In Dabalâré cane roofing gave way to straw. They had reached the real Fouta. He noticed that here people kept their curiosity somewhat in check. Here, they did not let out mocking cries or poke at him with disgusted faces. Instead, they might turn away and shake in terror or throw their bundles aside and run off screaming that the devil had come. He was full of praise for the local women and plant life. On Tuesday, March 9, in a burst of condescending delight, he noted: “Saw a very pretty girl: beautiful mysterious eyes; adequate nose, hooked but slender; lips nearly thin. What a shame all that is black!”
He felt as though he had walked straight out of the land of his dreams into the real one now unfolding before him. This Fouta was as fascinating as the one he had imagined when he had been poring over atlases and maps: “Hills everywhere, orchards everywhere, prairies and flowers everywhere! Natural springs, rivers, torrents everywhere!” On March 11, he crossed the Tominé and lingered in the valley, studying its flora and fauna, calculating the river’s slope and measuring its rate of flow.
The time of abundance was giving way to the dry season. He had figured out that by marching from dawn to midday and from midafternoon to nightfall they could avoid the worst of the sun’s devastating effects. When the sun was high, the men drowned in their own sweat; when it sank, they were sucked up into the abyss. He ate what the bush offered and treated his stomach pains with botane fruit. His Wolofs carried him when illness laid him low. Mâly and Mâ-Yacine did what they could to protect him from the village chiefs’ intrigues and the porters’ treachery.
Orders had come down from Timbo that he be received with the honors due a guest of Fouta. But the village chiefs had different ways of complying. Some came to greet him, gave him their best huts, and occasionally went beyond the call of duty and supplied him with milk, grains, and meat. Yet others sent their captives to meet him and housed him in a shed, or even a chicken shack, making no provisions for his men, who had to sleep under the stars.
It was a pleasant country—pleasant but not particularly safe. The bush was full of panthers and asps, the land rugged, the men unreadable. He had to be wary of everything, day and night, and stay on his guard. With every step, he could slip into a chasm or be bitten by a snake. With each meal, he risked being poisoned. He forced himself to drink large quantities of milk to clean any toxins from his body. His men—particularly those from the coast—had to stay grouped and not stray too far from their white man. Once isolated, they could be robbed, beaten, or enslaved.
Luckily, the bush was often more generous than man. It started to feel like a home and a sanctuary. Certainly cruel and wild, but it sheltered and fed them. He turned to the bush to escape the greed of the village chiefs or rediscover the pleasures of camping, which Father Garnier had taught him on the banks of the Azergues. He discovered the doûki, a mango tree with delicious pear-shaped fruit. He tasted the bread tree’s tart fruit and the rubber tree’s sweet fruit, the fruits of the mampata medlar tree and the sangala, and bunches of tchingali, which reminded him of the finest Beaujolais grapes. He hunted wild birds and learned to drink flower liqueur, whose refined taste of alcohol reminded him of mirabelle plum brandy.
All of Fouta lined up to watch him forge deeper into the interior. Locals gathered at the edge of paths and on marketplaces to admire his black beard and white gloves. They pointed at his helmet, steel-tipped boots, and the sunshade from which he was inseparable. They cooed over his tent, “A hut, kinsmen, a real hut that you fold and unfold as easily as our grass skirts!” Kids scrambled around his table in hopes he would toss them some biscuits or chocolate. They watched him eat his poorly cooked tubers and wild berry purees served in porcelain dishes with the finest French wines. Wallahi, that man was strange! Strange to eat with pieces of metal instead of eating with his hands like everyone else! Strange to blow his nose in a clean, well-ironed piece of cloth, then put his snot in his pocket, like his gold, his cowries or his jewels. Yow, kinsmen, yow! Strange never to step out from under the sunshade or take off his gloves, strange to remain impeccably clean surrounded by all this mud. Strange with his helmet, strange without his helmet. Strange to be white, strange not to sleep, strange not to belch, strange not to speak Fula properly, strange under the sun, strange in the bush…
On the way to Guélé, he visited the Diourney Falls, whose roar could be heard from a mile away, and considered bringing back to France some loukous, elongated pods whose long silk filaments had heretofore never been used.
