Popular wisdom says that everything comes to those who wait. For some unknown reason, my father begins to show renewed interest in me, and although it takes a different form it’s better than nothing. He takes a growing pleasure in introducing me to his old highly placed or affluent friends, as a way to reinforce their relationship. I especially remember the first and last on the long list of these introductions, no doubt because each marked a critical turning point in my life. Because of the first one I began to judge my father, see him as a sick man; and the last one convinced me that it was my stepmother who was at the root of my father’s internal sickness. And so the first one signified a noteworthy evolution in my usual feelings of affection, tolerance, and incredible admiration, which I now attribute to my undue naiveté, my feelings, and my view of the world as inculcated by my grandmother’s teachings. The last one unleashed my first impulses toward rebellion and the desire to fight with all my might against what I thereafter saw as an obstacle, even if that meant forgetting my grandmother’s teachings, as long as I could change our life. The first to the last was merely a progressive, almost normal, and rather predictable development.
First introduction: An old, very red-faced, freckled Swiss man. He was a planter with acres and acres of coffee and cocoa beans not far from the city, houses with several stories at the center of his plantations, electricity, and running water—the ultimate in luxury at the time.
One night, invited by the old Swiss man to his very beautiful colonial house in town, my father takes me to dinner there. A red brick house with huge stones and a tile roof on a frame of rafters as massive as the trunks of young iroko trees. Here and there on the walls of the enormous living room are terrifying masks, hunting rifles, animal skins and heads, family photographs, and portraits of a young man in military uniform, probably the owner in his youth. There are also maps of Africa and Switzerland framed beneath glass, and beautifully dyed fabrics in heavy gilded frames, which in their own way tell the story of a man who has spent time in many places and knocked about a bit. All the furniture (armchairs, low tables, enormous armoires) are made of massive, slightly buffed and undecorated wood, giving the impression of power and weight and, at the same time, revealing that they have been handmade by people who like to do everything themselves.
After showing my father a chair to his left, the old gentleman invites me to take a seat in one of the enormous armchairs across from him, and for a very long time looks at me in silence. His gray-blue eyes, cold as steel, literally turn me to ice and make me feel as tiny and lost in the chair as in a coffin!
“Pretty, really very pretty, but perhaps too thin yet, no?”
I make myself even smaller. In the end they forget about me completely. The two of them spend what seems to me like an inordinate amount of time in the cold living room, emptying an entire bottle of alcohol as they discuss the family vineyards and wine cellars left behind in Switzerland, something that saddens them so deeply that at moments their voices almost break with stifled sobs.
Finally, we go into the dining room where immense posters of almost life-sized palm trees cover the walls, creating the illusion of being inside a palm grove. At least five giant irokos must have been cut down just to furnish this one house, made entirely of massive wood. Long, heavy, straight-backed benches and an endless table, about ten meters long and thirty centimeters thick, stand imposingly in the center of this “palm grove,” flanked by two enormous sideboards placed like pillars at the gates of paradise—or hell, as I imagine them. The table is resplendently set with silver-plated cutlery and countless platters of food worthy of a banquet: pigeon, guinea hen, braised chicken and duck, sautéed sweet potatoes and bananas, salads, fruit, and several bottles of wine. I can’t believe that all of this was prepared merely for our three modest stomachs.
Now as red as a grilled crawfish, the old gentleman seats me right beside him to his left, and my father around the corner of the table to his right, as if he wanted to keep him somewhat removed from me. He coughs incessantly, enough to crack his ribs, and turns even redder when he catches my eye, then tries hard to cough less.
Perhaps he has tuberculosis. I try in vain to find an answer in my father’s eyes, but he’s avoiding mine. Is he trying to put on an air of self-assurance? Then the old gentleman lights one cigarette after another, putting them out almost immediately. The ashtray fills up repeatedly, and the houseboy regularly comes by to empty it. My father picks up the conversation again.
“I still don’t believe you’d really just abandon all of this.”
“I told you, it’s becoming untenable for me. These so-called patriots, overly ambitious as they are, ask nothing other than to replace their bosses. So they take out all their frustrations and bitterness on everyone else, without any differentiation or recognition. And I really don’t feel like being a scapegoat for anyone. I’ve served this country for a quarter of a century now, investing all my intellectual and material resources without ever thinking about my native land. I think it’s dishonest to judge everyone by one standard this way, and I truly don’t need to be taught any lessons in nationalism by freeloaders who have no vision whatsoever for this country and who think they can get away with anything just because they were born here. That is the reason for my decision.”
“In any case, you don’t have a thousand alternatives,” my father replied. Either you make the first move by dealing with a partner of your own choice, or that madman Bitchokè will take everything away from you. He’s sure to find a way to either accuse you of something and have you deported, or to have you assassinated somehow.”
“Don’t talk to me about that monster, or you’re going to spoil my evening, and I’m not particularly in the mood for that today. And don’t worry about me, he can try anything he wants, he’s not going to put his hands on my property. I know he’d like nothing better, and the best way for me to take revenge on him is to deprive him of that chance. He’s already stolen everything from me, even my love for and faith in this country. Better to set everything on fire than let him have any part of it. That way I’ll force him to pay for destroying my house.”
“You’d better say ‘all the houses’ he has destroyed,” my father says sharply, in a sudden rage that makes us all shudder and stops the conversation for a moment.
The old man looks back at me and brushes me lightly with his foot.
“Excuse me,” I blurt out.
He begins to cough and light cigarettes again, putting them out one after another.
