruly porters. Yet his real ordeal was not in the ups and downs of the journey but in the eternal handicap to which nature had condemned him: his inability to sleep.

  Back in France, he had determined that his essential assets would be cunning and patience. Here you had to be cunning with everything: the weather, nature, and especially the men.

  He had calculated that it would take five weeks to reach Timbo, which was perfectly feasible by covering fifteen miles a day with each porter carrying forty-five to fifty-five pounds at most. His calculations allowed for all the unknown quantities: devious locals, impulsive princes, trouble getting supplies, being abandoned by porters (who were best replaced at each stage of the journey), diarrhea, and malaria attacks.

  The rugged terrain didn’t help matters much. Sometimes men were swept away by the rapids or their mounts vanished over a precipice. It was relatively cool up here, but still they had to wait for the midday sun to dip before they could tackle the most arduous summits. Waiting in the middle of the bush was the worst thing for a caravan. That was always when things went wrong—thefts, revolts, fights, flagging willpower and numbness in the legs, viper and scorpion bites. But he could handle all that. He was physically well equipped and had trained himself mentally for this for years.

  In the Olivier family, babies were born sturdy, tall as bamboo and powerful as a steam engine, with bones like a horse. A taste for effort was instilled early on. At the Oullins boarding school, the Dominicans had taught him the rigors of mathematics and the golden rules of austerity and privation. In his long hikes with Father Garnier, he had taken all the risks a child his age could take.

  As far back as he could remember, he had always run right to the edge of the cliff and felt death blowing in his face. In fact, he hadn’t grown up—each passage from one stage of his life to the next had required a resurrection. And it had started when he was barely out of his crib. He was only eight on that accursed day when he and his father were crossing the Pont Saint-Jean and the revolutionaries of 1848 threw his father into the Saône. His child’s eyes saw his father disappear underwater along with the foundations of the world and his sense of existence. The moment lasted an eternity. But once the guards had gone, the man who had given him life reemerged on the other side of the bridge without saying a word or even bothering to tell the tale to his family over dinner that night.

  From this silent lesson what he retained was that there was nothing extraordinary about dying, or about rising from one’s ashes. So from that day he never stopped emulating the phoenix. At twenty, he shattered his femur while testing a parachute of his own invention. At twenty-two, he single-handedly saved a ship in danger of capsizing. At twenty-five, he was nearly decapitated by bandits while exploring channels that might join France’s two seas. At thirty, he was condemned to death four times in one week while commanding an artillery unit on the front at Sedan. He escaped four times and eventually regained Paris, where the Communards were preparing to put up their barricades. At thirty-two, his father sent him to Marennes to build factories and he nearly blew up with his laboratory while attempting to prove that matter could be dissociated.

  Despite it all, his factories kept producing. The family sulfuric acid made the citizens so prosperous that they elected him mayor of the city. Being mayor was all right, but he rebuffed his friends Gambetta and the Marquis de Chasseloup-Laubat’s recommendations to become a deputy or a minister—never, it simply wasn’t dangerous enough!

  Hunger, fatigue, diarrhea, pshaw! Before embarking for Africa, he had trained himself to survive three days without eating. But he was powerless against the insomnia that clung to him like some shameful illness. Night was when normal people dreamed, but for him it was the beginning of torment. He had developed a bitter hatred for this vicious tormenter he now called Lucifer.

  He hadn’t brought many books, for the weight of even the slightest object couldn’t be discounted on this kind of expedition. Just La Bruyère’s Characters, Bossuet’s Funeral Orations, Sully-Prudhomme’s Épreuves, and Plutarch’s On Tranquility of Mind. Aside from those four volumes, all he had to occupy himself while he waited for the others to rise were the manuscript of The Absolute, his travel journals, and his endless solo chess games. His dishware had been specially ordered from the Manufacture de Sèvres—it was blackened
to keep the envious away and thinned down to avoid excess weight. A nickel plate with a tall pot for steaming rice, knives, forks, spoons, and a silverware goblet—he could eat anything, but he wouldn’t eat it out of just anything!

  For a change, he would wander out and marvel at the brightness of the sky. In the dry season, it was as sparkling as a fireworks display—the will-o’-the-wisp of the polar star, the inferno of the Great Bear. The unforgettable sounds of slumbering Fouta sounded like a gentle music—fervent chants, couples making love, and suddenly the inconsolable cries of a child waking from a nightmare: “Save me, mother! Porto*, Porto, white man, white man! The white man is going to eat me!”

