The King of Kahel

by Monénembo, Tierno; Elliott, Nicholas

  He found Rose bedridden. There was always a wrench in the happiness works:

  “Nothing too serious,” the doctor reassured him, “a little bronchitis she probably caught during her morning strolls in the park. This fall is unusually winterlike, Viscount. At least you have nothing to worry about, you’re always warmly dressed.”

  She was up and about quite soon, but in such an anxious state that Olivier de Sanderval postponed his trip for a few weeks to help with her convalescence.

  It was at that time that he finally received news from Africa. His faithful Bonnard had been unable to write earlier for a very good reason: the Biafadas, the fierce people who terrorized panthers and enemy tribes in the forests of Bolama, had held him prisoner for two months—he had, as often happened to white men, accidentally profaned their highest god, a simple earthen statue planted at the entrance of the village. The most fanatical had demanded he be decapitated, but the king, who had a nose for commerce, had managed after weeks of palaver to convert this sacred sentence into pounds of glass jewelry.

  He had only been able to meet the spies sent by Mangoné Niang once he had extricated himself from this hellish situation. Yes, Alpha Yaya and Taïbou had well and truly had Aguibou assassinated: stabbed a hundred times outside the mosque after evening prayer, the most sacred, highly attended service. The manner in which the attack had been carried out and the amount of blood spilled had so revolted the notables that the guilty party immediately understood he had no choice but to run away rather than try to ascend to the throne, taking with him his brother’s wife, horse, and gold. “As I write you, no one knows where the accursed lovers are hiding.” He went on to provide extensive information about the state of the trading posts and construction in Kahel.

  “Fear not, Viscount,” he went on, “everything is going as planned. Now these Negroes count in kahels as often as in shillings, in the coastal trading posts as in the markets of Fouta. Mangoné is as efficient and feared as a Roman proconsul and our networks are working so well that certain provincial kinglets no longer dare to make a decision without asking our opinion.

  “There is no doubt that Alpha Yaya is a difficult asset to replace…For now, let us turn to the capital. The almami is bedridden. Pâthé and Bôcar-Biro are no longer speaking. All of Fouta knows blood will soon flow in Timbo as it flowed in Labé. The only question is who will kill whom and when?

  “I am on the lookout night and day and will keep you apprised.

  Your devoted Bonnard.”

  Shortly thereafter Rose had a relapse. She had not fully recovered from her bronchitis; she would have to stay in bed until the end of winter. But there was nothing to worry about, the doctor assured him again, they just needed to wait for this ugly little cough to pass.

  In Paris, free-for-alls rattled the Parliament and cabinet crises occurred on a weekly basis. That nice de Laporte was soon ousted. Olivier de Sanderval learned that before de Laporte’s decree could be enacted in Conakry, it had to be examined by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs—and by other ministries, other offices, other old coots with their rubber stamps and their spectacles. There was no longer any question of leaving Fouta Djallon to Olivier, but simply of granting him some land and a railroad concession—as long as he was backed by additional capital, additional partners. Two or three more governments collapsed and the de Laporte decree was transformed into a proposal for legislation applicable to all analogous cases arising in the colonies.

  “This will not stand!” Olivier thundered to his friend Jules Charles-Roux. “I have an idea: I’m going to contact Faidherbe and remind him of his promise.”

  “What, you haven’t heard?” Charles-Roux responded, more Cassandra than ever. “Faidherbe is dead, I just read it in the paper.”

  “Poor me, poor Timbo!” Olivier sighed as he collapsed into an armchair.

  EARLY IN 1890, he finally learned that the government had appointed various special commissions to prepare the proposed legislation. A few months later, it was, to use the parliamentary jargon, committed, and in 1891 finally referred to the Senate. The resulting debate was so contentious that the newspapers and the public were drawn into the fray. Africa stopped being a marginal subject, of interest only to impassioned officers and crackpot adventurers. It flooded the streets and newspaper columns, sparked devastatingly fervent opinions from Paris salons to provincial dives. A colonialist current emerged from France’s collective unconscious, took possession of people’s minds, and came to dominate the political and intellectual debate. In the cafés and in the pages of the newspapers, one heard of nothing but Congo, Dahomey, Fouta Djallon, Sudan, and Madagascar. Demonstrations were organized, petitions circulated. The people demanded a colonial army, colonial currency, colonial coats of arms, colonial laws, mores, and fashions.

