The King of Kahel

by Monénembo, Tierno; Elliott, Nicholas

  There followed a flurry of tears, embraces, best wishes, and endless apologies. The court of the almami had turned into a family reunion. Except that Diogo Mâdy Macka was among them. The monster wove through the crowd and pretended to embrace him so he could whisper:

  “Of course, I will keep the gold and the tiger skins. You will be satisfied with the railroad. The English and the Portuguese are jealous enough as it is.”

  ON JUNE 2, 1880, Olivier de Sanderval left Timbo with his faithful Mâly and Mâ-Yacine, about twenty Senegalese infantrymen, and one hundred porters. The ebullient citizens watched from their verandas, from behind fences and from the top of mango trees, as he left. Some brought gifts, others held back tears. A crowd of notables including Pâthé and Bôcar-Biro walked with him for the first half day. The almami had included his secretary Saïdou in the escort, along with several captives and griots and the court marabout. Even their kings aren’t treated so well, Olivier rejoiced as he looked over the luminaries riding on his behalf. I think I’ve managed to get a foothold in this country of hypocrisy and fog. On your guard, Fouta!

  Inactivity had done more to wear him down than starvation and illness. He was a strapping man accustomed to going swimming and taking long hikes. He needed to move to still his mind. In his two months in Timbo, he hadn’t touched an oar or climbed a mountain. His exercise had been limited to a few walks in the alleys and his butterfly hunts, always trailed by the ill-bred and the spies. And now the wide open field of freedom. The long walk to the coast and the inexhaustible marvels of Fouta lay before him.

  Here were the waterfall at Gongoré, the cliffs of Doubbel, the monkey forests of Poukou! The wind was soft, the sun radiant. The bush smelled of jasmine and pepper…He could finally breathe properly…The rivers and their fragrant lianas…Another waterfall, a moor, a small valley…Now the splendid plain of Bhouria was underfoot, with its tall grasses in full bloom, dancing in the wind. Before reaching the city, he took out his journal and wrote: “Seen from here, the succession of valleys and hills on which Timbo rests has a lovely outline. It is reminiscent of the road from Paris to Versailles. A soothing green grass covers the whole area.”

  Yet he did not stay long. He was greeted with disdain by Tierno Cîta, the local lord. “These small-time Negro potentates are shockingly arrogant,” he noted. He was served a meal of rotten food. His hut was flooded during the night. He packed up and left as soon as he woke up.

  In Fogoumba, he learned that Aguibou was also in town. He had no desire to see him again after what had happened in Timbo. He decided to repeat what he had done in Bhouria, and leave in the morning. But that evening, after his frugal bowl of fonio with milk, a captive came to tell him that Princess Taïbou would come see him.

  She was the same glorious panther he had met in Buba and Guidali—the same big eyes glowing with malice, the same slender, feline, and unbowed figure, the same imperturbable calm unique to those born to choose and command. She was at least as beautiful as Dalanda, but her beauty was intimidating, chilled by the habit of power and the taste for authority.

  She sat on the earthen bed. He opted for the safety of one of his trunks.

  She looked up at the braided vines, bamboo rings, and spider-webs lining the ceiling and said:

  “You could have found a better hut.”

  “The princess knows very well that the choice isn’t mine.”

  “In Labé I would have put you up in the palace.”

  “You only say that because I don’t intend to come through Labé!”

  She flashed her cold, luminous smile, then continued in a softer tone:

  “You’ve lost weight, wallahi! Didn’t they feed you in Timbo?”

  “On days I was their friend, yes. On days I was their prisoner, no.”

  “Yes, yes, we know about everything, even about your amorous misadventures. Caravanners from Labé witnessed two women fight each other for your attentions at the market.”

  “For my part, I heard a lot about you and Alpha Yaya. Is there something between you?”

  “If I told you, all of Fouta would burn. What about your sorcery machine? Are you really going to bring it to us?”

  “Is that what you came here for?”

