They parted ways, having agreed on that, and since it was already dawn, Sanderval was quartered in a wing of the palace. It was best to wait for nightfall to travel in secrecy.
Around noon, a child came to him with grilled meat and some fruit:
“It’s from the holy woman.”
“The holy woman?”
But the child retreated behind the wall. He watched him disappear and lazily let his mind give way to doubt and foreboding. How would all this end? Whom could he count on, whom couldn’t he count on? How long would this Ibrahima of Fogoumba, who hated him even more than he hated Bôcar-Biro, remain an ally? And what about Tierno, who was still friendly and pleasant but never entirely reassuring, with his enigmatic smiles and excessively cautious ways? Alpha Yaya, the cleverest and most determined of all, had a cold mind, pitiless and calculating—he would always put his interests over his friends and his power over his commitments. No one could predict what Alpha Yaya would do if things went badly. There’s no doubt about it, he told himself, tired of cogitating, I’m well and truly in the land of the Fulas!
At dusk, as he was getting ready to leave for Kahel, three discreet knocks sounded at his door. A veiled woman all dressed in white appeared in the doorframe holding phosphorescent beads.
He looked at the figure in stunned silence. Then it dawned on him:
“Taïbou!”
“I can’t believe you recognized me!”
“Explain this, please!”
“I took a vow of renunciation, Yémé. I decided to devote myself to God. I turned away from men, jewels, and horses, hoping against hope that He would forgive me, though I would not if I were Him.”
Her answer left him open-mouthed. He remained frozen like a statue, staring at her, unable to make a sound.
“Do I frighten you?”
“Um no…you…you intimidate me.”
“I only came to say good evening. Farewell, Yémé!”
He extended his hand to her, but she refused it. She stepped toward the door, then turned back to him one last time:
“He will kill me, Yémé.”
“Who?”
“Who else?”
“Good Lord, why?”
“He’s afraid I’ll do to him what I did to his brother.”
“Don’t say that, Taïbou!”
“He will kill me and it will be better that way.”
She blended into the night. The echo of her last words filled the room with the persistence of the tamarind perfume young women put on their neck before going to the dance circle.
He returned to his stores and his farms, never suspecting he would soon witness the scene that would change his life once and for all. It happened one afternoon when he was riding in the bush to please his son, an avid horseman. As they turned onto a path, he came upon a vision, a real one, like the miracle scenes in the Bible: a thousand people were sitting on the ground in a vast plain, all wearing white tunics, with their heads shaved, feverishly telling their beads. Some had their eyes closed, others stared up at the sky. Lost in their ominous psalms, they did not see the white men arrive. Or if they did see them, they paid them no attention. These strange pilgrims no longer paid attention to anything—not to the plain, nor to the river flowing below them, the monkeys, the kapok trees, the birds, or man. Nothing in this world mattered to them. They were waiting for the End. A few days earlier, it had been revealed to their guru, whose huge shepherd’s hat and patriarch’s stick distinguished him in the middle of the crowd. They had gathered here because they believed that this was the best place to wait for the end of the world.
As far back as he could remember, he had never made much of religion. He wasn’t even exactly sure whether he was a Catholic or an atheist. But the sight of this crowd entirely clothed in white, so serene and contemplative before the fulfillment of fate, could have made a marble statue shiver.
He dismounted, humbly took off his shoes, and remained among the praying figures for two days without eating or drinking. His son could tell that something of great import had just occurred. He didn’t want to disturb his father, but nor could he let him starve to death or risk madness. After countless trips between the plain and Fello-Dembi, he enlisted Mangoné’s help and succeeded in taking Olivier away from there and convincing him to have something to eat and drink:
“I’ve never seen you in this state, Father. What’s happening to you? Please speak to me.”
“The revelation, Georges, the revelation! These people don’t simply believe, they are convinced. They have no doubt of God’s existence. Fascinating, isn’t it? This must be the very first time that men keep an appointment with the Absolute. Remember that, son: Africa is better than any book. I finally understand why she attracts me so, the scamp—we’re the only two entities convinced not only of the Absolute’s existence, but that it is within our reach.”
