by Maryse Conde
I wanted to die when she left this earth. My father got by reasonably well because he immersed himself in a host of activities that gave little meaning to his life but simply filled it. Since he was still a young man, sometimes when I was leaving for school, I would run into a woman he had paid for a one-night stand, and that disgusted me, making me even more averse to sex. As for me, I was far from being ugly or deformed, yet girls took no interest in me. I didn’t have a girlfriend, even less a lover. Nobody to kiss, caress, or fondle. My male member seemed to be a useless and cumbersome appendix, especially when I had an uncontrollable erection. It made me ashamed and I did the best I could to hide it under my large boubous. My only refuge was to bury myself in my studies. At the age of seventeen I passed my baccalaureate with distinction. My teachers claimed I was gifted and extremely intelligent. A few months later my father told me that thanks to my grades I had won a scholarship to a university in Montreal, Canada. On the day of my departure my father drove me in person to the Modibo Keita Airport. The airport was crowded with pilgrims, their heads wrapped in white turbans, holding ablution kettles. They were flying off for the holiest of pilgrimages to Mecca. Everyone knew for a fact that many of them would never return home and would die trampled to death in the inevitable crush that occurred year after year. The consolation prize was that they would go straight to the Garden of Allah.
Suddenly my father took me in his arms.
“Always remember you’re a Traoré,” he reminded me with unaccustomed emotion.
What did he mean? What was he suddenly urging me to do? He had never bothered about my education and never taught me anything about either the past or the present. Surprised, I hugged him back. That was the last time I ever saw him. He died several years later from a heart attack due to an overdose of sleeping pills. I didn’t go back to Mali for the funeral.
My life was divided between just three cities: Bamako, Segu, and Tiguiri—although does the latter even deserve to be called a city? At the age of ten, my parents took me to Conakry in Guinea where my father had been assigned an important mission by the government. While he attended his endless summit meetings, my mother and I took the steamship to the Loos Islands, which was crowded with the picnicking women and children of Russian aid workers. My mother had tears in her eyes; the beaches of white sand and leaning coconut palms reminded her of her native island which, as I said, she spent her time denigrating. I was too upset by her emotion to be offended by the contradiction.
Apart from this one trip I had never left Mali, never traveled anywhere. Montreal was a slap in the face. The city appeared bigger, busier, and livelier than I ever imagined. I burrowed myself for hours in the underground shopping centers built as shelters from the freezing cold. I would lose myself in the belowground maze of metros and marvel at this incredible subterranean life.
I lived in a chic neighborhood called Outremont with relatives of my father, a couple of filmmakers who had made a series of documentaries on Africa for Canadian television. Once a month they organized an evening for African students in order to help them feel less isolated.
It was during one of these evenings that I met Hassan and we soon became inseparable. Even today I can’t understand what someone like him found of interest in someone as drab and uninteresting as me. Perhaps he was flattered by the excessive admiration I bestowed on him. Is there anything more intoxicating than to see oneself glorified in the eyes of someone else?
“I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror,” sings Marguerite in Faust.
It was an understatement to say that Hassan was handsome. He was a god. Men as well as women turned to look at him. Did I fall in love with him? It would be too simplistic to say so. I did not agonize over a desire to possess him physically. I would rather say I wanted to be him. He embodied everything I would have liked to be. He was originally from the north of a country that bordered mine.
“From the North!” he clarified. “Because the North is not the South. It’s rebel territory. The land where nobody kneels to anyone except to Allah.”
Through his father he belonged to the royal family of a small province that had since become part of a modern nation but had never forgotten its former splendor. In the fourteenth century, in the year of grace, 1328 to be exact, the heir apparent, Alfamoye, on his pilgrimage to Mecca gave away so much gold that the price of the precious metal fell. Through his mother Hassan was descended from a famous resistance fighter against colonialism called The Last Combatant, whom the French exiled to Victoria in the Seychelles where he died. The story of Hassan, the last in a lineage of illustrious sages, had the same characteristics as mine. But any resemblance stopped there. Not only did I take no pride in my origins, but I felt no sense of belonging. I was Malian because I was born in Mali, that’s all. To be identified as Bambara, Malinke, Soninke, or from the North, the South, or the East made no sense to me! This was clearly my mother’s influence; she had raised me with scant reverence for what she called “cumbersome myths.”