In Waltoundé, something truly unusual happened—he was able to sleep. That afternoon, he walked in circles in the lougans* for several hours, worked on his notes, and played a few games of chess, then stretched out under a mango tree to listen to the whisper of the bush. It may only have lasted five minutes, but to him it was a delightful eternity, unfortunately interrupted by a cacophony unlike any he had heard before, including during the bloodiest incidents of the Commune. The village’s inhabitants were bolting out of their huts, screaming in fright:
“The devil! The devil! The devil!”
He tried to find out what was going on, but everyone was scrambling. Finally, amidst the chaos, he caught sight of Mâ-Yacine and Mâly trembling at the top of a kapok tree. It was hard to convince them to come down and still harder to make sense of what they were saying with frantic eyes and halting breath: they had seen the devil! Everyone had seen the devil. He had been seen coming out of nowhere, crossing the village, picking up a rotten papaya, then loitering near the well.
“The devil is white!” concluded Mâ-Yacine, by far the more coherent of the two. “He has blue eyes and blond hair that hangs down to his knees,” he added reproachfully. “What do you say about that?”
“I always knew the devil lived naked,” whimpered Mâly. “He just has a few leaves to cover his penis.”
Over a dozen witnesses confirmed what he was hearing: “The devil exists and he just came through Waltoundé!” The accounts matched so well that Olivier de Sanderval couldn’t resist asking:
“So is it true that he smells like brimstone?”
“According to those who got close, he smells more like dung,” they answered, dead serious.
“And where is he now?”
“How should we know where the devil goes to hide?” another villager exploded.
“He jumped over a fence and disappeared in that direction, in the gallery forest.”
He took off in the direction indicated.
“What are you going to do, madman?” Mâ-Yacine asked, his voice still quavering.
“Why, I’m going to shake hands with the devil.”
A small group separated from the crowd and followed him at a distance. Some begged him to turn back, others just wanted to see what would happen.
He searched the thorny groves and clumps of bamboo and looked behind the rocks and at the bottom of the embankment.
These people have eaten some kind of mushroom, he told himself as he nervously started back. Just then, his gaze fell upon a tree trunk and he nearly passed out. The devil was astride a branch, his back to him as he bit into a ripe mango.
He took hold of a liana to avoid falling over. But suddenly he touched his forehead and came to his senses. A sardonic smile appeared on his face:
“Do come down from that tree, Mister Devil!” he ordered in the voice of a commanding officer.
The devil whipped around:
“What, you speak French?”
He nimbly slid down the tree and came closer:
“Now, listen to my sad story. I am not the devil; don’t believe what these stupid Negroes say. I am as French as they come. I wanted to see unknown lands, so I ventured to Timbo. But I hadn’t considered these Fulas’ cruelty, dear sir. The almami kept me prisoner for six months. Then he took my clothes and belongings and gave me five weeks to get back to the coast.”
“I know, Monsieur Moutet. I assumed as much!”
“What? You know me?”
“Not personally. But I did imagine yo
u would be better dressed. Surely you could have found some rags to wear along the way?”
“But how, my dear sir? That monkey threatened to decapitate any subject of his kingdom who put a stitch of clothing on my back. I walk along the rivers to avoid being seen and eat wild berries. But what about you, what are you doing here?”
“I’m going to Timbo!”
“You’re crazy! You’ll wind up in Saroudia Plain, where they behead the unhappy men they sentence to death. You would do better to follow me and get back to the coast as soon as possible.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Absolutely nothing!”
“I can’t leave you like this!”
“Yes you can! Come with me or run! So that at least one of us has a chance to see sweet France again.”
“Wait!”
He pulled a few coins and coral beads out of his pocket. But Moutet only looked at them with disgust and threw them in the river.
“What do you want me to do with these? They’ll say I stole them. Go on—run. Run, I tell you!”