“Yes, they are quite surprising, Father.”
“Not surprising, but blessed, rewarded, Georges. These people have attained a state of grace. Look at them carefully, they are ready—God is coming! They are already there whereas I’m still searching for my path. Do you realize, my son, that an entire chapter of my book is brought to life here in this plain.”
He withdrew into a mystical silence that lasted several days before resuming his normal existence. But from that moment until his death, he would experience long periods of abandon during which his anguished son would listen to his mysterious soliloquies, never knowing whether he was honing his ideas or in the grip of a delirious fever.
“The infinite is not the immense finite, the temperature of the Absolute, atomic weight of the Absolute…A new truth now needs to show us the rest of the path and put into action the spiritual virility that previous truths have brought to light and fortified within us.”
He had just finished writing this sentence when someone knocked at the door. It was a stormy night. A figure hidden beneath an umbrella, clothes dripping with water and mud, whispered these few words before disappearing into a chaos of lightning and thunder:
“Listen carefully, Yémé, the almami has left Timbo. He is headed for Labé. An ambush is planned in Bantignel.”
The next morning, he ordered Mangoné Niang to select his best marksmen and hide them in the bushes in Bantignel, where Tierno and Alpha Yaya’s men were already waiting for them, armed to the teeth.
According to spies, the almami was only traveling with a few hundred guards. But what was his objective: to make war on the pagans, as some claimed he had declared, or to surprise his friend Alpha Yaya and his bothersome guest from Fogoumba?
The archers and riflemen were positioned so that nothing could survive their assault—not the almami, his warriors and horses, nor even the plants.
Gunfire tore through the chasms and cliffs until nightfall. Then they patiently waited for morning to count and identify the dead. At least one thousand bodies, but not one, not one of them looked anything like the almami.
They counted and recounted: yes, yes, one thousand bodies and not one of them…He had to be rotting in some bramble, in a crevasse, or under the bamboos and vines. He had been devoured by jackals or wild dogs; or like dozens of others, simply carried away by the current. In any case, he was dead, no one could come out of such an inferno alive.
Tired of these calculations, the victors hastened to Fogoumba to crown a docile, obscure, and juvenile puppet prince named Môdy Abdoulaye.
But just a few weeks later, a caravan of Sarakolés brought news that made all of Fouta shake with fear—Bôcar-Biro had not died in Bantignel. The monster was alive, alive from head to toe. The Sarakolés had recognized him in the markets at Kébou and in the coastal villages. Yes, alive and unharmed, not even a scratch!
How could he have survived a whole afternoon with arrows and bullets raining down on him? Because of his fetishes of course! The Good Lord and the Prophet would never have sufficed to get him out of such a bind. The myth of the invincible almami, invulnerable to magic and m
etals, swept through the country like a tornado.
Sanderval, whose reason had not been corrupted by Africa’s demons, struggled mightily to convince his Fula allies they were wrong. “There’s nothing miraculous about cheating death, I did it four times in one week in Sedan. The best thing would be to check if he really is alive. If it’s confirmed we’ll send some killers after him.”
Confirmation came quickly. This was no tall tale: the real almami, the one whose buttocks were made to sit on the throne, walked and talked like the rest of the living. And it was not a double—the spies had recognized his smallpox scars and his unmistakably thunderous voice.
Killers were immediately sent out to poison him or strangle him, lodge a dagger in his back or unleash a swarm of bees on him. With all due respect to the lone Cartesian in the land of the Fulas, the assassins may have dispensed with a few bodyguards and tasters, but they did no damage to the almami.
“What do you say to that, white man?” the cruel Alpha Yaya challenged him.
“Let him stay alive wherever he wants so long as he never returns to Timbo,” Ibrahima said, resigning himself.
