“In the olden days, when the sun reigned over all the earth, the children of our village used to go into the river to fish. One day, while they were quarreling, fighting for the best catches, a loud thud echoed in the sky, a flash that slashed the waters in two. From the river emerged a knight on horseback, a veritable warrior outfitted in red and gold, wielding a saber at least this long. Several moments passed, then our hero approached the children and handed to each the share of the fish that was his due.”
Thus spoke grandmother, when she told us the story of how the old empire was born. Hearts pounding, eyes glued to our ancestor and her gestures, we waited for her to get to the point, reach the end of the story, go over the great mysteries again. Ask about Ndiadiane Ndiaye that strange knight said to come from Arabia, who must have been half-a-god. Lacking the words, our grandmother drew us a map of the vast country. Drew straight and curved lines in the sand to outline the kingdoms of Kayoor, Sin Salum, Bawol, Dyolof, Dimar, Waalo. We recited them by heart, sometimes mixed them up, Sawol, Waalum, Dyomar . . . Started over, until the old woman laughed, made the fleeting map tremble and show, in the cool evening air, even stranger beyonds.
Of all the lines that meandered under our feet, the one representing the river intrigued us the most. The lifeline on which we lived, and which for years, disappeared far into the distance in the old country. Who could have foreseen where it would lead us? How could we have imagined the great raving waters? The land that turned its back on us for no reason?
In this dugout canoe that is tearing us from Waalo, we, daughters of the river, beseech Mami Wata. May she deliver us from evil, use the next rising waters to take us back to our country!
Because there is no longer anyone to show us the way, we will recollect our story.
Where to start?
If there is a beginning, it tells of an end. The agony of a land broken by wars. Brak against Brak, family against family. Waalo-Waalo against Moor. The Nars were the worst for our country. True barbarians who raided the villages. Mounted on stallions, using their feet like hands, they snared our people with ropes, dragging them for leagues into the most remote lands. The Moors were man-flames that we didn’t see coming, the day of the millet, the night of the new moon, the time that would for us be the last.
*
Anta and I were in the field when the ground began to shake. In the distance, a horse with light coat galloped toward us, a man planted on its back. In the evening sunlight, the horseman brandished his saber, slashing the air and men’s highest hopes. In the petrified sky, birds suspended their flight, sought out the highest branches, where they could watch out for the stranger. Crouching near our empty calabashes, we smiled. It had to be him, half-a-god, surging forth from the waters, as from our grandmother’s mouth. “Ndiadiane Ndiaye!” we shouted, but the miracle was already far in the distance, where the winds sweep aside human voices.
Before darkness falls, we take the path back to the huts. Hearts pounding in the silence. Thrilling at the memory, under Chétane’s mocking eye.
In a cool May sky, the stars’ little eyes twinkle. Soon the great yellow mouth will open, infuse the river valley with its color.
Later, we pester our grandmother. Did she, too, see him, the warrior? Will he help our hungry people?
MY SISTER, leading the march, I can only see the back of her neck. Sometimes her profile, when she hounds me to pick up the pace. Conceived in the same belly and born at the same time, we barely resemble each other, truth be told. A world separates us. A memory haunts me. The day she almost drowned in the river, and I, sitting on the bank, let the water do its work, take hold of my body’s twin and drag it away.
She would be dead, Anta, if a fisherman, alerted by her screams and braving the currents, hadn’t pulled her out. We wouldn’t be here today, she in front and I behind. As usual. As if I counted for nothing.
Never have we talked about what went through my head that morning by the river. Perhaps she knew?
As we keep walking, the sky tinges with pink, then veers to red, when we rub the bark of the old silk-cotton tree that is supposed to protect the village. Village? But where are kër and sakets? What’s that fire, cracking open huts, enveloping livestock and people?
Panic mounting, we take off. The sand churns, the paths shudder. We see flairons, bodies surprised by death and whose final gestures—unrolling a mat, eating broth, filling a gourd—speak of an ordinary existence. Yes, ordinary.
We turn our heads at the pulse of hooves. Abruptly, toward the East. Horses approaching, my sister whispers to stay back. Hide our bodies in a dry place, away from the winding path. Beneath flaming skies, we flatten ourselves, mouths clamped shut, foreheads pressed into the dirt. Fear. We are petrified. Somewhere ahead of us, on the other side of the flames and the blades, our mypapa-mymama are watching. Gorgorou, they shout, Be brave! Hide! Don’t cry!
Suddenly, one word fills our throats. A premonition. Grandmother! I dart into our compound, into her hut. Stumble into emptiness, the great void that follows a fire. Horror. There, where the old woman used to be, is no longer. Wide black streaks stain the ground. There, where she spoke, has lost its tongue. Nothing left but a few bits of straw, the base of a pitcher, a crazed dog guarding the remains of the door.
Walaï.