They could hear some Fulas approaching.
“You’re the one who should run! They ran from you the first time, but they might stone you to death the second time.”
“So did you finally catch a glimpse of that devil?”
“Of course not, my poor Mâly, I didn’t see anything at all. I was just looking for the path back to the village.”
The pains he had been experiencing in his greater omentum were becoming increasingly acute. To put them out of his mind, he devoted body and soul to exploring untamed nature, redolent of the sweet perfume of roses, four-o’clocks, caro-caroundés, and gardenias.
In Missidé-Goungourou, he wrote: “This nation, so rich with farmable land, water and sunlight, would be marvelous if it was inhabited by white men.” Standing on the hills of Missidé-Goungourou the next day, he took himself for Moses: “In the distance, I can see the Promised Land where I’ll have oranges, bananas, and fresh fruit. I may be there tomorrow.” At night, he burned with fever and dosed himself with quinine while listening to Muslim prayers that reminded him of The Song of the African Woman: “To the banks of the Tagus,” etc.
Once again, steep slopes and climbing trails, pirogues, liana bridges, and ropes stretched over thundering rapids. Once again, dirt paths and brush fires, migrating shepherds and caravans carrying wax and slaves. They passed villages tucked into the hillsides like jewels in their settings, with bursts of jasmine and evocative names: Dounguédâbi, Télikoné, Diountou, Bouroumba, Simpéting. He felt exhausted but constantly amazed.
In Simpéting, he returned to his notebooks: “Everywhere I look I see flowering trees: jasmines, oleanders, yellow acacias.” An old man told him he remembered that a white man had come through some twenty or thirty years ago. That must have been Lambert, who had been sent by France to establish trading relations with the king of Fouta of the time, almami Oumarou. He spent a few days in Missidé-Dindéra to explore the courses of the Sâla and the Kakrima: “European colonists could enjoy great prosperity here without working more than a few hours a day. This is heaven on earth, heaven during the original sin, with beautiful iron-bearing clear water, fruit, sweet-smelling flowers, and boundless pastures to feed thousands of horses, oxen, and sheep.”
In Dindéyah, he wrote: “Tonight I dined with Mâly, starting with quinine, then rice with peanut sauce—a very fine dish that should be introduced to French cuisine—and finally young goat with millet.” In Dâra-Labé, the mountain air briefly helped him overcome his stomach pain and fatigue, and he allowed himself a moment of reverie: “The country continues to be charming, a succession of delightful hills and dales. All it lacks to be superior to the most seductive parts of Europe are farms, villas, and châteaux. The orange tree heavy with fruit, the savory odors, the cool shade of the trees, everything here makes one dream of the land of Aida…Europeans can settle in this country and have a good life. Its masters will dominate trade with Central Africa and Niger.”
On Friday, April 2, he was so impressed with the landscape offering itself up to him that he decided to camp on the spot, though they had only put in a meager half-day’s walk. An old shepherd came to tell him the same story he had heard in Simpéting:
“Long ago a white man came through this high plateau. He had a rifle and traveled in a sedan. He wasn’t as tall as you are, but he also wore a helmet.”
“And what was his name?”
“How should I know? It was so long ago! Anyhow, white men are like birds in the sky: no one would think to remember their names. Don’t you have anything to treat my dizzy spells, white man?”
“Yes, I have Vichy lozenges.”
“Let me have them, I’ll give you a goat in exchange.”
“No.”
“I offer you a goat for some lozenges and you dare to balk, white man?”
“I won’t give them to you until you tell me the name of this place.”
“This place? I believe they call it Kahel.”
“Kahel? That’s a fine name!”
