“What about this? And this? What do you say to that, huh?”
The white man whistled in admiration and threw himself on the victuals without waiting to be asked.
“Where did you get this, my friend? Where did you dig up these treasures?”
“On the coast, ha ha! On the coast! I know Rufisque and Saint-Louis. I lived in Bolama; I’ve even been through Boké. Isn’t this ham good?”
“Simply excellent! Pork and wine! Oh, if the Fulas could see us now!”
“That’s why I closed the door!”
“Of course! Do you have a name?”
“Call me Yéro Baldé!”
“Well, Yéro Baldé, shake the hand of a friend.”
The next week, he was told the Gallieni mission had arrived. He rushed to Fogoumba. The mission consisted of about one hundred Senegalese infantrymen and the two white men who had survived the yellow fever. It was an authentic Gallieni column: armed to the teeth and loaded down with crates of munitions and canned goods and a fine little flock of sheep and oxen. They knew of his previous expedition and had been told in Timbo that he was in Fogoumba.
“Doctor Fras,” the older of the two introduced himself. “And this is Lieutenant Plat.”
The almami had housed them in a magnificent concession in the very center of the village. So there was still room in Fogoumba after all! They had well-thatched huts and a courtyard where they had placed an immense folding table covered in bottles and canned goods. He was overcome with a profound and unusual emotion at the smell of these French products, the taste of the apple juice they served him, and the sight of the exalted, vulnerable faces of his compatriots. Lieutenant Plat reminded him of poor Souvignet—twenty-three like him and devoted body and soul to the beautiful illusions of his youth.
“We have received a message from Lieutenant Levasseur,” said the doctor.
“Lieutenant Levasseur?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of our unfortunate compatriot in Labé?”
They had received news from poor Levasseur, still in prison, starving, and sick. He had also been sent by Gallieni, who believed it was always safer to send two columns along two different itineraries. Africa was packed with traps—the white man could never be too cautious.
He asked them why they were here. It was obvious: they had come to sign a protectorate treaty, a real one.
“Bayol’s treaty is no longer good enough?”
In Gallieni’s view, it was no longer good enough. It only referred to friendship; he wanted more.
“And do you think you’ll succeed?”
“We won’t give them a choice!” Fras asserted. “They can have the protectorate today or a war tomorrow. Troops are already being prepared in Saint-Louis.”
“Hmm. Have you ever done business with the Fulas?”
“No, not really.”
“Then get to know them before you start talking like that. Have you seen the almami?”
“I read him a draft of the treaty this morning,” Fras answered. “He says he is going to consult the elders.”
“You’ve lived in this country for ten years and dealt with these people. How should we handle them?” Plat asked.
Before he could answer, his mind flooded with a wave of unhappy thoughts. What a waste! It would have never come to this if they had listened to him. France should have focused on Fouta Djallon the moment he returned from his first trip. But Cloué had taken him for a madman and Gambetta had listened to him more out of friendship than conviction. All this had opened the way for that opportunist Bayol, who only sought to hinder him and advance his own career. Gallieni wasn’t short on courage or intelligence, but he had one major drawback: a soldier’s mind. France had made the wrong diagnosis—she was sending a surgeon where a masseuse was needed. He had to admire the idealism and purity of these young men, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. They weren’t being led to the battleground, they were being thrown to the wolves. All this roiled his mind as he looked at them with sympathy and suspicion.
One would have to be an idiot to send such inexperienced young men to the Fulas, he thought to himself. They will surely have tremendous difficulty obtaining anything significant. But perhaps the higher-ups merely want to make a good impression on French public opinion rather than conquer Fouta.
But I shouldn’t address my reflections to them. They’re doing what they were asked to do. There’s nothing to be said to the government, either. The French government is professionally and habitually deaf to anything but itself. It’s the nation that must be asked to pay closer attention and to be clear-sighted.
“Now then, what about these Fulas?” Lieutenant Plat insisted.
“These people are as elusive to the hand as to the mind. It’s as if they had read all Montaigne. You’ll never encounter a more slippery people—they are never in the same place twice and their word never stands.”
“They can’t escape us forever.”
“So long as we learn to be crafty. Here, deceiving your fellow man is not considered a fault, but a feat that forges your renown.”
“No matter what they do, we will tear this protectorate from them!” Lieutenant Plat exclaimed, visibly aggravated. “You were able to get treaties out of them, weren’t you?”
“Those treaties, I obtained them after two months of prison, a dozen malaria attacks, and five comatose states,” he snapped. “And you, you land here straight from Saint-Louis waving a scrap of paper around in front of the almami of Fouta, telling him, ‘Come on, sign here!’ Hats off, gentlemen, hats off!”
“We will show him the stakes are no longer what they were, that the time for child’s play has come and gone. If he doesn’t sign, he will be invaded.”
“He won’t sign, but he’ll pretend to. If only you knew how these people can pretend!”
“We’re in a hurry, you understand?”
“That’s exactly the problem. They are never in a hurry.”
