The King of Kahel

by Monénembo, Tierno; Elliott, Nicholas

  When the almami finally received him, he had the unpleasant surprise of realizing that the sour old men of Fogoumba were dominant among the notables surrounding the king and were closest to the throne. His friends Tierno, Bôcar-Biro, Pâthé, and Alpha Yaya were there, but scattered in the crowd, well behaved on their goatskin chairs. Once again, he sat through the inexorable ceremonial he had seen so many times in the court of Timbo: the almami grunted and the griot’s powerful, metallic voice rang out through the building to express the king’s thoughts:

  “This is the first time that I have seen a white man twice. In general, the people of your race come to Fouta, they tell one or two lies, then they go back home, never to return. You returned, you do not lie, you are a friend. You are at home here. We know your work on the coasts, in Bassaya, Kandiafara, and Kâdé. What you have done over there is what you want to do here: trading posts and plantations. We have full confidence in you for that.”

  The white man told them how flattered he was. He thanked the almami for his welcome and his trust and took advantage of his good mood to evoke the fate of that poor Frenchman held in Labé.

  “That white man is a spy! The king of Labé asked for him to be decapitated. I refused. For you!”

  The griot paused for a moment to turn to an adviser, then spoke to the white man again:

  “You should know that Gallieni is sending a mission as we speak. But the man who was leading it died in Siguiri, carried away by yellow fever. The almami has just learned that the survivors are in the vicinity of Timbo. They will be here tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.”

  As he was leaving, he came face-to-face with Dion-Koïn, the husband of Dalanda:

  “Allah is great: Yémé, standing before me again, alive and on both feet!”

  He watched the white man look around, then burst out laughing.

  “There’s no use looking, Yémé! I left Dalanda in Koïn to avoid any misunderstandings.”

  Damn Dion-Koïn! His insomnia that night was the most unbearable of all.

  Another attack of malaria—a week of quinine and ipecac, with the help of old Arabia, who came to wipe up his vomit and feed him a few sips of herb tea or folléré.

  The old woman came only during the day. As soon as night fell, she shut herself into her home and could be heard talking to herself until dawn, her trembling, shrill voice going on about the devil’s misdeeds and the innumerable sins that sullied life on earth. But one night, under a beautiful full moon and a smattering of stars, she knocked at his door, her strange little voice sending him into a panic.

  “Come, come quickly!” she whispered.

  “First tell me what’s going on!”

  But as soon as he opened the door, she slapped her hand over his mouth and dragged him outside. When he realized she intended to lead him far into the bush, he insisted on putting on his frock coat and boots.

  “Good Lord, what’s going on? They want to take me to the firing squad and you’re helping me get away, is that it?”

  They walked through the woods for a good quarter of an hour before reaching an abandoned hut.

  “Go in!” she commanded. “Go in!”

  Dismissing his hesitation, she shoved him as hard as she could, and there he was in the middle of the shack. He had no idea whether he was stepping into a shelter or a den of wild beasts. The glimmering red glow of the fire in the hearth didn’t illuminate more than a third of the earthen bed on which she was sitting, but he recognized her as soon as he saw her.

  “Dalanda!” he cried, and they rolled on the ground in a frantic embrace, gasping and sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Explain this to me, my dear one!”

  “I came without telling Dion-Koïn, by cutting through the bush. I couldn’t stand still once I knew you were here.”

  “And her?”

  “Arabia is the aunt of one of my servants. They thought up this scheme.”

  “All by yourself with the wild animals, out here in the dead of night?”

  “In the village, we would have been seen. But eat first, my man, we’ll talk later.”

  She turned to the bowls and gourds at her feet. There was honey and milk and a copious portion of rice with a succulent ginger chicken. He feasted while she heated up a kinkeliba tea for him.

  As he was leaving her in the early morning, she put a leather amulet in his hand and clasped it tightly:

  “If you don’t lose it, we will be protected! The marabout said so.”