A moment later, when the supply is gone, he calls for his employee, but finds that he has quietly gone home. Extremely annoyed, the old man staggers up, determined to go and get more himself, but my father stops him and sends me in his place, without considering the lateness of the hour. I’m so afraid in this unfamiliar part of town that I run to the store as fast as I can. I run faster than I ever have before and am back so quickly that I catch them in a conversation that stops me in my tracks.
“You’ll see, my dear Njokè, you won’t lose in the exchange. True, your daughter is very pretty, she’s a thoroughbred, and she pleases me a lot. I’m convinced she’d be the joy of my final days in my native Jura Mountains. She would always remind me of the sun here, and I wouldn’t have many regrets. Still, don’t tell me that the two coffee and cocoa plantations and the houses that come with them aren’t enough.”
“That’s because you don’t realize how dear my daughter is to me and how intelligent she is. You have no idea how much she can do for you that she wouldn’t be doing for me any longer. This house and the cars in your parking lot must be part of the deal to make up for my loss.”
“Let’s not exaggerate; it’s not a loss. I’m not going away to eat her alive, after all. She’ll always be your daughter and within your reach. Think of the vacations you can come and spend with her, with us. Besides, you know perfectly well that I don’t have much longer to live. If that turns out to be so, she’ll be back with you in no time, and she can still be of use to you, with the new knowledge she’s bound to gain over there if she is, indeed, as intelligent as you claim.”
“My dear friend, in my opinion your offer is unacceptable, so let’s not discuss it anymore.”
“Fine, listen here! I can’t give you this house or the three cars. The house is practically sold already. There will be many expenses connected with my resettlement in Switzerland and my health care. That’s why I have already sold or promised to sell a number of things. But I do want to make an extra effort by throwing in the truck as well, which doesn’t have a new owner yet. That is the best I can do, take it or leave it.”
“Agreed, it’s a deal. I . . .”
I cannot help making a sound, and they turn in my direction.
I come trotting in as if I have just arrived and hand my host the packages of cigarettes, making my traditional little curtsey, well-brought-up girl that I am. Then I sneak off to the toilet, claiming it’s urgent. I am reeling. My father is bartering his daughter who, so he says, “is everything to him,” without ever mentioning what the conditions for her welfare are. It’s enough for him to acquire an old car, a plantation, and some houses, things he had already acquired on his own at another stage in his life. How his daughter is to live with a senile old man already on his last legs, what would become of her if he died, and who would protect her—none of this is of any concern to him. Suddenly I have no further doubts: He must have lost his mind; he is a sick man.
From that day on, I catch myself watching his reactions the way you watch the reactions of the family madman.
Oddly enough, we never speak about any of this. What is there to say, anyway? When would you bring it up? Where would you begin? What tone would you take? Life seemed to be moving faster and growing more cumbersome with every passing day.
I have to force myself to struggle, alone, for greater understanding and tolerance—the only option I have if I want to sustain some sort of balance; and in return, we maintain some semblance of family life. I’m wholly convinced that if I give this up, everything will explode.
Something new: On Sundays I go with my father and his elderly friend to his very beautiful and impressive estate. Before the two of them disappear into the plantations, my father gives me specific instructions concerning household tasks and cooking in a White man’s home. Upon their return, they have a good time eating, drinking red wine, refining their moneymaking plans for the coffee and cocoa in a private system of direct exchange, which they want to establish with Switzerland. They rave about the profit they’ll make after the country’s pacification, and never talk about me anymore, as if my case were unquestionably arranged.
Maid from Monday through Saturday at my parents’ house, on Sundays I am now the White man’s maid.
Sunday evening I go back with my father. We stop at the house of Adèle, a fat woman with many children, two of whom are mixed-race. She serves my father a copious meal, which she surely spent all day preparing. Then he goes to her bedroom with her and spends a good bit of time in there while I play with the children in the courtyard. We don’t come home until very late. Mam Naja always makes nasty remarks, and just as systematically my father beats her up and throws her on the bed, slamming the door in my little brothers’ face. Her sobs wear away at my heart like the tapping of water drops eroding a rock. In the end we always hear my father’s voice become more gentle.
“Please, stop crying now! Look—I didn’t want to hurt you. But you really exasperate me with your stupid scenes. Come on, come now. . . .”
The sobs grow less intense and less syncopated. Then we hear her hoarse voice: “What spell is it that makes you forget our love, my darling? Whose spell is it? Tell me who you’re spending all your time with now, and I’ll find a medicine man to release you from her permanently. It’s so wonderful when you’re your old self again.”
“And whatever makes you think there’s someone else? Do you feel I’m losing my strength or that I’m less attentive than before?”
“No, my darling. You’re wholly with me, close and so marvelous, my loooooove. . . . But I don’t know why you change like this! Are you sure you’re not bewitched?”
“Me? Never! Why wouldn’t you be the one who’s bewitched? Don’t you see that you’re the one who’s changed, who’s always making scenes, complaining all the time, as if I weren’t enough for you anymore?”
“Never in my life, my darling! How can you doubt me like this, doubt us, doubt our love? Have you forgotten our vows?”
This is followed by all kinds of mewing in every tone of voice, until finally snoring takes over. Mondays and Tuesdays are relatively calm and peaceful, as if they are still lethargic after Sunday night’s passion. On Wednesday nights Mam Naja takes my little brothers and me to Kingdom Hall, to the Jehovah’s Witnesses, as if to ward off the misfortune that won’t be long in coming to poison the week. Sometimes she even manages to convince my father to come along with us!