The King of Kahel

by Monénembo, Tierno; Elliott, Nicholas

  “With which rifle?” Sanderval asked.

  “Dominique. It was raining that day.”

  To forget Ballay’s temper tantrums, Olivier de Sanderval often took his son to the shore to binge on sea air and gawk at the monstrous plants and gigantic turtles.

  One day as they were walking on the sand talking about Dinguiraye and Timbuktu, a stranger appeared out of the palm trees and called out to them. A white man in overalls with dirty fingernails and a long apostle’s beard. They had heard about this character. He had arrived on a boat from Saint-Louis one fine day and told anyone willing to listen a story that no one could make heads or tails of. He lived on what he fished and slept among the trees in a makeshift hammock—no one in the colony wanted to house a fellow countryman who wasn’t an officer, a merchant, a priest, or an explorer.

  “I suppose you’ve also come here to seek your fortune? If so, listen to me, I’ve got a hot tip for you…”

  “Don’t bother, old man, we’ve already heard about you,” Georges interrupted him.

  “You’re not going to do that to me, too, are you? At least hear my story to the end and you’ll see I’m not crazy.”

  This colorful individual then explained that he was searching for a massive treasure that the Tenguelas had left in the caves of Guémé-Sangan before the Fula kings swept down to conquer the Senegal valley in the sixteenth century.

  “This treasure, everyone knows it exists. The Negroes think it’s under a spell and that anyone who touches it will lose his mind. Nonsense, of course…So, are you with me? It will be a fifty-fifty split: fifty for me and fifty for the two of you. That’s right, I’m the one who thought of it, after all!”

  They walked away laughing, paying no attention to the man’s loud entreaties that he spoke seriously and in good faith.

  When they returned to the palace, Ballay told them he had just received a letter from Saint-Louis for Bôcar-Biro—the Fouta Djallon question must be settled before the end of the year, no more beating around the bush.

  The letter boiled down to “Fouta Djallon must submit to the French protectorate; Bôcar-Biro must sign or we will go to war with him.”

  “And do you really think that mule Bôcar-Biro will sign, Governor?”

  “If Beckmann doesn’t convince him, I’ll send him one last emissary, and after that it will be the cannon. Not only is this Bôcar-Biro arrogant, but on top of that we’ve just learned that he’s arming our enemy, Samory.”

  “The cannon! Let me take care of this, Governor!”

  “Let you take care of it! Listen to you! When will you finally understand that you mean nothing to us? You are nothing more than a citizen on a lark. As for your treaties…”

  He snapped his ruler in two and his voice vanished in a ruckus of coughs and wheezes.

  Nonetheless they spent another three full weeks together, trying against all odds to put on a brave face by playing chess or drinking cold beer after half a dozen shouting matches.

  In other circumstances, they would have become the best of friends. Ballay admired Oliver de Sanderval’s courage, his sharp mind, and his touching chivalry. Sanderval respected this navy officer, who had earned his medals alongside Brazza in the Congo and who, unlike Bayol, did honor to France and the uniform he wore by his honesty and irreproachable sense of duty.

  Alas, no matter how hard they tried, the situation inevitably turned them into enemies. One was fighting for a colony of administrators, the other for a colony of pioneers and captains of industry. One stood behind the use of force, the other behind cunning. Yet they agreed about one thing: Fouta Djallon had to surrender, and soon. The land of the Fulas had to become French. But how? Ballay was a strict navy officer who scrupulously respected the chain of command; the lone wolf Olivier de Sanderval believed only in the genius and liberty of the individual, never mind his fantasies. He had poured all his youth and all his fortune into an outsize dream: to conquer Fouta Djallon and found a personal colony made prosperous by his industries, flying his flag, and governed by his laws, French only by and for him. His very own kingdom, which would stretch from one end of Africa to the other.

  Three months spent yelling at each other, ignoring each other, then reconciling, but when they parted ways a bramble of suspicion and misunderstanding still stood between them. They both hoped the fall of Fouta would take place as soon as possible, but beyond this simple shared idea, neither of them would have minded if the other collapsed along with Fouta.