The heat intensifies. There are shouts. Everywhere, tens of villagers stumbling about, climbing back to their feet, hobbling up the river. Anta-Feyor is crying, Feyor-Anta is still bawling, her eyes fixed on the carnival sky, where the clouds have monstrous faces. More than pain, it is rage that takes root within us. We have seen so much collapse this night, we, people of the river, born of mists and dusk. Here ends our people. This evening, our rites are being buried. Tomorrow, what will we be? Freshwater women and girls dragged away by the feet like dogs?
Before they capture us, we wade into the river. The water feels so good that night, full of the warm bodies that lately bathed there. Under our feet we hear the earth rumble, speak of worlds old as the world, which will someday also come to an end.
The next day, wooden posts have grown all over our body.
*
After the Nars left came others. Laptots, White man’s Blacks, who must have been fishermen, knew the water’s secrets by heart. It took a few moons to go down the river. A long time. And the country is black, cries for its burned villages, ruined fields, cows with no pasture to graze.
Our canoe trembles, fears the too-many fevers, the too-hot, the pillaging, those shadows hunting down Negroes and gold.
“You know, I’ve never understood why a part of Africa allowed that to happen.”
Life on the water was either all one or the other. It depended on them, on the way they decided to treat you. Us, we didn’t have many complaints. Who would dare to harm twins? The other captives came from the East and the high country. They had been taken by surprise, hadn’t heard the drum. The one who rolls and beats the tam-tam announces the arrival of the great hunters. In all, there were maybe twenty of us. Per head, worth less than one hundred guineas.
In truth, I should have cost more than Anta. “One piece of cloth more,” added the tallest hunter, after examining us. But a broker protested, claiming to see no difference between us. I disagreed. I’ve always been sturdier than my sister.
Before the great water, there was Guet N’Dar.
“Be careful!”
An island that speaks all: English, Arabic, Wolof, and walks fast. We stay there a week, in a cellar they call the slavery and where we hear all the utterances of the world. I can remember the woman from above, the signare, who laughs and makes noise. She must be happy. Laughs and acts as if there’s no one but her on earth. Whose jewelry acts just like her, skirts and buckles, too. I talk, but I don’t know her well.
“The truth!”
In the morning, after the ball, God calls the men. Only He could shout so hard for so long.
“Dedit, no, you lied about the signare. She’s the one you’re trying to please. Like a dog, you hunt down her caresses. Like a shadow, you follow her, laugh when she laughs, sob when she cries, repeat her words and copy her gestures. And in the evening, moh! What would you not give to have her keep you by her side? Offer you her breast? Idiot!”
She promised me she would protect us. How could I have suspected, or you, either? How could I have known that a servant was worth less than a nail, in her eyes?
“I have never been able to count on you.”
(Anta-Feyor goes quiet. In the dark night before the great departure, hear her sad, sad song.)
Damel lel na dac oub Yene
Yobbouv ale na quia sama quioro guiame
Baba le bel teye guilne ma naccar
Bell bouggatou ma nane sangue
Bouggatou ma lecque requiere
Sama quioro dana douggue randy gou
Co dy yobbouguy guia sil ya
Ma guy dilagnie nec guiame bel ma nec ac mome
Nan mou nec ac mome guiame
Mo ma ganal nec que guiambourre fou mome nec oul.1
Not another word, no, not a word until the hunters’ big boat draws close to Saint-Louis. Never has night been so black. At dawn, only a handful of slaves to load. Quick, it turns out slave trade is illegal.
“Have you told about the initials marked with the iron?”
A detail.
“So you think history can be skinned?”
Don’t care about historical truth.
“We must tell all.”
What difference does it make, the shoulder, the ass, the back, the breasts! What does it matter if they took care to slide a rag between the heat and the skin? So it won’t burn, so it won’t burn!
IN THE HOLD, the bodies’ maneuvering ceases. One, a few, several mouths open and cry out. Impossible to sleep.
“Better that way. Must not sleep. Always stay on our guard, ready to get up and run, as soon as the earth returns. Then we’ll go back to the village, heads held high, hell behind us.”
*
The boat had to stop sometime; all that water must lead somewhere. Upon orders of the hunters, we vacated the hold and piled into dugout canoes. Once ashore, a rope around our neck, we realized our misfortune. How many Negroes, deaths, countries would we have to cross to return to our village? Feyor tried to ask the way, but the Blacks here didn’t speak the same Black language.
After nightfall, bearing torches, men with dog faces started to patrol. Formed a column of fire between earth and sea.
All over the country, Negroes walked. Coming down from the near North, coming from the far East, they advanced in single file. Through high grasses, across forests, swamps, for days, stopping to catch their breath, submitting to the authority of the vicious dogs. For the hunters had planned for everything. Places to keep them penned up. Techniques for keeping them under control. Marketplaces where sales would take place.