  It was beyond his wildest hopes, as if his dreams were coming out of his head and permeating the entire nation.

  His name was associated with those of Dupuis, Brazza, Faidherbe, and Gallieni. He was recognized as one of the major explorers of his era, which did not displease him. But as he had always said, the era of explorers was over. Now it was time to build—institutions, of course, but primarily roads, buildings, factories, railroads. And this was not the business of the government but of men like him, free of any fealty, imaginative and ambitious men. There was no need to complicate the idle lives of office clerks and parliamentarians before getting to work. There was no need for a law—a decree would have been more than enough.

  Who had made America? The pioneers, of course, not the pencil pushers in Washington!

  Then the long-awaited law got bogged down and disappeared into the swamps of debate and procedures. Lawmakers spent over a year quibbling, threatening duels and motions of no confidence, then finally grew tired of the whole thing and moved on to something else. Even Olivier gradually turned away to take care of his wife, who was becoming sicker and sicker.

  In 1891, La Dépêche coloniale reported that the colony in Conakry had changed names and governors: the Southern Rivers had become French Guinea and a certain Ballay had replaced Bayol.

  In the spring of the same year, Rose’s health suddenly took a turn for the worse. This time it was serious. Though she had a delicate constitution, she had always been energetic and cheerful—well, at least until now. Her recurrent migraines, her persistent bronchitis, her frequent asthma attacks had never really worried anyone. But this time everything was different. Her constant coughing was soon followed by fever, then dizzy spells and increasingly long comatose states. In summer she began spitting up blood, autumn she spent in bed. Her state got even more alarming with the arrival of winter. The doctor was called several times a day. But from the way he arrived—silently and with exaggerated slowness—Olivier de Sanderval understood that this was the end. He forgot about chess and Fouta Djallon and even his beloved Absolute, which had taken up most of his nights since he was twelve. For the first time, he thanked the heavens for having made him an insomniac. He watched over his dear Rose, shared her torment, wiped the sweat off her brow, sensed her dreams and nightmares, attended to her whenever she moaned or fainted.

  After her death on January 15, 1892, he nearly gave up on everything: Rose, Bayol, Noirot, the old coots in the ministries, the Fulas—it was too much for one man. He spent his fifty-second birthday as a widower, demoralized, prematurely aged by the bush trails and illness. He shut himself in for several months but was unable to bury his sadness and pain. Mourning, remorse, regret, the thousand and one worries of existence, by the end of the year all this had worn him down beyond his years.

  Rose was dead and still he felt he had only met her yesterday. Gone for good but leaving with him the sound of her voice and the lithe grace of her body. He could see her, he could hear her as if she were standing right next to him, marveling at the scent of a flower or the vault of a church during one of their many excursions, or innocently giving free rein to her incredible whims: “What if we moved into the Vatican?…Don’t you
think our house in Avignon would be prettier if we moved it to Amsterdam?…Why don’t we buy the Bourgogne Canal?”

  Her whims, her delightful, unforgettable little whims, were the bedrock of her personality. Their love had been sealed by her fascinatingly innocent casualness. They had met at a ball in Avignon. He had just graduated from the École Centrale, she was finishing up at the Beaux-Arts. She already wore multicolored dresses and flowers in her hair. She had Emilie’s grace, Emilie’s smell, Emilie’s eyes. He had taken her hand and led her deep into the sketches of the Fulas and the narratives of Mollien and René Caillié. She had sewn the Mephistopheles costumes so that he could be Faust one day and the devil the next, and she the virginal Marguerite and her double, the mischievous Gretchen. All this remained secret, of course, hidden from the world in that secret garden only accessible to their love and their dreams.

