In the Company of Men

by Véronique Tadjo

  Maybe humans are afraid of me because I remind them how fragile and evanescent life is. From one day to the next, everything can change. Chance is inscribed in their genes. They’re born by chance, by the accidental nature of existence.

  And besides, they should know that I’m not the only one capable of annihilating them.

  A natural disaster could destroy the earth much faster than I can. The earth could collide with another planet, be swallowed by a black hole, or bombarded by meteorites.

  There is, of course, the threat of a nuclear war between “civilized” countries, a conflict of such magnitude that it could wipe out all life. Assuming that extraterrestrials haven’t wiped out the earthlings by then. If they manage to escape from all of that, the sun isn’t going to leave them unscathed. Because the sun itself is doomed to die. But before it goes out, it will shine more brightly than ever before. The intolerable heat this brings will dry up most of the water. The earth’s blood will spill into the atmosphere, and the globe will be emptied and become a shriveled fruit with no juice, an empty shell.

  Then the regal celestial body will turn into a freezing, indifferent mass, and that mass will gradually dissolve into space. And the universe will forget that there was ever a time when a sun seething with energy had reigned supreme.

  * Zao (Congolese author, singer, and composer), “Ancien combattant,” 1984.

  XV

  The voice of the Bat joins in to counter Ebola’s voice.

  There’s no obligation that ties me to Ebola, other than the duty of protecting and preserving Nature. But first of all, let’s set the record straight: I’m not to blame for this tragedy. It has happened entirely against my will. I wish no one harm.

  As a bat, somewhere midway between a mammal and a bird, with my foxy-looking fangs and snout and my translucent wings, I harbor but one regret: having let Ebola escape from my belly. It was dormant in me until Man came and wrecked the splendor of the forest. I had offered the virus the warmth of my blood and the whole multitude of my species. We’re timid but hospitable creatures, we feed on ripe fruit or insects, we’re peaceful, and we sleep a lot, hanging upside down in trees, clinging to the branches with our feet.

  I usually prefer to stay with the group, huddling up against the soft, warm, furry skin of the others, breathing in the odor of the colony. When we take flight at nightfall, our screeching and squeaking can be heard far and wide.

  As a bat, somewhere midway between a mammal and a bird, with my foxy-looking fangs and snout and my translucent wings, I harbor but one regret: having let Ebola escape from my belly. Before it started targeting Man, it was attacking the monkeys, the friends of the forest, as if testing its own power. I know them well, since we’re neighbors and sometimes even share the same trees. I’ve seen their numbers shrink at a staggering speed, although all they really want is to live among their own kind. When it’s not Ebola that decimates them, it’s humans, who hunt them for their meat or to sell them to laboratories, circuses, or zoos. I’ve seen monkeys get themselves killed while trying to protect one of their troop. The females sacrifice themselves for the sake of saving their young. They rear them for several years and grow very attached to them. At night, monkeys go to sleep high up in a tree. Like us, they love fruit, but they also feed on tender leaves or juicy blossoms, and, from time to time, they devour a small animal. They have a language that consists of screeching and grimacing. They spread seeds in the ground, just as farmers do, keeping the forest alive.

  I fear for them, because they’ve lost a great deal. They’re surrounded on every side.

  Is it my fault if Ebola has left my belly and is now spreading panic among humans and animals? What was I supposed to do about that? I thought we had an agreement it was content with.

  But look at me now, I’m the one that gets demonized.

  No, I do not suck human blood! No, I am not evil! No, I’m not a wandering spirit! And no, I’m not a symbol of death and disease!

  I’m a creature that augurs good luck, I form part of Nature just like the others.

  For I was born from love.

  One of the greatest griots of our time knows the story of my origin. Here it is.

  I was born in the dead of night, in a beautiful forest, high up in the crown of a kind and welcoming tree. My mother came from the family of the birds, a dove with gray-brown feathers with a finely chiseled beak. She was famous for her beauty and her melodious cooing.

  One day, a wild fox was roaming around the area, eager for fresh meat. He would devour palm rats, hares, does, and even birds if they made the mistake of swooping so low that he could catch them. This is what happened with my mother: one day she was busy pulling a worm out of the ground when she suddenly found herself face-to-face with the fox. He was about to crunch her bones in his wide-open muzzle when their eyes met, and it was love at first sight. The fox was entranced by the dove’s plumage, which shone in the crystalline light as it fell across the foliage of the trees and came to rest on the two animals. As for my mother, the fox’s thick, ocher-colored fur and piercing gaze, in which she saw severity but also great sadness, plunged her into a strange confusion.