  “Don’t play stupid, white man,” she answered, taking off her camisole. “I came here to spend the night.”

  He did not wait for dawn to break. He left the princess in the warm bed and went out under the stars to get his caravan moving. Fouta was in the middle of the rain season. It was not unusual to have an entire week of constant downpour. Lightning and hail were as common as a rain of oranges during a storm. The air was pleasantly cooler, but the tracks were thick with mud and the rivers roared with the floods while their banks teemed with crocodiles.

  He was given a warmer reception in Timbi Touni. The king was away at war, but his brother Tierno provided his best huts and an ample supply of grain, and slaughtered a bull for the white man. He had his griots sing his praises, treated him to a magnificent fantasia, and had a suite of fifty people help him cross the Kokoulo, which was three times its usual width, and accompany him to Ninguilandé.

  Yet hardship was just around the corner. In Télibôfin—only five more days to Boké!—he collapsed at the entrance to the village, struck down by hunger and fatigue. He agonized there for two days, lying in his own vomit. But Télibôfin was not safe and his soldiers finally decided to forge on, taking turns carrying him.

  In Missidé-Téliko, his pulse became so weak and his temperature so high that once again he dictated his last wishes: “My body will have to be incinerated and my ashes scattered in the river of your choice—the Cogon, the Konkouré, or the Kakrima. As for my riches, do what you will. Only please, make sure that my papers are safely returned to France!” Nothing could be more infuriating than to die so close to Boké, alone among the Negroes, deprived of his family’s affection and extreme unction! It was even more distressing to die without having met a civilized soul to whom he could pass on the orgy of images and sensations Fouta had left him with after four months of passion and misadventure!

  Come on, one last push! he told himself. Be stronger than the void! You have to make it to Boké! Once in Boké, come what may! Once your journals are in safety there, you can surrender to the soothing death so near at hand. With a little luck maybe Dehous will bury you near that little monument you built for René Caillié. Short of claiming glory for yourself, it’s worth resting next to it, especially for eternity.

  In Tinguilinta, he paid a guide to help them cross the rio Nunez and lead them to Boké. But the scoundrel abandoned them in the middle of the forest. They wandered for two days before chancing upon a caravan of Sarakoles headed for the coast.

  France was no longer far off. Just a dozen miles. As dusk fell, they saw the straw huts, port and granite fort with a white tower flying a brilliant tricolor flag: Boké. His eyes shot open, but he began to falter. The first houses were only a few steps away, but it took him an eternity to reach them.

  Dehous was away—he had had to travel inland to negotiate with the tribes. But luckily, Bonnard was in town. He was waiting for him in the home of a certain Moustier.

  “I can’t believe my eyes!…Thank God!…We thought you were dead, Monsieur Olivier!”

  Bonnard—big, strapping Bonnard—could not help bursting into tears as he greeted him on the stoop.

  “Oh, here is my countryman! Thank you, my good Bonnard, thank you for having come to me!”

  Olivier melted. Bonnard’s strength tripled with the intensity of his feelings; he swept his employer into his arms as easily as if he were a baby or a ball of cotton. He was going to take him upstairs, but stopped to think for a moment and said:

  “Let me put you in your bed while I prepare a remedy. You’ll be much more comfortable there. But first swear to me you won’t pass out.”

  Olivier de Sanderval hacked out a painful cough and managed to utter, “Oh no, first I have to taste real food again…I don’t care wha
t happens after that…My journals are in trunk number eight. I told Mâly everything…” A gasping wheeze distorted the rest of his words.

  Moustier brought him a bottle of water and, with a few strokes of his riding crop, set his dozen boys to work preparing a bath and lighting the stoves.