  He had not given her the time and attention she deserved, but she had never complained. Despite it all, she knew how much he loved her, she often told him so, as if she were thanking him. There had been always something standing between them: work, sport, trips, social circles, the scholarly meetings of the Geography Society, and finally Fouta Djallon, which had taken hold of him with the charm and bewitching jealousy of a rival for his affections.

  His children had grown, he was only realizing that now. He hadn’t taken much care of them, either. This was the time to make up for it, to give them the paternal affection they deserved and to compensate as much as he could for the maternal affection they had just lost. He drew closer to them, paid careful attention to their studies and their pastimes. He hired a music teacher to develop his daughter’s lyrical sensibilities and took his boy on perilous excursions in the mountains or at sea.

  Discreet and devoted, Jules Charles-Roux helped him get through this bad time. Imperceptibly, he put him bit by bit back onto his notes and new projects for expeditions.

  In 1893, Félix Alcan published Olivier’s second travel book under the name Sudan, Kahel, Travel Notes. He began thinking of reembarking. Life was returning to normal, the passion for Fouta Djallon once again burned within him.

  Though the King of Kahel lived far from his subjects in his château in Montredon, he exercised his power over every acre of Kahel and his influence, my goodness, in every backyard in Fouta. He was in regular contact with all those who mattered in Timbo and the provinces. They consulted with him about everything they did.

  His steamships and caravans regularly flooded the market with baubles and bangles. The English were no longer the masters—his cretonne had supplanted the Manchester drill and the kahel’s value had quickly surpassed the shilling’s.

  Mangoné Niang, his coastal agents, his scattered spies followed his instructions to a T: isolate Timbo, gain Labé and Timbi-Touni’s confidence, arm this tribe against that, oppose one chief to another. Avoid invasion at all cost, let the country fall apart by accentuating divisions. As for France, she would eventually be faced with a fait accompli. Sooner or later, she would be forced to admit that having one of her sons as master of these African highlands could only contribute to her prestige. Hadn’t Bernadotte been king of Sweden and Baudoin king of Antioch and Jerusalem?

  The following summer, on his return from Paris, where he was studying, his son Georges, racked with sobs, pushed open the door to the attic, pulling him away from his explorers’ trunks:

  “What are you crying about, my boy?”

  “Father, I failed my exams!”

  “Bah, failing Polytechnic doesn’t mean you’ve ruined your life. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Where to, Father?”

  “To Fouta Djallon! It’s a far better school.”

  “Oh, that’s marvelous! Will you let me visit Timbuktu?” “Very well. You’ll go to Timbuktu while I negotiate the course of my railroad with the kings of Dinguiraye. Those cretins, the Fula kings, will let me get to Dinguiraye one of these days.”

  “Oh, thank you, Papa!” cried the boy, transformed by a sudden burst of happiness.

  “Well, since that’s agreed, here, take a look at this map for me and find the quickest way to cross the Konkouré rapids with about one hundred men carrying a load of fifty-five pounds each.”

  Two months later, he received a letter from Bolama:

  Thank you, dear Viscount, for the news that you will soon return to the hot lands of Africa, and with your son this time!

  Come, come quickly, but before you board the ship, celebrate this wonderful news: Bôcar-Biro killed Pâthé. That’s not all: the new almami didn’t stop at pardoning his friend Alpha Yaya—he appointed him king of Labé! You see that you must come!

  “PS: We’ve had one bad surprise, however, which I’ve long hesitated to tell you about but prefer to tell you before you sail for Africa. Bayol built the governor’s palace on your land on the western point of Conakry. Only Bayol could come up with such a dirty trick. Thank God he’s no longer here to bother us!

  Your most devoted, Bonnard

  “All the more reason,” he muttered. “Nothing holds me back here any longer. My life is over there from now on.”

  He sent his daughter to boarding school and outfitted Georges as a colonist.

  BY THE MONTH OF FEBRUARY 1895, the germ of Conakry lost in the jungle had spread like lice in a hermit’s hair. The town now consisted of a good hundred permanent structures, excluding the governor’s residence, the garrison, the lazaretto, and the telegraph station.