  That was the beginning of an improbable love that cared nothing for their differences or for the ensuing scandal, which would surely agitate the animal community. My mother told me that they found refuge amid the roots of a tree sympathetic to their plight. My father was so smitten that he stopped hunting. After having long since given up all hope of knowing happiness, he had found it at last.

  At the time of my birth, my mother withdrew to the top of their tree in order to bring me into the world. That’s how I came to be born, I, the bat, half mammal, half bird, with the claws and muzzle of a fox and translucent wings.*

  Yes, I’m a hybrid and proud of it. We’re all hybrids, human-like animals, or animal-like humans. All of us have a bright side as well as a dark side. Our lives are not so much a straight line as a squiggle that meanders or goes round and round in circles and sometimes finally finds its direction. Millions of life forms have appeared and disappeared throughout the ages. We have to be versatile and able to adapt, not hard like a rock, dried-up in mind and body. We need to know how to deal with the unexpected. The universe—with the innumerable planets of the cosmos, the diversity of earthly creatures, and the infinity of possible destinies—proves it every day.

  Humans, alas, are still dreaming of a purity that doesn’t exist, of a unity that has never been achieved. That’s why some of them can’t stop searching for a higher power through science. “In reality,” Man says, “we create more than we destroy. We save more lives than we kill. We discover medicines that cure and vaccines that protect. Our advanced technologies will provide solutions for our problems and innovations will alleviate global hunger and warfare. Today, we’re all interlinked via fiber-optic networks that cover the planet in every direction. And Nature will even benefit from our discoveries. Having to use muscle power to accomplish a task is a thing of the past—machines will do it for us. Gone are the days when we had to exhaust our natural resources—other energy sources will become available. Ways and means will be found to clean up our polluted water, to purify the air we breathe, to stop the glaciers from melting and the oceans from rising. We can do it.” That’s the way men think. I’d love to believe them. Their words can embellish everything. They know how to dream and to create, driven by nothing but their desire to achieve perfection.

  But I know none of this will actually happen unless they learn to share with one another, with us, and with every creature yet to be born.

  Human beings will never be “demigods.” Like trees, they have roots that run deep. Like mammals, they’re warm-blooded. Their body determines their longevity, but in the end, it disappears and liberates them from the trials and tribulations of life.

  Humans need to recognize that they’re part of the world, that there’s a clos
e bond between them and all other living creatures, great and small. Instead of trying to rise above their earthly origins. Instead of wanting to conceal the presence of death by dint of ever-more-sophisticated inventions. Instead of turning a blind eye to the sufferings of life, they should learn to prepare for them and to accept the pure joy of being in the world.

  Conscious, once and for all, of the danger they pose to their own species as well as to the entire biosphere, they should make use of their great intelligence to prevent the end of the world.

  Colonizing space with enormous rockets will almost certainly not be a lifeline for them. For if they haven’t learned to live here, how can they possibly survive in the distant Beyond?

  * Inspired by the writer and ethnologist Amadou Hampâté Bâ’s tale on the origin of the bat.

  XVI

  The Whispering Tree

  I , Baobab, am the first tree, the everlasting tree, the totem tree. My crown touches the heavens and offers the world below refreshing shade. I yearn toward soft, life-sustaining light, that it may brighten humanity, illuminate darkness, and soothe fear.

  I have heard Ebola’s voice; I shall not respond to its maliciousness. It has no comprehension of Man—in its desire to absolve itself, it considers only Man’s faults.

  I have heard Bat’s voice; I agree with her. I would add that the human race ought to sign a covenant of mutual understanding with Nature. We need to live together and preserve the well-being of our planet.

  Everything has been said. Everything remains to be said.

  But, for the moment, let’s forget all this, the hour of celebration has come. The relief in everyone’s heart is like honey dripping into the mouth of a hunter who’s been lost in the forest.

  Ebola’s gone! Ebola’s gone!

  The epidemic is officially over. The president of the country has solemnly announced it. The public health authorities have repeated it. The World Health Organization has confirmed it. In order to celebrate this joyful news, a piece of music is broadcast on the airwaves of the national radio over and over: “Bye Bye Ebola.” The miracle of finally being free: “Nobody wanna see you risin’…I tank God dat it’s gone…Now watch me do Azonto!”

  I’m told that the song has gone around the world. The video shows the president in his spacious office, making the V sign for victory. There are doctors dressed like astronauts, nurses in their blue garb, soldiers in fatigues, schoolchildren in their uniforms, and vendors making dance moves in front of their stalls, swirling, jumping in the air, clapping their hands, and doing Azonto dance steps. From time to time they stop, laughing and shaking each other by the hand—such an ordinary gesture, but forbidden when the epidemic was raging. They’ll be able to kiss one another again. They’ll be able to embrace and touch one another again.