Then he stopped talking, silenced by pity and exasperation. Poor French youth! He wanted to tell them: “Your presence will do more harm than good; harm to our interests, not to those of the Fulas.” But he didn’t say a word. He emptied his glass and prepared to leave. They were so young, so friendly—he didn’t want to hurt them. Plat served him another glass of apple juice and said:
“We’ll keep you for dinner.”
“I was going to ask you to. Once you’ve spent weeks stuffing yourself with wild berry purees, you lose all taste for proprieties.”
Later that night, before they would allow him to leave, they loaded him down with tea, coffee, sugar, bread, sardines, biscuits, lentils, and a thick pile of newspapers.
The next time he visited, he found Lieutenant Plat on the verge of dying. Doctor Fras put aside his syringes and compresses for a moment and discreetly drew him into a corner:
“I’m afraid he won’t live,” he whispered, mopping his brow. “Ah, I wish I were sick instead of him. He’s far too young to die, you hear me? Far too young!”
“What is your diagnosis?”
“You think it’s possible to establish a diagnosis in these parts?”
“He’ll make it, you’ll see!” Olivier de Sanderval spoke with such conviction that the doctor immediately took hold of himself.
“That would be so much simpler. Alone, I’ll never have enough strength. Saint-Louis is still too far, the Fulas too near, and that poor Levasseur is even closer to the grave than any sick man.”
He stayed with them all day, wiping sweat and vomit off the one, and trying to buoy the spirits of the other. He helped filter water, sterilize syringes, and prepare salves and lotions.
A few days later a Senegalese infantryman stopped in front of his hut without dismounting from his horse:
“Doctor Fras sent you, right? For the funeral?”
“No, for the Higginson enema syringe.”
And the good man explained that Lieutenant Plat had recovered, but Doctor Fras was now suffering (eac
h one in turn) from constipation and had sent him to get the syringe so he could purge himself. “The mission doesn’t have an enema syringe,” he noted in his journal, more mocking than ever. “So that’s how they organize our colonial affairs on a budget of four billion. Well, enough said—but I’d like to see the minister in our shoes, withering in the sun without an enema syringe.”
The French army among the Negroes without even an enema syringe! And yet this simple instrument could produce miraculous results. When the Senegalese infantryman returned it a few days later, it was accompanied by a goodbye letter. Doctor Fras had made such a full recovery that he was already leading his whole column back to Saint-Louis to the sound of the bugle!
The next time Diaïla came to see him he was fighting off another malaria attack:
“You have to come talk to them.”
“Who now, goddamn it?”
“The elders of Fogoumba! If it weren’t for them, Kahel would already be yours. My father doesn’t have any objection to your request. Tomorrow after the midday prayer, my father will gather the great council and you will come speak. To overcome Fogoumba’s reservations, you’ll have to get the truth to come out without appearing to have my father’s support. Will you come?”
“I don’t have much choice.”
“Then good luck—and try to be convincing.”
The anxiety was worse than on the eve of an exam. He took advantage of his insomnia to sketch out his speech and gather his courage:
“Go for it, stop at nothing! Say whatever you want, but say it well! The Fulas are a race of talkers. With them, style is what counts: fine words mean more than actions.”
The almami’s griot wasted no time in addressing the question of Kahel. But Ibrahima, the catlike king of Fogoumba, reacted promptly, belying his lethargic demeanor:
“This man is not here to ask a favor; he is here because he committed an offense. Let us talk about the letter we intercepted on the coast.”
“Is it true what they say, that you want to bring white men from the coast to take our land and dominate our kingdom?” asked the king of Kebali.
“The man who translated this letter for you truncated the truth. I swear it said nothing hostile to the lords of Fouta.”
“If it was as innocent as you say, why didn’t you give it to the almami’s official courier, who goes to the coast each week?”
“I wasn’t even planning on writing a letter. Only the man named Alpha came to see me in Digui to tell me he was going to the coast, so I took advantage of that to send news to my agents. I didn’t know he was not a reliable man.”
He really meant to say: “I did not know he was one of your spies.”
“You dare to say that Alpha, a sensible man and a marabout known and respected throughout Fouta, is a liar?”
A disapproving murmur washed through the room.
“Oh no, I would never say that. I simply said he lacked discretion. You all know how highly I regard you and your country. I have never been known to disrespect one of my porters. So how could I disrespect a nobleman from Fouta?”
“Well said!” was heard from one corner of the room to the other.
“Hush!” said the chief of Fogoumba. “If what we’ve been told isn’t true, then what exactly did you say to the whites on the coast?”
“That your country is beautiful, its climate pleasant, and its inhabitants honorable and welcoming. Ah, if only a few whites came to live here to help you get rich.”
“Your plantations and trading posts are only excuses! Conquering Fouta, that’s what’s in the back of your white man’s mind!”