  An avenue lined with mango trees stretched more than a mile from the brand-new governor’s mansion to the island’s eastern tip, bustling with bicycles and three-wheeled vehicles. No fewer than three ships were anchored in the harbor. Countless red tile villas sparkled in the white sunlight beneath the acacia flowers. The Negroes were starting to incorporate paint and cement into their huts. The finely hewn wood facades of two-story stores displayed the bright colors of signs for Scoa or Paterson-Zochonis. Three or four thousand souls, of whom a few hundred were white, crowded beneath the city’s coconut trees.

  Olivier de Sanderval had left a jungle; he came back to a picturesque little town. Ballay, the new governor, invited him to stay in his palace and did all he could to help him forget his problems with Bayol:

  “And please, Monsieur Olivier de Sanderval, I hope you won’t hold it against me that my palace is on your land. I had nothing to do with that, really nothing at all!”

  “Of course not, I’m not going to hold a grudge for a few acres of brush, Governor. With Bayol, I’d certainly have raised a stink—just because it was Bayol.”

  “Do you like hunting?”

  “I prefer hiking, but no matter…”

  “That’s too bad, it is an excellent subject for conversation, hunting. It prevents unnecessary conflicts.”

  Ballay invited the entire colony to a lavish banquet in Olivier’s honor and made sure he had everything he needed: fine wines and cold beer, leg of antelope and French beans; a flyswatter and a torch, a canopy bed and a mosquito net. He loaned him his Negroes to guide him around the town and his dispatch boat for sea excursions. Yet their relations soon grew acrimonious. Despite the governor’s desire to avoid what he called “unnecessary conflict,” he was eventually forced to broach unpleasant subjects:

  “Please believe I am deeply sorry for your misunderstandings with my predecessor. I have nothing against you, you know. I am prepared to work with you. Everything will go well so long as you remain loyal to me and respectful of the law.”

  “We are here for the same cause, Governor, that of France. You’re right, unlike Bayol, there is no disagreement between us. I will do my best to be well disposed toward you and to respect the law. And I do hope that in return the law will respect my rights.”

  “Let’s be clear, Olivier de Sanderval. If you’re referring to your treaties, please understand that in our eyes, they do not exist.”

  “Monsieur de Laporte, the secretary of state, had assured me…”

  “Being assured is
not enough, Sanderval, you need documents.”

  “Documents? What else would my treaties be?”

  “I’m speaking of our own documents, those of the Negroes no longer mean anything—Fouta Djallon is French.”

  “You’re being unreasonable, Governor. Nothing gives us a right of access to Fouta Djallon—except for my treaties.”

  “If we don’t have the right yet, we will any day now. I’ve invited the almami to come sign his allegiance. If he refuses, I will order my Sudanese infantrymen to storm his palace. At this very moment, my colleague Beckmann is in Timbo.”

  “The almami won’t come.”

  Adopting an intentionally learned tone, Olivier de Sanderval explained that the almami only left Timbo for one of three reasons: war, the pilgrimage to Mecca, and his coronation in Fogoumba. If he left for any other reason, he would be deposed.

  “We would do better to get to know these people than to fight them.”

  “Thank you for the lesson, but I served in the Congo.”

  “The problem is that there are no Fulas in Congo, your honor.”

  Though they had both approached the conversation full of goodwill, the mood became tense. The palace, which already smelled of furniture polish, now reeked of discord. A courteous but fierce duel that was repeated several times a day, that is, every time they sat down for a meal or drank a beer on the terrace! Their violent disagreements were always followed by the same immutable scenario: Ballay, who was in the nervous habit of always holding a ruler, would snap it in two the moment anger got the better of him.

  Conakry flew the French flag, lived under French law, its Negroes were beginning to appreciate cheese and say merde, but the German Colin was still there, dazed by humidity, burned by the sun, and covered in mosquito bites, standing amidst his junk and candles. Olivier de Sanderval hastened to visit him. Maillart had just committed suicide, the Kraut told him. Having been bitten by a snake, he had not had the strength to climb to the top of the staircase, so he made good on his promise and shot himself in the head.