  They dined on those French delicacies his long stay in the bush had made nearly unimaginable: foie gras, terrine de lapin, Rosette de Lyon, Breton pickles, flageolets, asparagus, lentils, leg of lamb with chives, and quail with raisins. They drank wine, champagne, and Armagnac. The feast ended with a dozen cheeses and a delicious apple pie. His mouth sour and his body trembling with fever, he could only taste a spoonful of each dish. But later, when his wife would ask him, he would always respond that it was thanks to that meal that he had survived Africa. The orderly, clean table and the color of the food were all he needed to regain his force of will and the sense of things.

  Before collapsing into bed, he gathered the strength to take out his journal: “Finally, bread, wine, prepared eggs! One has to have eaten, written, and lived on the ground to understand the meaning of these things that distinguish the man at the table from the beast in the stable.”

  Yet he was surprised to find he was still alive the next morning; surprised, but also filled with wonder. He opened the window and took a hungry whiff of the scent of papaya and wildflowers. He listened to the song of the calaos and drew strength from the sun’s caress. He was able to get to the living room by himself and found Moustier and Bonnard waiting for him. He drank some tea and triumphantly learned to give orders again:

  “I need a boat to take me to Gorée.”

  At noon, having downed several spoonfuls of broth and a cinchona brew, he stood to go pay his respects to René Caillié, overriding Bonnard and Moustier’s protestations.

  As he started down the stairs, Bonnard made a last attempt to stall him.

  “Um…”

  “Um what, Bonnard?”

  “What about this Fouta Djallon, Monsieur Olivier?”

  “I’m living proof that people come back alive, my dear old Bonnard, you can see that!”

  He disappeared around the corner. But he hadn’t gotten to the rose bed in the courtyard before he collapsed and Bonnard heard him cry out in pain. Bonnard helped him back upstairs and, despite his protests, settled him back in bed. He lit the coal stove to ease Olivier’s violent trembling.

  It was now July 8. He had had ten days to nurse himself back to health and regain his appetite. Dehous returned from his expedition to the bush and paid him a visit.

  “You’re in a far better state than I was told to expect, Monsieur Olivier.”

  Two weeks earlier, Dehous had been relieved to learn from the caravans that Olivier was not only alive but a short distance from Boké. Unfortunately, the French officer had had to travel upriver to quell tension among agitated local tribes. In Balarandé, he and his men had nearly lost their lives. Their proud bearing had been their saving grace.

  “You are on the front lines of France’s civilizing struggle, Captain Dehous! Ah, if only those layabouts at the Ministry of the Navy would leave their cozy offices to come see us at work!”

  He sounded like a general decorating his subordinates in the courtyard of the Invalides.

  “You’re dreaming, Monsieur Olivier! Them here, with the Negroes, the bugs, the panthers, and the snakes?”

  “Yet Africa would do them good. A fine lesson in humility.”

  “You can say it again. Africa humbles everything that comes in contact with it, aside from lions and elephants.”

  “What do you fear most, here in Africa?”

  “The diseases.”

  “More than the Negroes?”

  “You can fight the Negroes, but you can never fight the diseases. So, what about these Fulas?”

  “The English of Africa! Every flaw and every quality known to man—greedy, perfidious, touchy, intelligent, refined, and innately noble!”

  “How did they receive you?”

  “In true Fula style—I never knew if I was an honored guest or a prisoner of war.”

  “And what did you obtain?”

  “Everything I wanted—authorization to open trading posts and build a railroad.”

  “So in your opinion Fouta can become French?”

  “Without those fools in Saint-Louis, it already would be.”

  “Is the country as beautiful as the caravans say it is?”

  He told Dehous that it was, asking him to imagine the breathtaking landscape of a part of Africa where the volcanoes of Auvergne, the Norman bocage, the torrents of the Jura, and the valleys of Switzerland had been brought together.

  “The land of Aida! We must conquer it! And soon! Do you understand, Dehous?”

  “Forget it, Olivier. Fouta Djallon is inaccessible as it is and the Fulas far too complicated.”

  “Without Fouta Djallon, it’s impossible to seize the Sudan.”

  “General Faidherbe has created outposts deep into the Sudan.”