In other respects, Hassan was my very opposite. Since his father had been ambassador, he had grown up in London, Paris, New York, and Madrid. He spoke four European languages as well as Arabic and a dozen African tongues. He was, moreover, an excellent musician and crazy about Toryalai Hashimi, an Afghan percussionist whom he had met while still a teenager living in Kabul. Ignorant as I was, he took me to a concert of singers from Central Asia where I discovered the magic of an art I had never dreamed of. I soon found a role within my capabilities and became the perpetrator of his dirty deeds. He was constantly in need of young girls’ bodies and made love to two or three at a time in his bed. I worked as his procurer. I solicited those who aroused his desire and later dismissed them. I knew everyone despised me behind my back and nicknamed me The Pimp or Le Maquereau, depending on the language. I didn’t mind. What mattered was to serve him like a slave.
It was because of Hassan that I decided to come and work in his country’s capital, Eburnéa. The clinic that hired me belonged to one of his friends, Dr. Soumaoro, a Northener like him. My father had died as well as my beloved mother and grandparents. Mali had never counted much in my eyes and had since become a graveyard housing a handful of tombs.
The African capital of Eburnéa had begun its career as a gloomy and rainy conglomeration where French ships, taking advantage of a natural harbor, loaded the produce of their slave trade, a source of great wealth. When I arrived there, it was at the height of its prosperity and attracted Africans of every nationality. It comprised roughly speaking a central district called Le Plateau, which housed the administrative and commercial buildings, as well as residential neighborhoods, some opulent and well-to-do, others dirty and overcrowded, and some genuine slums. In actual fact, it was like a series of towns set one next to the other, where the inhabitants had nothing in common with their neighbors and consisted of entirely different humanities.
As I hadn’t made any friends apart from Hassan, I ate my meals alone in the maquis, those cheap restaurants serving local cuisine. I found myself in the company of young people of my age with whom I had nothing in common: neither education, nor social status, nor a promising future. They called me Boss out of affection and respect and shamelessly scrounged off me the CFA francs they needed.
I became friendly with Ali who, dressed in a red Chinese jacket, guarded the entrance to my favorite maquis, La Bâche Bleue (The Blue Tarpaulin). Like me he was originally from Mali, not from Segu but Kayes; no royal councilor in his family tree nor martyr of Islam. He was born into a family of peasants who had fled the country’s poverty and were now scattered all over the place: one of his brothers lived in Kuwait, two others in Dubai, and a fourth in Jerusalem. It was in Eburnéa that I realized how right my mother had been, at least on one point: Africa is far from being this Generous Mother-for-all and Maternal Breast that people boast about. No land is less egalitarian and ruthless for the weak. Without knowing it, I discov
ered I belonged to the closed world of the privileged. Ali told me about his childhood and daily lot while we sipped mint-flavored green tea. A few months earlier, in exchange for a small fortune, a people smuggler had driven him in a truck to Mauritania. From there he had walked to Melilla, a Spanish enclave on the coast of Morocco, in the hope of reaching Spain by boat, then France, which was his ultimate goal. Alas, the Moroccan police had caught him by surprise, loaded him into a truck then abandoned him in the middle of the desert. He saw the fact that he had not died from being beaten or scorched to death from sunburn as the unfathomable bounty of Allah. By no means discouraged, he planned to leave for Europe again as soon as he had saved up enough money. Not wanting to shock him, I didn’t dare doubt the unfathomable bounty of Allah. I merely asked him, “Why do you want to go to France?”
“Because that’s where you find Work!” he replied in an inspired tone of voice, as if he were speaking of God.