  On his way to Timbo, he encountered a caravan stopping at Correya. It was accompanied by one of Bôcar-Biro’s messengers and the famous Beckmann, whom he had yet to meet. The governor’s emissary seemed exhausted and most unhappy with the almami. Olivier de Sanderval invited him to the table he had had set up before his tent. But despite the duck confit and the Bordeaux wine, Beckmann remained tense. His behavior throughout the meal was strange—he avoided looking Sanderval in the eye and constantly shuffled his feet. He chewed with a vengeance and answered questions with a grumble. Still, Olivier de Sanderval managed to get a few words out of him:

  “What in the world did Bôcar-Biro do to you to put you in such a state?”

  “He’s arrogant and stubborn! He received me like a savage. He sent all the people in the palace who were favorable to France to the firing squad. It’s time we finished with him.”

  “Oh, I can bring him back to reason.”

  “What, you’re still willing to go on to Timbo despite everything I’ve told you?”

  “Why should I be worried—after all, I come from here.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I’m Fula, like them. I have no reason to fear them.”

  He had said it as innocently as possible, without watching his tone of voice or weighing his words. Beckmann took over a minute to react. He opened his red eyes wide and leaned in to Olivier de Sanderval as if he were seeing him for the first time:

  “Oh yes!” he said as if he had just understood. “Of course: you’re a Fula, I hadn’t realized. You’re even worse than all the Fulas in the world put together—even more cunning, more greedy, and more uncontrollable than your mob of ragged aristocrats. We don’t know who you are, we don’t know who you’re with. Are you working for yourself? Or are the rumors true that you’re a spy for Timbo against the interests of France?”

  He leapt up and began saddling his horse:

  “I’m leaving, Olivier de Sanderval. You need only look at me to know the tenor of my report to the governor.”

  He traveled a few feet, then turned back:

  “Honesty requires me to warn you, Olivier de Sanderval, that the day I am given orders to do so, I will happily execute you.”

  “I know, Monsieur Beckmann, I know.”

  Olivier immediately set to writing a message to Bôcar-Biro to ensure him of his friendship and to let him know he would soon be arriving in Timbo. Then he wrote to Ballay:

  Dear Governor,

  In Correya I encountered your missionary to Timbo. I found him rather cavalier for a diplomat. But never mind, I would hate to cast any aspersions on our administration’s discernment. I am writing to tell you about Bôcar-Biro and to mention that I am doing well despite the cruelty of the bush and the ravages of my usual stomach ailments—though I doubt my good health is of any great comfort to you.

  The caravans tell me this is the fifth time you’ve sent a messenger to Bôcar-Biro. I beg you not to do anything more to arouse his suspicion. I don’t need to tell a skillful hunter such as yourself that to surprise your prey you have to catch it napping. This Fouta escapes you and will always escape you. Let me take care of it! The work I began so many years ago is finally bearing fruit. The weapons are ready, my friends have been put on their guard. So let’s learn to collaborate before we reach the turning point that lies ahead. We are all at the service of France, but our country’s growing presence in these lands must not come at the cost of individual contributions. Everything would be so simple if you recognized
my rights. France’s interests would be so well served if you were in Conakry and I were in Fouta.

  He was in Talé taking a footbath to soothe his calluses and soft corns while rereading his itineraries, when the villagers erupted in terrifying cries:

  “Thief, thief! We’ve arrested a thief!”

  The white man in overalls, the treasure seeker! He had just been caught stealing a sheep. The villagers gathered around to throw stones at him. His fingernails were still dirty and his long beard filthy with dust and plant detritus. He clutched a long stick at the end of which he had tied a knife to defend himself. His servant boy, whom he could no longer pay, had left him, taking along his pot and rifle as compensation. Olivier de Sanderval pulled out his gun to save the man from being stoned to death.

  “Thank you, thank you, my dear countryman! These savages were going to eat me alive!”