  “We’ll lose them as soon as the English take control of Fouta Djallon, which is very likely to happen—the Fulas love Manchester cotton cloth and have started counting in shillings.”

  “I appreciate the admirable lesson in geopolitics, Monsieur Olivier, but for the moment France has officials to define its African policy.”

  “Officials who sadly lack imagination!”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t take a geological survey map to realize that we should start by Fouta Djallon. But given the number of fools in our ministries—”

  “Do not speak of France that way in the presence of a French officer! That is an insult!”

  “An insult? I only—”

  “Be silent! First of all, who are you? Nobody! You came here driven by your own fantasies. And we still have no idea who you’re working for—yourself, France, or an enemy power?”

  Dehous was pacing around the room, angrily pounding the floor with his boots. He sat back down, pulled the boots off, swearing the whole time, and then knocked back several glasses of Pernod. He burped loudly and grumbled furiously for several minutes before his words finally became coherent:

  “I should have had you shot right away…Yes, that’s what I should have done…the firing squad…because we’re not here to mess around, this is a war zone!…The Negroes, the panthers, the bugs…We’re not here to clown around…”

  Surprised by this sudden outburst, Olivier de Sanderval watched Dehous rattle off his morbid soliloquy without knowing whether he should be on his guard or take pity on the man.

  “I promise you, you would be better off leaving!…No, I do not like you, Monsieur Olivier!…Not even a little, if you must know!”

  He did not speak another word. He only hiccuped and burped until the last bottle of Pernod was empty. Finally, he took his helmet, rifle, and boots:

  “You’d do better to stay over there, Monsieur Olivier! You’ll never understand anything about Africa, and even if you could, Africa would never understand you! Farewell, Monsieur Olivier, farewell forever!”

  Then he disappeared into the night, just as the din of thunder and hyenas was starting to resonate through the bush.

  On August 31 at eight p.m., he landed in Gorée after a violent storm. Health services immediately quarantined him in a lazaretto for five days.

  He hadn’t even finished unpacking when someone knocked at the door. It was a smooth-faced, trim young man, who looked athletic and attractive despite pale skin and an emaciated body.

  “What, you didn’t get your scarifications, old man? They didn’t give you your kingdom? Don’t you recognize me, old man?”

  “Souvignet! My word! What are you doing here, my friend?”

  “I’m a patient, the same as you, old man! Except that you’re under observation and I’m already sick—tapeworm, yellow fever, and a litany of diseases not yet identified. I don’t give a damn so long as I can stand on my own two legs. I tell myself I feel better than tha
t.”

  He indicated some lemon trees visible between the blinds and three little cemeteries separated by low walls. They were full of white graves and wooden crosses held together with rope: dysentery to the left, yellow fever to the right, and bilharzia in the middle.

  “They’ll have a hard time deciding where to put me when my time comes. Maybe in all three!” he laughed. “But you should be as optimistic as I am and tell yourself that I’m still young and that it will take more than a few trifling African diseases to put an end to Jean-Marie Souvignet, right? Well, you’re perfectly correct, old man…Say, the crossing was so quick I forgot to ask you your name.”

  “Olivier! Aimé Olivier!”

  “Can you swear to me that you really made it to Fouta Djallon, old man Olivier? Hmm?”

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to tell me, that only four Frenchmen have ever set foot there: Mollien, René Caillié, Hecquart, and Lambert. Well, now you can add a fifth name to the list: mine, Aimé Olivier. Don’t laugh, young man. On the contrary, if you have a medal for me, I wouldn’t say no.”

  “You don’t seem too badly off for someone who just came back from Fouta Djallon. I only made it to Rufisque and I’m a wreck.”

  “But you haven’t seen my guts.”

  “So, what about the kingdom?”

  “I don’t have it yet, but I have the name!”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh no, that’s my very first state secret. All I have to do now is find my grand vizier.”

  “Have you thought of anyone yet?”

  “You!”