Gazing pathetically at the king of Fogoumba, he launched into his favorite refrain, bad-mouthing the English and, the Fulas’ favorite, flattering their pride:
“The one who read my letter is an enemy of Fouta or a man who cannot read. I knew Alpha was a spy in the pay of my English enemies—I had warned my people about him long ago—and would certainly never have entrusted my secrets to him. You know very well, Ibrahima, that I am not an invader—I am the almami’s guest. I am ready to leave tomorrow if you want me to. The chiefs of Fogoumba are mistaken, but they are intelligent. I know they will recognize that the toubab who brings prosperity is a friend. I must also mention what they know very well, that in 1880 I met twenty black Englishmen in Fouta; this year I met over six hundred. In Medina, it was an Englishman who first received me in the name of the king. Can’t you see that this Alpha is a British spy, paid by Freetown to oppose us? The English are not at war with us, you tell yourselves, they aren’t threatening us. Oh, overconfident black men! They don’t ask for anything, but they spread over your kingdom. Old chiefs welcome them, listen to them, and obey them. Have you, the descendants of the great Fula kings, surrendered your independence? Does France claim a single black man in your country, one single man sent to conquer and clear land in her name? All I see here is a single white man, alone and without weapons, who has come to speak of your interests, not of his.”
He came to a stop. As he had the last time in Timbo, he cast an anxious glance over the crowd to read their reactions. The silence that had settled over the room indicated he had done well. The king of Fogoumba remained stone-faced, but Tierno, Alpha Yaya, Bôcar-Biro, and Pâthé winked at him encouragingly, and the almami looked overjoyed. He whispered a few words and the griot’s metallic voice burst forth again:
“What the white man says is true, he is never armed with anything but his sunshade and his handkerchief. In 1880, we had doubts, but now we can trust him because we’ve seen him over time: this man is a friend.”
“The friendship France is extending to us is the friendship of oil and water: one on top, the other on bottom,” growled the king of Fogoumba.
“He does own a few rifles,” joked Pâthé, “but they are to take aim at partridges. He has never fired at a Fula.”
“He came to us as a friend!” agreed Bôcar-Biro.
“Whereas that Englishman with the unpronounceable name brought an army!” Alpha Yaya added.
“This man came as a friend,” Tierno said. “We are Fulas, poulâkou demands that we treat our friends well.”
The discussion turned in his favor. From that point on, most of those who spoke, spoke to defend him.
The Fogoumba elders backed down, taking shelter in muffled grunts. He could now savor his victory.
The almami whispered into the griot’s ear:
“The white man has spoken! Fouta has heard! Now, what says the king of Fogoumba?”
The king freely expressed his discontent, speaking as if the white man were not there:
“It is you, almami, who brought us this white man! It is up to you to decide!”
The almami let a good three minutes of silence go by before he whispered in the griot’s ear:
“Well, this is what I have decided: Fouta grants the man named Yémé the Kahel plateau and the Guémé-Sangan cliff. He will be at home there, will trade with whomever he wants, and will grow whatever he wants.”
“That is your right, almami, only this man is neither a Fula nor a lord, which he must be to own land in Fouta.”
“Then as almami of Fouta I declare this man to be a Fula and a lord.”
The almami stood and everyone followed him to the mosque. Once the prayer was over, the muezzin perched on the minaret and struck the tabala three times before his voice resounded over the city:
“From this instant, the person of white skin and great height whom the Good Lord has named Yémé Wéliyéyé Sandarawalia is declared to be a Fula, a citizen of Fouta, and is noble from head to toe. A respectable man of the kingdom and lord of Kahel, only the Good Lord and the almami are his superiors. He who disobeys him will be whipped, he who insults him will have his tongue cut out, and he who steals from him will be decapitated.”
From that moment on, things moved quickly. He was authorized to leave the bush village where he had been exiled to come settle in Fogoumba. His Wolofs accompanied him back to Digui c
hanting cries of victory. Old Arabia snuck over to whisper to him that Dalanda was waiting for him in her own hut. That was risky, far too risky.
“Little Dalanda,” he said as he took her in his arms, “you will never stop being naughty. Sometimes I want to punish you, but as soon as I see you, it’s something else I want.”
“So Yémé, are you going to kidnap me now that you are king?”
“Once I’m in Kahel, once I’m in Kahel.”
She made him swear to it a dozen times before she would let him leave.
In his courtyard, he found a messenger with a ram and a large basket of fruit:
“The ram is from the almami and the basket of fruit from Diaïla. The almami has decided to go back to Timbo earlier than planned. He is expecting you tomorrow in Fogoumba to sign your treaties and say his goodbyes.”
A tense atmosphere awaited him in Fogoumba. The entire city had converged on the central square. An ominous murmur came from the crowd.
“What’s happening?” he asked kid.
“We’re going to watch the decapitation.”
“But who is being decapitated?”
“His name doesn’t matter. It’s the spectacle that counts!” Whom had Fouta suddenly decided to put to death?
Good Lord, he thought, please don’t let it be that poor Levasseur! I beg of you, my Lord!
He kept asking around, but no one could answer his questions. Finally, he recognized Saïdou standing amid the rabble.
“Ah ha,” said Saïdou, “the white man has come to observe our judicial methods up close. You’ll see that we haven’t discovered the guillotine yet, we still work with the sword.”
“I suppose it’s Lieutenant Levasseur,” Olivier sighed, beads of sweat rolling down his face.
The King of Kahel Page 17