One night, we freshwater daughters saw them wash up on shore. Tempting fate, defeated. Wretched before the ocean, the signature of misfortune, the symbol of the end of a world. Among them, in the background, I also remembered that girl with light skin. You would have thought she was a White woman. I remembered her because of the old woman she was clutching with all her strength. The harder the girl held on, the more the old woman tried to pry herself loose. The more the woman resisted, the more the White woman insisted. It was like a game for amusement. After the old woman left the beach, I no longer saw the girl. Too dark out, probably.
And then the sea started again.
Different men. The same ones, really. A different route. The route. Until this strange town whose name no one could ever say. For weeks we wandered from site to site from seas to lands, from days to nights! We no longer felt fear, even when crossing the lagoon on foot or heading deep into the coconut forest.
“Egun ô!” howled the new captives each time their body brushed a palm tree. Were they already seeing the ghosts?
*
“I never thought I’d see the light-skinned girl again. In my mind, she was dead. And I never would have noticed her, had she not started going out. Coming back in. Going out. Going out. Coming back in. Had to wonder what was going on with her, when none of us had permission to leave the cell. She wasn’t nasty, but I never liked her. She reminded me of the woman from Saint-Louis.”
And yet, it’s thanks to her that we learned a rebellion was being prepared.
“It was a setup, we never should have gone along with it.”
You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?
“What good does it do to dwell on it? From now on, nothing binds us but chains.”
I never wished you dead, that morning in the valley.
“Leave me in peace on that subject. It’s ancient history.”
Let me tell you now, we have nothing left to lose.
I was behind when we were born. The one who comes after. You, but after. I didn’t want to come out. You’re the one who pushed. I always loved sleeping. That’s why I love the river. To avoid displeasing you, I did like you. Learned to walk like you. Talk like you. Smile. Eat. Cry. Pick my nose like you. Not one gesture of yours escaped me. I adopted them all. All you, so I’d no longer exist. And then, one day, doubt crept in. I started to hate you as much as I loved you. Flee your company as often as I needed it. It was either you or me, and I had to choose.
That morning in the valley is still the most beautiful day of my life. In the mist, it seemed like the river and sky were embracing. Like the fish had learned to fly. You went into the river and I blushed a deep red. God, you were beautiful! A real linguère, a royal princess. Dazzled by your reflection, you didn’t see the danger, you smiled, not suspecting a thing. I could have shaken you—I was stronger than you—I could have dived in, but . . . No more breath in my body, love in my belly, strength in my legs. You were dying and, by leaving this world, giving me the chance to finally live free.
*
(This time, the boat has left for good. In the moaning hold, Anta-Feyor has closed her eyes. She utters no cry, what good would it do? The hunters said it all: abandon all hope. But they didn’t mention the sand clenched in hands. Probably don’t know that a whole country can be held in a single fist.
It’s the White woman’s voice that wakens the twins. The woman with light skin is trembling, still hesitates to jump. Over there, in their corner, the other rebels have gone quiet. Listen faithfully to their leader’s final instructions. Of the two sisters, Anta is the first to stand up. Go out through the hatch, cross the deck. Climb up there to the poop deck. Without a single look back at the sister behind her, who’s begging her not to throw herself into the water.
“All together we will do it, all together . . .” She knows the song by heart, does Anta, now walking straight ahead. Jump. Jumps, a smile on her lips.
It’s the first time in her life she’s thought and decided for two.)
*
My sister is dead. I saw the fish eat her body, her blood spread out on the sea like a loincloth laid out to dry. I did not go back down to the hold. They carried me somewhere else, to a little room, a room smelling of ether and camphor. Lying on a straw mattress, I stare at the ceiling. I avoid thinking. I need to get through today.
My body hurts all over. Feels like I have nothing left, neither skin nor feet nor thighs.
Am I dreaming? My dead sister has just entered the room and is watching me. She is going to part but I hold her back. Don’t leave me alone.
“What more do you want of me?”
I just want to know.
“You’ll know soon enough.”
I beg of you, tell me. How is she?
“Will you never leave me in peace?”
Your place is better than mine.
“Why compete? We are equal.”
I’m so afraid.
“Those are just words in your mouth.”
I’m in pain, and it’s so cold. Do you think I am going to die, too?
“Who can say the day?”
Do you think I’ll die tonight?
“Perhaps.”
When I’m dead . . .
“He commanded us, ‘Do not say, They are dead.’”
When I am no longer, I would like to go to heaven. They say you eat well there, laugh all the time because there lives everyone you’ve known and loved.
“The way it used to be.”
We’ve already lived so many revolutions. I don’t want the world to change. I’ve always thought you could make your fate like you tell a story. When they captured us and our beloved siren ignored our prayers, I started to doubt.
“Grandmother had not told us everything. Man does not have a choice.”
Then, all I ask is not to suffer. Light on the path, flowers in the trees, a sky without blood! And good weather, yes, hot and sunny, the night I leave. Will you be there when I arrive?
“Who knows what He’s planned for you.”
I’m so afraid!
“Néné, néné. Take it slowly. Fear nothing, soon you’ll be far from the hunters. Don’t you know that His most favored creature is man?”