  “Go straight to Timbo or you’ll regret it.” He had already reached Tchikampil, but still Aguibou’s voice resonated in his mind. Was it a threat? A suggestion? He would never really know what was and wasn’t forbidden with these Fula princes, what could get you beheaded and what deserved a simple upbraiding. He had never suspected that every sigh or pillow secret eventually found its way to the princes’ ears here in Fouta Djallon, a land apparently so gentle and calm, but in which, as he would soon learn, every wall had ears, and every executioner a job.

  Taïbou’s idea was dangerous but exciting, very exciting. Kâdé sounded well worth seeing. The city was situated at an extraordinary confluence of rivers and tribes, caravans and rare goods. Setting up a trading post there would ensure control over the thriving trade route between the coast and the powerful interior kingdoms—especially if he could develop ties with some brilliant and ambitious prince of Fouta Djallon, where everything was decided by an aristocracy whose blood ties weighed heavily in the constant clashes of strategic rivalries. As they left Tchikampil, he made his decision: I’ll go to Kâdé, come what may.

  Yet the next day an apparently insignificant incident ruined his plan—a man appeared out of nowhere and began showering his porters with insults and hitting them with a club:

  “Aren’t you ashamed to carry the burden of a white man and miscreant, a Christian swine, you filthy dogs? You’ll all go to hell, you servile creatures, you damned souls!”

  Olivier de Sanderval grabbed a rifle from one of his Wolof guards and repeatedly fired into the air to drive the man away. But he only retreated a few feet before charging Olivier and threatening him with his club. The white man tried to frighten him off by shooting between his feet. The man wriggled and skipped with each shot, but kept returning, more menacing than ever, the moment the rifle was silent:

  “I’m not afraid of you, white man, I’m afraid of your rifle!” He followed the column all the way to Saala, tirelessly repeating: “Throw aside your rifle, white man, and come fight like a man!”

  This farcical incident—for that is what it was, and a rather welcome one on these harsh bush trails where one was clearly more likely to run into bandits and wild beasts than burlesque dancers—lasted until they reached the outskirts of Saala. Here things took a bad turn.

  The bush’s sacred silence was suddenly interrupted by sounds of coughing and whinnying. Armed men on horseback surrounded the column as it crossed the mountain pass overlooking the city. Swords were drawn, rifles crackled. With a quick glance, Olivier de Sanderval estimated the number of assailants—five hundred, maybe even a thousand! “There’s no point in resisting,” he muttered to himself. “Either Aguibou set a trap for me or the almami wants to get rid of me before I discover his kingdom’s secrets. If by chance these are bandits, I’ll negotiate to keep half my amber to continue on to Dinguiraye. I’ll give them a letter of intention so they can get paid on the coast.”

  Once again, that smell as paralyzing as it was familiar—the sudden stench of death. It was scandalous in Montredon, Perrache, and Montmartre, absurd everywhere else; here in Fouta it was sadistic, sordid, and nauseating, particularly in his case—he was the only white man in the land, lost among the brambles, the wild dogs, and the Fulas.

  His life had come to resemble a siege: everywhere he turned there were traps, reptiles, spies, swords! He had the painful, despairing feeling that rather than going deeper into a country he was slipping into a labyrinth of fog and furtive shadow figures, intrigue and rumor, friendly words and drawn daggers—the disquieting hushed world of the Fula people. The further he went, the thicker the bush grew, the steeper the slopes, the more devious and unpredictable the men. Phlegmatic, susceptible, and legendarily unbearable, these Fulas were true Englishmen (the race he had always detested without ever asking himself why). And this was only the beginning—something even more horrible must have been awaiting him in Timbo. Only he could no longer turn back; he no longer had anywhere to turn back to. Or more specifically, everything—his past, the forests, the caves, the valleys, the world—was closing in behind him as he advanced, just like the bushes lining the trail. But he would not back down, not on the honor of an Olivier. His burning curiosity to reach the far end of terror would prevail. He looked at the assailants, his twenty soldiers and hundred porters, unbuttoned his frock coat to get some air, and sadly shook his head: “Come what may, though I hate to die without seeing Timbo!”

  As if in answer to his pathetic monologue, the voice of a rider sounded from the top of the mountain, grotesquely amplified by the echo:

  “Are you the white man they call Yémé?”

  “That’s correct. But I beg of you to tell me at once who you are and what you intend to do with me.”

  “Show your passport to my men…All right, I just wanted to be sure.”