“It’s also where you find racism,” I responded.
Racism didn’t bother him. He was used to that. It can be found anywhere.
Dr. Soumaoro’s clinic was incredibly luxurious. If it had been a hotel, it would easily have been awarded five stars. The maternity ward was for the wives, mistresses, daughters, and daughters-in-law of the regime’s high-ranking officers as well as for rich expatriates such as wives of diplomats and international civil servants. Those who worked there considered themselves very lucky. Since my mother had breathed into me her hatred and contempt for money, however hard I tried I felt very uncomfortable there. Moreover, the patients reciprocated my lack of sympathy. They had no scruples about refusing to be treated by me and I realized later that here again it was hatred of the foreigner.
However, if I was privileged, what could we say about Hassan! A child of the establishment, he occupied a very high position in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. People had no doubt that sooner or later he would rival his father who was now old and ill and had retired as a potentate to his estate. People whispered that his name destined him to become a future president of the republic. He had just gotten engaged to Marie, who was the President’s niece and a Roman Catholic. As a rule, this was a problem. I questioned Hassan about this, but he sharply dismissed me with a wave of the hand.
“You’re one to talk! God is God, for God’s sake. One and Omnipotent. Whatever name humans give him.”
I got to become friends with a woman. It’s too long a story to tell here and might shock you. All I can say is that Irena, a mixed-blood of Greek and Ethiopian descent, had been Hassan’s mistress. She had attempted to commit suicide when he left her, and by way of consolation, we ended up in bed together. Our mutually frustrated love for Hassan brought us together. We got along well with each other since to my great surprise my body was yearning for love. Yet once I left her bed, I forgot all about her and I’m sure she must have done the same.
At the clinic Dr. Soumaoro thought highly of me. Despite his exaggerated love of money, we had a number of points in common. He was an educated man. He constantly regretted he had not gone on to pursue a career in the movies because he had played a series of minor gangster roles while studying in Los Angeles. Without really becoming close friends we often went for a coffee or an orangeade on the terrace of Chez Piperazade, a popular, trendy bar.
“Ah!” he sighed. “To be the African Steven Spielberg! Our moviemakers are obsessed with their stories of dowries, arranged marriages, and excision, which bore everyone to death. They don’t know how to invent or create new characters like Mad Max.”
I mentioned the respected names of Sembène Ousmane, Souleymane Cissé, and Cheikh Oumar Cissoko, none of whose films I’d seen.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! All that’s not worth two cents,” he shrugged off categorically.
At the end of the year Hassan married Marie. Three hundred guests, some dressed in traditional boubous, others in the latest Giorgio Armani suits, crushed into the luxurious salons of the hotel hired for the occasion. Some drank pink champagne, others bissap juice made from hibiscus flowers. The ceremony was intended to represent the union between the country’s two cultures, Muslim and Catholic, North and South, traditional and modern. In short, there was no lack of symbols.
Hassan’s father had come all the way from his village. Emaciated and visibly with one foot in the grave, he was nevertheless accompanied by his latest wife, a real beauty, young enough to be his granddaughter; a former model in Dakar, it was rumored. Nobody seemed to take offence. Everyone groveled in front of him. Lest anybody forget the bond that united them, the President came in person to honor the marriage and embrace his old friend. Each man was the spitting image of the other: two despots whose faces were carved out of repoussé stitched leather.
The wedding was also an event for an amazing concert. The Tengir-Too ensemble from Kyrgyzstan had come specially in response to the invitation. Everything seemed to be going for the best in this best of all possible worlds, as Candide said. However, naive is he who believes he can foresee the future, be it of an individual or a country.