  He came back the next night and all the ones that followed.

  But one morning, he returned to the village to find a group of soldiers gathered in front of his hut.

  “Where were you, white man, huh, where?”

  He searched his cluttered mind for some sort of lie and could only come up with:

  “I’m ashamed to say!”

  “If I were you, I would say anyhow!” the fat guard with amulets who appeared to be the leader advised in a fearsome voice.

  “I got so hungry that I couldn’t stop myself; I had to go into the bush and pick wild fruits.”

  “Ha ha ha! Wild fruits at this hour! You whites have the strangest stomachs! Go on and get ready—the almami is waiting for us!”

  THE ALMAMI FINISHED APPOINTING the provincial chiefs. The joy of the newly crowned and the lamentations of the discontented echoed throughout the city. Its alleys were thick with the aura of intrigue: the bowing, scraping, backbiting, conspiring, and toadying found in churches and palaces where a man’s fate hangs on a thread. The deposed kings dejectedly returned to their provinces, while the new ones lingered in Timbo to consolidate their positions with presents and flattery. The alternation of the almami brought Fouta renewal, like the change of seasons; old heads fell and new ones flourished.

  This time, at least, his own head had not been put on the chopping block. The almami received him a second time, flanked only by his marabout and his griot:

  “I gave you your railroad and the right to establish trading posts. What do you want from me now, Yémé?”

  “You know very well, almami!”

  “I remember the railroad, but I’ve forgotten the rest. It was so long ago!”

  “The railroad, your authorization to set up trading posts, to have my caravans travel through, to—”

  “Fine, fine, fine! Here, I’ll lend you my marabout! He’ll help you write up all your requests, then I’ll submit them to the great council. Aren’t you happy? You see, my friend Yémé is never happy!”

  Olivier’s face remained tight, but it was a ploy.

  “After putting in so much effort, I expected to see my requests satisfied on the spot, almami!” he complained. In truth, he was glowing with a secret joy. Alone with the marabout—he couldn’t dream of a better stroke of luck.

  He proved more cunning than the Fulas he always criticized, taking advantage of this unhoped-for opportunity to surreptitiously slip the Kahel plateau into his demands. The marabout did not immediately perceive his trick. But as he reread the document, he started and looked at the white man with the panicked eyes of those mountain people—and there were many around here—strangled by goiter:

  “The Kahel plateau? I could never dare to write that!”

  He took his reed quill to cross the section out, but Olivier reached out to stop him:

  “Don’t worry! He has already agreed to it, or I wouldn’t have dictated that to you.”

  The marabout nearly choked:

  “And the king of Timbi Touni agrees?”

  “He offered it to me,” he lied, watching the marabout out of the corner of his eye.

  “Does the king of Labé know about this?”

  “I promise you that everything is approved, you don’t need to worry.”

  The marabout looked around with stupefied eyes to ensure the world hadn’t turned upside down. Then he resigned himself and handed over the piece of paper:

  “If that’s how it is, sign here!”

  Then in turn the marabout signed
and gave the document to the almami, who sent for the white man the moment he had read it:

  “The Kahel plateau! Do you realize what you’re asking for Yémé?”

  “Just twelve miles of moors.”

  “You need so much land just to trade?”

  “I need a base for my railroad, almami. You have no shortage of land. You rule from the coast to the Niger and from Sierra Leone to Niokolo-Koba.”

  “These lands belong to the Fulas. I am only their humble guardian. Ceding Fouta land to a stranger is unheard of. Are you sure that Timbi Touni and Labé have already agreed?”

  Faced with the white man’s pregnant silence, the marabout rushed to hammer the point home:

  “That is what this foreigner alleges!”

  “Anyhow,” the almami continued, “it’s not up to me to decide. I have to refer this to the great council. Now, go back to Digui. I will send for you as soon as I convene the council.”

  “What about my hut in Fogoumba?”