  “Don’t celebrate yet. I’ve saved your life to throw you in prison.”

  “What?”

  “Dishonest people disgust me, especially when they are my compatriots.”

  “My word, you’re digging my grave deeper rather than defending me. You’re a strange kind of compatriot.”

  “If I were the governor, I would have had you shot on the spot. But I’m going to ask the village chief to take you to Dubréka and file a complaint against you with Administrator Beckmann.”

  “That’s what’s known as an act of treachery. In wartime, you would have been sent to the firing squad…At least give me a little wine!”

  Olivier de Sanderval hesitated for a moment, then opened a bottle and poured half its contents into a tumbler.

  “Come on, give me the whole bottle. You really are stingy!”

  “You’re too cowardly to deserve the whole bottle,” Olivier hammered out, emptying the bottle before the lout’s horrified eyes.

  It was all he could do to stop himself from wiping his boots on the miserable individual’s face, the very image of everything he hated in a colonist—an ignorant, petty, and greedy sewer rat who had come to the colonies only to sniff around the spices and the indigo.

  Yet he drew a major lesson from this pitiful scene: once he was king, he would ban the vulgar, the ignorant, the beggars, the lazy, the convicts, and the crooks from Africa.

  This was what had become of white men! Who would continue the work of Plato and Archimedes, Euclid and Parmenides?

  Oh, what an era! Oh!

  KAHEL WELCOMED ITS MONARCH with all its finery and acrobats, its riders and beautiful shepherdesses. Sheep and chickens were slaughtered by the dozen, a fantasia was staged, and the army held a parade. The flutists and griots, the calabash and tom-tom drummers performed late into the night. Georges was giddy with pleasure. He didn’t have to force himself—the delights of deepest Africa had the same hold on him as on his venerable father.

  In Diongassi, the site of the future train station was clearly visible, delineated by a fine steel fence and stacks of bricks, barrels, wheelbarrows, and pickaxes. In Fello-Dembi, Olivier found a trading post standing several stories high and a vast rectangular hut decorated with roses and furnished in the European style.

  Where there had been nothing but brush, he discovered a beautiful patchwork of rice paddies and pastures, a kingdom—the beginnings of a kingdom, but a kingdom nonetheless—with its own currency and an army of three thousand well-trained soldiers.

  He and Georges walked along the lanes of mango and citrus trees and inspected the coffee, pineapple, rubber, and sisal plantations.

  It was already a beautiful little colony. What would it look like once the Paris city planners, the Versailles gardeners, the Limoges porcelain makers, the Aubusson tapestry makers, and the Italian architects arrived?

  “Thank you, Father, thank you!” Georges exclaimed, overcome with happiness and lyrical inspiration. “Kahel is the best place in the world to hunt, to breathe in the air of grasslands rich with the scent of jasmine and honey, to sip your aperitif in the cool evening while wondering at the lights of an abundantly starry sky!”

  Olivier gave his son ten days to chase hares and frolic with the monkeys, despite increasingly pressing messages from Bôcar-Biro. But the night before they were to leave for Timbo, a spy sent by Alpha Yaya made him change his course—the king of Labé requested him to come immediately, and by night, he insisted, the sheep, by night! He was led to the outskirts of the city, to an isolated hut surrounded by whispering armed figures. Alpha Yaya was not alone: Tierno sat to his left, and to his right—O divine surprise—was the old sourpuss from Fogoumba himself, Ibrahima, Olivier’s archenemy. Tierno and Alpha Yaya’s presence was not surprising, but Ibrahima? And by night? What was this? What could the old schemer want from him? They were in Fouta, of course, where nothing could ever be taken for granted, especially when it involved blood brothers and allies. He needed no interpreters to guess what would take place here.

  By now, he was as comfortable in this country as he was in his château at Montredon. He knew each river, each dale, each hillock. He could recognize each village by its smell, each man by his cough. He had become totally immersed in the Fula world—he understood each wink, each little bow, each clearing of the throat. His men were considered fellow citizens and his princes cousins, the kind of close but rival cousins you’ll find anywhere gold, power, and women are at stake.