The president in power suddenly died. Scarcely had he been laid to rest than everything went downhill. A brutal and bloody coup d’état took place, fomented by one of his bastard sons who considered he had been unjustly excluded from power. This was soon followed by a second coup d’état, military this time, even more violent, and hatched by officers from the South who wanted nothing to do with the bastard son. The soldiers placed Dioclétien at the head of the country, a former seminarist, whom they chose for his reputation as a simpleminded religious nut. Obeying orders, Dioclétien hastily organized elections in order to give his government a semblance of legitimacy. Apparently, the result misfired, as bloody riots broke out just about everywhere, especially in the North. It was then that for no apparent reason they began to hound the “non-nationals,” according to the expression which became the hot topic in every conversation. Out of fear of violent reprisals, cohorts of Burkinabes, Guineans, Congolese, and even Rwandans, who had lived in the country for years, set off for the bus stations and fled.
One evening I searched in vain for Ali at La Bâche Bleue. The owner told me he had left to try once again to reach Europe. By way of consolation I told myself that Europe might very well be less inhospitable than Africa. Alas, shortly afterwards, the papers informed us that owing to bad weather a launch loaded with African migrants had sunk off the island of Lampedusa. I was convinced that Ali must have drowned and felt responsible for his fate. His memory began to haunt me. I remembered his massive build contrasting with his childlike smile. Why hadn’t I protected him as if he had been a younger brother? I was really a dead loss.
Meanwhile, the political situation became increasingly confused. The masks fell when the Northerners were suddenly ordered to prove they were nationals like the Southerners. It became obvious that the entire machination was aimed at them. In response, the Northern provinces seceded. I tried in vain to understand these incomprehensible events. I told myself it was a case of growing pains, which were always ugly, but wouldn’t last. It was then that Hassan was brutally demoted from his high rank. A minister went to the trouble of explaining on the television that it was a disciplinary measure motivated by his arrogance as a Northerner. That sparked things off. Worst of all I was never able to clarify matters with Hassan—he remained invisible both at his office and his home.
One morning I found the clinic in turmoil. Dr. Soumaoro had fled the country and sought refuge in Nigeria. I learned in amazement that he feared for his life. He was involved with the instigator of a third coup d’état that had been aborted. Midmorning, while we were doing our best to conduct consultations and deliveries, a group of soldiers dressed in combat gear crashed in. Without further ado they evacuated the mothers with their newborn babies and sealed up the place. From one day to the next the medical staff found themselves out on the street. I was stunned. Just one or two days before he disappe
ared, I had had coffee with Dr. Soumaoro. His attitude betrayed nothing unusual. With his usual pessimism he had scoffed at the latest film by a Cameroonian filmmaker. I dashed to Hassan’s place to know what he thought of Soumaoro’s flight. As expected, he was not there. I spent a sleepless night filled with a horrible foreboding.
I wasn’t mistaken. The next morning the television informed me that Hassan had fled in turn. Where to? Eburnéa was buzzing with contradictory rumors. Some claimed he had gone to join Dr. Soumaoro in Nigeria. Others insinuated he was with his father in the North. Wondering whether he had left Marie on her own and fearing for her safety, I once again dashed to his place. Despite the early hour, the villa was crowded with people around the pool. Marie greeted me dry-eyed and with a glass of champagne. Apparently, it was a time for celebration, and hearts and faces were joyful and cheerful. There was even a guitar player and a singer.
“What do you want?” Marie shouted at me.
Our relations had never been very warm: I was jealous of her and she was jealous of me. Yet she had never shown such hostility as this.
“I learned from the paper that he’s gone!” I stammered.
“Just as well,” she said coldly. “They were going to arrest him.”
“Arrest him?”
“The Northern swine,” she spat. “He’s got it coming to him. We’ll find him wherever he’s hiding. We’ll wipe his clique out to the very last.”
I then realized that all eyes were gazing at me without the least affability.
“Where are you from?” a man asked me abruptly.
“I’m from Mali,” I said hastily.
“You’re Muslim then?”
“By upbringing, but I’m not a practicing Muslim.”
“What language do you speak?” he insisted.
“Bambara,” I replied. “In fact, I speak it very badly. My mother is from the Antilles. Mind you, she didn’t speak to me in her native tongue either. I can’t speak Creole any better.”