  He was a handsome young man, slender like most young people in the region, but with a kind of haughtiness the white man had not witnessed since he had landed. He wore a handsome blue boubou, with a sword and a rifle slung over his shoulder. The young man dashed down the mountain, headed straight for Olivier, his horse whinnying as he brought it to an abrupt stop a few feet from the white man:

  “Alpha Yaya, prince of Kâdé. We were alerted by the gunfire. Are you the one who fired?”

  “This man started hitting my men…”

  “That’s a relief. I thought it was that bandit Alpha Gaoussou. My sister-in-law’s messenger told me you intended to pay me a visit. Alas, a messenger from my brother arrived at the same time asking me to join him to fight off the rebels.”

  He made his horse whinny again, then turned to the man with the club:

  “And you, where do you come from?”

  “From Lèye-Féto, near the Jackal Butte.”

  “Take him to Lèye-Féto and have him give over a cow and five baskets of rice straw, that will teach him to disrespect a guest of the almami.”

  “That isn’t necessary, my prince. A cow and five baskets of rice straw for a mere trifle!”

  “This does not please me, stranger! I apply the law and you observe. Can we agree on that?”

  The embarrassed white man mumbled something.

  “So now, if you don’t mind, let’s go to the river and share the milk of friendship,” Alpha Yaya continued.

  They crossed the river to the heart of a nguérou, the large circle of gravel and sand Fulas traced and marked off with pickets at the edge of their villages or along trails to hold consultations, mourning ceremonies, and war preparations. The white man sneezed. A covey of partridges flew out of the branches.

  “Well, well, toubab!” Alpha Yaya exclaimed. “You sneeze, the partridges fly away—that can only be a good omen. May your presence benefit Fouta.”

  “May my presence benefit Fouta, and for its part, may Fouta do me no harm!”

  Then Alpha Yaya sneezed. He stared at his guest, keeping his scepter well planted in the ground:

  “By Allah, this is the morning for good omens! Come”—he extended his hand to him—“be my friend, stranger!”

  “Taïbou was so insistent that I come through Kâdé.”

  “Then it’s natural that her dear husband was against it.”

  “But I didn’t understand why he was so aggressive about it.”

  “That is my brother’s way
—he is generous but hot-tempered, like all spoiled children. Sometimes I tell myself our father loved him too much. That’s never good for a prince.”

  They drank the milk of friendship, talking as if they had known each other forever. The young prince’s elegance and quick wit fascinated the white man. Had he been born in Timbo, he would already be the almami, he told himself. Behind the slow pace and slight singsong of Alpha Yaya’s voice, he could hear a man as lucid as he was determined. Everything about him—his gaze, gestures, diction, and bearing—bespoke his breeding, taste, nobility, and distinction. A prince, a real prince, the kind that still existed in that part of Africa, combining the fine features, sharp mind, feline grace, and slender body of his Fula father with the dark skin, luminous smile, imposing bearing, and fiery character of his Mandingo mother.

  All the princesses in Fouta must dream of marrying him, Sanderval told himself.

  Then the prince abruptly leaped to his feet and extended his hand again:

  “Now I must go. It is a shame we had to speak so briefly. But we’ll surely cross paths again. God put us on each other’s path, God won’t separate us again. If misfortune lays a hand on you, do not hesitate to call Alpha Yaya.”

  He rode on for a moment, then turned back to hail the white man:

  “In Timbo, seek Bôcar-Biro’s protection. He is the almami’s nephew and my best friend.”

  “Goodbye, Prince! Thank you for everything!”

  “Go in peace, Yémé! And beware of the people of Timbo, especially the one called Diogo Môdy Macka—he is the almami’s prime minister and the most dangerous of all.”

  BEYOND THE CLIFFS OF TCHIKAMPIL and the slave markets of Saala, they had to forge a path between cliffs and boulders, hacking blindly through the creepers and manchineels. Luckily, the sun did not beat down on them as before and the air was less stifling than on the coast. They passed villages, each one like the last, whether perched on a hill or buried in a hollow, surrounded by a hedge of citrus fruits and wild roses in full blossom. In Parawali a fight broke out and somewhere near Cantabanie a panther attacked them. Alpha Yaya’s porters abandoned Olivier at the entrance to Dabalâré, taking all the grain and the animals. All this sowed discord in the column. His Wolofs had to draw their guns, while Mâly and Mâ-Yacine spent the afternoon in tense negotiations. He dined on a handful of rice with lard and was up all night using his supply of camphor to battle the army of bag-bag ants storming his hut. By morning, there was nothing left of his wool belt and watch cord. His parasol, lacerated! His leather bags, pierced by holes one inch across!