A few weeks passed before more shocking news spread panic among the Fulas—Bôcar-Biro was traveling to Timbo at the head of a powerful army of Fulas, Dialonkes, Susus, and Nalus.
This time an assassination plot or an ambush would not suffice. A full-fledged war was inevitable. It took place close to the source of the Senegal River below a hitherto unnamed rock. Bôcar-Biro scored an easy victory and returned to Timbo in triumph, leaving so many dead men behind that it was said the vultures eclipsed the sky.
The Fulas named the site Petteh Djiga, the Rock of the Vultures.
Petteh Djiga was the turning point, that sinister moment after which Fouta slipped out of the Fulas’ grasp and began its long descent into obscurity. It opened an unbridgeable sea of blood between the princes and spread terrible confusion and sadness in their subjects’ minds. The stars, rivers, dogs, the nights, dawns, ways people behaved: nothing was ever the same after that.
Alpha Yaya immediately returned to Labé to declare his province’s independence, then brought his acolytes to the palace to prepare the plan to invade Timbo.
The king of Labé wanted to lay siege to the capital and be done with it once and for all. Olivier de Sanderval wanted something less risky, subtler, an assassination attempt, a poisoning, a trap, anything that could be set in motion without arousing the brute’s suspicion. But when he saw Alpha Yaya’s somber face, his lip trembling with anger, he realized he had better handle him carefully:
“Let’s be honest, Alpha Yaya. According to my information, since Petteh Djiga, Timbo is more like a fortified camp than a city. And I won’t even mention his secret army in Nafaya or his friend Samory’s troops, which are ready to fly to his rescue at the slightest sign of danger.”
Alpha Yaya was barely listening. He wanted to have it out, to get revenge for Bantignel and Petteh Djiga. That was all he could see, all he could understand. He no longer spoke, he roared. His voice was unrecognizable.
“It’s him or me, Yémé, and the first to fire will be the one to win!”
This tense conversation had already stretched over two or three days when they received news from Timbo. Môdy Abdoulaye, the puppet prince, who had fled after Petteh Djiga, had returned to the capital. In a typically impetuous and incomprehensible gesture, the unpredictable almami had pardoned the young usurper; better yet, he had opened his court to him and offered him an attractive position as a councillor. That wasn’t all: at Friday’s great prayer, Bôcar-Biro had launched a drive for forgiveness and reconciliation. He had told Fouta—where truly nothing would ever be normal again—that he was preparing to receive Ballay, with the obligatory parade, praise, gold, and kola that Timbo had always reserved for wise men and great leaders.
“I don’t like this, Yémé, I don’t like this at all,” cursed Alpha Yaya, as he held his head in his hands. “Life is better when angels remain angels and monsters, abominable monsters.”
“For once we agree. This is all very suspicious, especially here in Fouta.”
“I see hurricanes and mourning. Allah curse this era!” Ibrahima burst out in a whine, worn down by anger and despair.
“Do you believe that someone like Bôcar-Biro can truly repent, Yémé?” Tierno asked.
“The beast needs to be let alone for a bit, that’s all. It is being hunted down. Fouta has become untenable and Saint-Louis is increasingly threatening.”
“Let alone? We must attack right away. Each moment we lose is his gain.”
“Don’t get upset—think. Let’s accept the hand he is extending to us, kiss it for the moment, and bite it when the time is right…”
“Again! Wasn’t Bantignel enough for you?”
“There will be no more Bantignels. Next time I will bring my whole army. Come, send him some oxen, gold, marabouts, and griots to ask for his forgiveness and reconciliation. You are his brother, his friend, his humble subject. Renounce the secession, say you did it in a fit of madness. Let him come to Labé and you will pledge allegiance to him on the land of your fathers, before your own subjects, to make your apology more credible, more emblematic, more spectacular.”
“We must attack!”
“While Ballay is in Timbo? Let’s wait and see what they’re plotting. Those two scoundrels in bed together is not a good thing.”
“I’m telling you we must attack before Ballay provides him with weapons.”