  “Stay in Digui! The king of Fogoumba doesn’t want you in his city.”

  He managed to hold a secret meeting with Alpha Yaya before returning to Digui.

  “I spoke to the almami about Kahel. He doesn’t have any problem with it so long as it comes from you.”

  “From us? I am not the king of Labé, I’m only the crown prince.”

  “Oh, your brother Aguibou will never risk going against you for a few miles of brush.”

  “What will you give me in return?”

  Alpha Yaya’s question was brutally direct, but Olivier didn’t mind; he admired the man’s practical side.

  “Stores, plantations, and shares in my railroad company.”

  “What else?”

  “What else do you want?”

  “Your house in Bolama.”

  “My house in Bolama? You’re a lot greedier than Tierno. Very well, you’ll have my house in Bolama.”

  “What else?”

  “I might be able to help you to the throne of Labé.”

  At that very moment, a partridge lifted off from the top of a tree. Olivier de Sanderval watched it glide for a moment, then turned back to his acolyte:

  “Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?”

  “‘This is the morning for good omens. Be my friend, stranger.’ That is what I told you.”

  Olivier took his hand and, watching the partridge disappear into the clouds, spoke to him in an intentionally mystical tone:

  “Do you realize everything the two of us could do, if we extended a hand to one another?”

  Despite the dry season, Digui was not short of water. The village had several wells and a river flowing past it. He decided to do some gardening; it would be an excellent way to calm his nerves, keep his men busy, and distract himself from hunger. He had them clear the riverbanks, dig a little canal, and irrigate hundreds of hectares. He grew watercress, garden cress, lettuce, and radishes. He planted fruit trees and successfully tried his hand at cherry trees and a vineyard. Enchanted with his fine work, he sent a letter to the coast to boast of his Garden of Eden and list the many advantages there would be to having whites settle in Fouta.

  After the incident with the guards, he preferred to avoid Dalanda despite the pressing messages old Arabia relayed to him. He would have been a fool not to realize the Fulas would be keeping an eye on him to learn the truth about his nocturnal escapade: was he really sneaking off to eat berries, or was he going to hide weapons? But one day as he was walking a short distance ahead of his Wolofs on the way back from the garden, he heard a voice call to him from the depths of the bushes.

  “Tomorrow,” it whispered, “by the swan-stream. During the midday prayer.”

  It was a clever plan. No one ever went to the swan-stream, because of its dense gallery forest and high embankment. And it was only separated from his garden by a short stretch of scrubland covered in couch grass and bamboo. During prayer, no one could spy on them. He only had to throw his tools over his shoulder and pretend he was going to hoe. The swan-stream became their love nest—they no longer had to risk going to the abandoned hut at night. She brought him his gourd of fonio or rice and watched him eat, moved to tears as she repeated the words she had said hundreds of time:

  “Take me away from here, Yémé, take me away from here!”

  Then one fine day, for no apparent reason, he was forbidden to stray more than a mile from the village or to buy anything from the markets. The great council refused to grant him Kahel and the king of Fogoumba wanted to chase him off his land. Though old Arabia gave him all her affection and brought him her precious bowls of fonio, he sank into a depression even more morbid than the one he had experienced in Timbo.

  He was starting to think about the cyanide capsule when, after a frugal lunch of fonio with curdled milk, a visitor was announced. He pulled on his frock coat and his gloves and dragged himself outside, worn down by hunger and worry. A handsome young man on horseback watched him coming:

  “You don’t recognize me?” he asked, amused.

  “Uh…no. Perhaps you could help me.”

  “I was fifteen when you came through Timbo.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s you, Diaïla. Where have you been hiding?”

  “I arrived yesterday from Bhundu where I spent several years getting an education. I learned you were here and I immediately came to say hello.”

  “I’m touched, Diaïla, truly touched.”

  “And if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate.”

  “I’m afraid that in my case no one can do anything anymore.”