  His relations with each of these chiefs were based on their individual temperaments and circumstances. He felt genuine friendship for Tierno, despite the atmosphere polluted by schemes and power struggles that History had dragged them all into. Tierno was an intelligent man, well educated, courteous, and pleasant, whose subtle mind and ability to go against you without your noticing fascinated him. Ibrahima was the kind of Fula Olivier dreaded: red-faced, cutting, gnarled, arrogant, fanatical, and irascible. He delighted in taking his foul moods out on the most friendly people while nervously telling fat phosphorescent beads.

  He did not know Alpha Yaya, the enigmatic Alpha Yaya, as well as he did Tierno, but their relationship was by far the easiest. From their first encounter he had been fascinated by this ascetic and somber young man who ate little, spoke little, seldom appeared in public, rarely got off his horse, and often dined on just a handful of fonio or three oranges. A handsome young man, slender, strong, athletic, intelligent, pragmatic, and devoted to practical ambitions. In other words, the ideal ally—determined, hard to live with, but an ideal business partner. And certainly the kind of enemy to fear. He was solitary and distant and hated effusiveness and familiarity. In short, a born king: cynical and calculating, never weighing himself down with scruples or feelings. He saw life exactly as Olivier de Sanderval saw chess: no room for mistakes; when a pawn was in the way, you swept it aside without hesitation. Energetic and clever, always on edge, Alpha Yaya knew that in the struggle for power the hits could come at any moment. He had become expert at sidestepping them and, if necessary, counterattacking at the right time and place. His mind was sharp enough and his body nimble enough to do it. That night he seemed more somber, more distant and fierce than usual:

  “Yémé, it doesn’t look good between Timbo and Labé. Bôcar-Biro is preparing to neutralize the provinces, he wants to reign alone.”

  “So that’s why you’re here. I understand about you and Tierno, but why Ibrahima?”

  “He armed Bôcar-Biro against his brother Pâthé but received slim thanks. Bôcar-Biro makes his decisions alone, without even consulting him. Yet our tradition holds that Timbo rules and Fogoumba passes the laws. This Bôcar-Biro is a lout, he does not respect the Fula way.”

  “Bôcar-Biro, your friend Bôcar-Biro?”

  “My friend? Someone who wants to destroy Labé? Oh no, Yémé, oh no!”

  “Fouta is a federation, white man,” growled the hoarse voice of Ibrahima. “He who wants to do away with the rule of our ancestors can be no one’s friend.”

  “According to our information, he is waiting for the next council in Fogoumba to proclaim himself sole king of
Fouta,” Tierno lamented.

  “We sent him a delegation of marabouts and he forcibly kicked them out,” Ibrahima grumbled.

  “What do you plan to do now?”

  Alpha Yaya let an ominous silence settle in before he spoke:

  “It’s sad to say, Yémé, but from here on out it will be me or him.”

  “Give me time to sound him out. Reconciliation is still possible by God! You Fulas!”

  “As you wish, Yémé, as you wish. But if you fail, by Allah, the knives will speak.”

  “In that case, let me go back to Kahel to wake my son and we’ll leave for Timbo immediately.”

  Before returning to the trail, he noted the following: “If, as any theory posits, the matter formed by the accumulation of the Absolute’s action consists of vibrations whose oscillation is increasingly intense, it should be possible to make an element in the series of elements move from its rank to a previous rank by opposing constitutive vibrations, contrary vibrations.”

  IN TIMBO, THE BATTLE BETWEEN Pâthé and Bôcar-Biro had left scars everywhere he looked. Holes were torn through the walls, the roofs and lougans were scorched. Pâthé’s magnificent concession had been razed to the ground and his family forced into exile.

  Bôcar-Biro greeted him with a broad smile and elaborate salutations. This means news of my secret trip to Labé has not gotten out, he said to himself, deeply relieved. He hasn’t lumped me in with Ballay and he still thinks of me as a barrier between him and Fogoumba and Labé.