Late into the night, Alpha Yaya finally relented:
“As you wish, Yémé, as you wish! I will send him emissaries. But beware: if I miss him again this time, I won’t miss you.”
“What, don’t you trust me anymore?”
“I don’t trust anyone anymore, Yémé.”
The next day Olivier de Sanderval decided to take some photographs before returning to Kahel. He took photo after photo of the palace, the stables, the misshapen huts, the alleys lined with ferns and tamarind trees. It was a beautiful day. The white light on the kaolin walls and the flowering mango trees, what beautiful pictures they would be! The air was filled with the delicious scent of lemongrass and orange blossom. He felt happy and whistled as he walked. He came to the market and found it empty, the games circle, empty, the palaver square, empty. He stopped whistling. Something strange, ominous floated in the air. The paths seemed deserted and mournful. The handful of people he encountered whispered to each other in clusters of two or three, then vanished behind the walls without returning his greeting. In front of the empty mosque a beggar approached him:
“The white man should go to the Bôwoun-Loko wasteland.”
At first, he paid no attention, but the beggar insisted before taking off with his five kahel coin.
A powerful stench scorched his nose as he neared Bôwoun-Loko. He looked up to the sky: a cloud of vultures circled in a mournful symphony of flapping wings and screeches. Stretched out in the middle of the grass, something caught his attention: the predators converged over a mysterious form. He could make out a grass skirt, then legs, arms, braids of hair decorated with coins and cowries. He bent over to inspect the face, scrutinized the mutilated eyeballs and the nostrils infested with caterpillars and flies, and nearly passed out.
“Taïbou!” he was able to cry out, throwing his sunshade and camera aside.
When he came back to his senses, he instinctively ran to Alpha Yaya’s. He found him reading the Koran with his marabouts. Alpha Yaya looked at him with eyes full of anger and spat furiously to show he was not welcome:
“What are you doing here, white man?”
“I…I came to speak to you!”
“Then sit down on that mat and be careful what comes out of your mouth. So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“About…about…about…Bôcar-Biro!”
“Ah, I always knew you were a friend, Yémé! Would you believe that I have thought long and hard and convinced myself that you were right, absolutely ri
ght. As soon as the seeding is finished, I will send emissaries to Timbo. I’m ready to ask Bôcar-Biro’s forgiveness so long as you double my soldiers’ munitions.”
“Certainly.”
“Give a horse to my friend Yémé and have my griots accompany him back to Kahel.”
A few days later, the king of Labé took a deep breath and made a disgusted grimace:
“Fulas, don’t you think something smells rotten in our city?”
Only then did Labé dare to bury the dead woman in a secret place where no one would come to bow before her grave—aside from the spirits and the moles, the jackals and the hyenas.
The next week Olivier’s sentinels gave the alert. A column of soldiers was headed to Fello-Dembi.
“Why haven’t you fired on them?”
“There aren’t very many, and they are people like you: white men, Yémé, along with a few native infantrymen.”
“What? Has Saint-Louis invaded Fouta?”
He watched the column move toward him through his binoculars and was stunned to distinguish the governor’s kepi. He was so stunned he didn’t move an inch until the man was standing right before him. Ballay had his ever-present ruler in hand, but his smile was so broad that Olivier had trouble believing it was really him, though he recognized the voice and mustache.
“I can’t believe it, Ballay, it looks like you’re pleased to see me.”
“And how Sanderval! Fouta Djallon is French, Bôcar-Biro has signed. You’re going to come under my command, Viscount. I understand this won’t please you. But that’s History’s way—it cannot make everyone happy.”
Olivier had a great table placed in the center of the courtyard to receive his guests, though in truth he was the one most in need of a chair and a good glass of cognac. He had just received the worst news of his entire life. Fouta’s fate had just been sealed without him after all those years, all those expenses, all the colic, all the diarrhea, all the struggles through the bush, all the…He knocked back three glasses in a row, then straightened himself like a condemned man steeling himself for the bullets.
The King of Kahel Page 23