  It’s over! It’s over!

  In the center of the capital city, thousands of people come together to celebrate the end of the epidemic. Scenes of immense happiness. Jubilation. Lit candles. Fireworks. The crowd spills out into the streets, dancing and shouting for joy. Singing and weeping, they vent their emotions.

  In the bars, beer is flowing freely and the music’s deafening. Women sway to the rhythms of languorous tunes, their silhouettes shimmering under the artificial lights. They’re wearing tight dresses and high heels. The patrons have come to toast the defeat of Ebola. There’s something desperate in their desire to forget and to have fun at all costs. They foresee the return of investors to the country, an end to the economic decline, and the start of large-scale public works projects. They think they’ve demonstrated courage and shown their determination to overcome the most colossal hardships. They raise their glasses and sigh with relief, it’s OK to breathe again, and it will finally be possible to think of something else. Death has brushed past us, but we have survived!

  Bye-bye, Ebola!

  Life has started up again, even in the most far-flung corners of the country. In my village, the men are coming once more to sit in the shade of my foliage. Under my protective gaze, they rest on their multicolored mats, having shared a meal that had been jointly prepared by each family. Digging into large platters with their hands, they had savored rice balls and a few chunks of meat.

  Small children are clinging to their mothers, sucking their breasts. Curious young goats are coming close to watch things getting back to normal. I prick up my ears, listening to what the villagers have to say. An old woman with soft, shoulder-length gray braids stands up. She looks concerned, but she nevertheless addresses the rest of the group with a smile on her face: “We may have regained our peace, but let’s remain vigilant. After dying several times over, we must learn again how to live.”

  I suddenly feel affection for these survivors, whom I recognize, and I weep with them for those that have died.

  At nightfall, the balafons and koras come out. Poets begin to chant the courageous exploits of the heroes in the struggle.

  Tomorrow, the men will return to their activities: the deserted fields awaiting their attention; the herds of cattle bellowing in their enclosures; the barns ready to shelter grain for the coming seasons.

  And I’m left alone for the night. I can see the moon’s delicate outlines etched into the star-speckled vault of the sky above. I listen to the trees that grow over there in the forest. It will be reborn from those young seedlings.

  The wheel of fortune and disaster never ceases to turn. Joy already bears within itself the sadness of attrition. Strength to achieve a renewal may arise from a disaster. Everything happens deep down, everything happens underneath the earth’s surface. I will pass on to the shrubs my roots’ sap.

  And the destiny of Man will become one with ours.

  On March 21, 2014, an Ebola outbreak was declared in Guinea.

  On March 31, 2014, an Ebola outbreak was declared in Liberia.

  On May 26, 2014, an Ebola outbreak was declared in Sierra Leone.

  In March 2016, the outbreak officially ended in Guinea and Sierra Leone, and in June 2016 in Liberia.

  Final toll: 28,646 people were infected, and 11,323 people died (these numbers probably don’t take victims of related diseases into account).

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My gratitude goes to the many scientists, medical personnel, survivors, journalists, academic researchers, international institutions, and donors who contributed to public knowledge and my knowledge of the Ebola epidemic. I have drawn parallels between the three affected countries in terms of the suffering that befell them, but more than anything else, I was inspired by the courage of all those involved in the fight against the virus. A vaccine for the prevention of the Ebola virus disease has been found to be safe and effective against the Zaire ebolavirus species only. Several investigational vaccines are now being tested. The response to the Covid-19 pandemic in West Africa has been strengthened by the lessons learned during the Ebola epidemic.

  I would like to thank Judith Gurewich, my publisher, for her guidance, John Cullen for his work on this translation, and Alexandra Poreda, Yvonne Cárdenas, and John Rambow for their careful editing.

  To Nick, Larry, and Matteo, merci for your unwavering support.

  VÉRONIQUE TADJO is a writer, poet, novelist, and artist from Côte d’Ivoire. She earned a doctorate in Black American Literature and Civilization from the Sorbonne, Paris IV, and went to the United States as a Fulbright scholar at Howard University in Washington, DC. She headed the French Department of the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg until 2015. Her books have been translated into several languages, from The Blind Kingdom (1991) to The Shadow of Imana: Travels in the Heart of Rwanda (2001) and Queen Pokou: Concerto for a Sacrifice (2005), which was awarded the Grand Prix de Littérature d’Afrique Noire in 2005.