He looked over the neighboring hamlets, the golden plain deep in the bottom of the valley bordered by téli and eucalyptus forests, and the dramatic wall of mountain peaks that sealed off the valley’s north end. A giddy feeling of exhilaration swept over him. He felt as if he could fly; he felt light and careless as a bird in the sky. The bellowing of oxen echoed through the gorges. Parakeets and monkeys frolicked in the woods. A herd of antelopes cautiously crossed the plain and beat back in a panic when it reached the point where the river snaked away in a burst of silver. He stood up without saying a word. As his men looked on with eyes full of pity, he tore down the slope to the ribbon of greenery encircling the plain, grabbing on to shrubs as he went. He reached the bottom with his face, arms, and legs covered in bloody scratches, but his heart was pounding with the excitement of a child. He forged on to the heart of the forest and struck the ground with his walking stick, exclaiming:
“Here, I will build my kingdom!”
The sound of his voice shot through the branches, bounced back against the cliff faces, and reverberated throughout the valley with a cavernous, inextinguishable echo.
He was Moses on Mount Sinai, Alexander the Great reaching the Indus, Caesar savoring his victory in the steaming plains of Alesia!
For a fraction of a second, the song of the birds and the rumble of the animals ceased to let him speak. Then the bush returned to its obscure symphony as if it were a hymn to his glory.
Everywhere he looked, monkey heads peered out of the branches at him. He couldn’t tell whether they were admiring or mocking him.
“This does not concern monkeys!” he said, trying to imitate their grimacing faces. “This concerns men, real men, white men!”
He had had a premonition the moment they reached this place: it would be here and nowhere else! But that was only a premonition. Then that man had pronounced the word Kahel and suddenly everything had revealed itself with the miraculous clarity of a woman removing her grass skirt. Now it only remained for him to draw his fortresses, gardens, and garrisons and make his small contribution to the perpetual glory of the world.
“Maharaja of the Indies, emperor of China, master of the two Egypts, king of Kahel!”
But he hadn’t reached that point yet. For the moment, he had to push on to Timbo, win the favors of those hard Fula lords, and secure a few concessions in that aromatic, undulating land they protected as ferociously as a lioness watching her cubs. And then, yes, he wouldn’t even have to cheat or wage war—science, technology, the railroad, and trading would take care of deposing these fanatically arrogant shepherds and louts. These forces would be exercised not to triumph, surpass, terrorize, or bully, but merely according to the natural law by which the autumn wind sweeps away dead leaves. One season would come to an end; another would start, newer, more promising, bursting with the juices of life and power—his very own season!
Then, his power and glory would sl
owly spread from his palaces in Kahel, like leprosy coming over the body, thatched hut by thatched hut, savanna by savanna, forest by forest, until it covered the entire continent. First the Fula people, then the Bambaras, Songhais, Mossis, Hausas, Beri Beris, and Bantus, all the Negroes on earth—with or without scarifications, with or without turbans, with or without a bone through their noses. Torn from their jungles and backward ideas, the savages would develop sufficient taste for algebra, refined cooking, architecture, and Plato’s theories by the time unstoppable evolution turned the climate upside down and the glaciers of Lapland invaded the Languedoc, sending poor little white men to warm themselves on the equator. Africa would become the center of the world, the heart of civilization, the new Thebes, Athens, Rome, and Florence wrapped into one. This would be the new age of Humanity he had predicted long before the rest; its foundations would be laid thanks to his genius.
He saw Kébali and wrote: “A most gracious valley, bordered by precipitous hills on the southeast side. Its picturesque rolling fields’ beautiful vegetation, its clusters of orange, papaya, mampata medlar, and nitta trees, fresh pastures, and shaded woods would make the reputation of any European state.” He crossed the Téné and prudently avoided the mystical city of Fogoumba. As far back as the coast, the locals had told him this was where it had all started. Here, the Fulas had launched the jihad that allowed them to take control of the country. It had since become the austere religious capital, home of the most fanatical princes, those most devotedly hostile to Christians. It was probably best to win Timbo’s support before he ventured there. He bypassed Fogoumba via Mount Kourou, marveling at its bluish peaks and vibrant flowers. In Poredaka, he sketched a king followed by his dignitaries, some of whom were on horseback, armed with parasols and wearing colorful boubous. Below the drawing, he noted: “Standing in the glittering sun, this vast cortege makes a powerful impact.”
The King of Kahel Page 6