  “Oh, you’re having problems?”

  “Problems? As it stands, my prince, I no longer have the right to travel at will or buy anything to eat. I live off old Arabia’s generosity and the carrots in my garden.”

  “I’ll talk to my father about this.”

  After Diaïla left, he wrote the following curious digression below a sketch of flooding on the Téné: “This Negro Diaïla is quite a pretty boy, with his thin nose and floating nostrils, his pink lip rising over beautiful white teeth, big curious eyes, an intelligent, lively gaze, elegant and supple hands, manicured feet. Sylla perhaps? Or rather Henri III. A hero of debauchery. I’ll bet he’s debauchering right and left, this handsome guy. If he showed up on the boulevard, all eyes would be on him.”

  Despite the prince’s promise, there was nothing new over the following days. The king of Fogoumba was no longer satisfied with opposing his ownership of Kahel; he now wanted the railroad authorization withdrawn. He demanded that Olivier’s goods be confiscated and that he be expelled from Fouta. The desire to flee overtook him a good hundred times, but he remembered poor Moutet’s misadventure and fell back on his cot dejected.

  Another week or two passed before Prince Diaïla’s message finally arrived: the almami had decided to restore his freedom to travel and to reopen the granaries and markets of Fouta to him.

  He immediately went to Gali, a village known for its teeming grain and livestock fairs. But to his surprise, the butchers refused his coral beads and the women selling milk turned away when he offered them coins. Had gentle little Diaïla lied to him?

  Overwhelmed by the heat, devastated by hunger, lonely and demoralized as he had never been before, he was readying himself to ford rushing streams and negotiate vertical slopes to return to Digui when some kind of great brute brandishing a club came to his rescue:

  “Give this man what he wants—and hurry!”

  “I’d rather you killed me,” answered one of the merchant women. “I’ll take your club over the almami’s!”

  “The almami has lifted the ban on selling to him. I was in Fogoumba yesterday. It happened before my eyes.”

  “Does he have a paper with him?”

  “He doesn’t need it. The paper in question was read at the mosque in front of everybody.”

  “In Gali,” a poultry merchant answered, “we received instructions that we couldn’t sell to him a
nymore. We haven’t heard anything to the contrary yet!”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re all morons in Gali!”

  “Say that again!”

  A first-class fight was on the horizon and poor Olivier de Sanderval had neither the strength to stop it nor the heart to enjoy it. But just then the sound of horses was heard coming from Fogoumba. A trio of riders appeared. One pushed through the crowd of gawking bystanders and stood on the back of his mount to read out a document:

  “It is brought to Fouta’s attention that the white man named Yémé is once again authorized to frequent the markets of the almami and to buy the foodstuffs of his choice.”

  “You see?” the intruder exclaimed to the merchants.

  “All right, let him ask for whatever he wants. Now we can sell to him.”

  “Forgive us, white man, but in our dear Fouta, bad news always comes too soon and good news is always too late! I have a garden nearby—come and quench your thirst.”

  The white man didn’t have to be asked twice. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and gestured to the load of provisions being packed up by the merchants, now laughing and joking with him to brush over the unpleasant incident.

  “Don’t worry about that!” the man said. He called to a group of kids wrestling nearby:

  “Carry this to Digui and make sure you say it’s for the white man!”

  Then he turned back to Sanderval:

  “You see, it’s simple! Now give those children something for their efforts.”

  His savior’s garden was about a mile away, sheltered from nosy locals by a wall of granite, a bamboo forest, and 65-foot gorges through which a furious torrent roared. There were at least ten hectares of manioc and yam, of radishes and cabbage, of okra, peppers, lettuce, and onions. He lived on a concession holding five beautiful huts, with two large sheds for his seed and tools. He invited Sanderval into one of the huts and cautiously closed the door behind them. He took out beer and wine, cheese and ham, whispering with the mischievous look of a child pillaging the family storeroom: