Mam Naja was appointed head nurse in a different village, “far from this cursed town,” as I told myself. Perhaps I was too prematurely excited, for the place in question was none other than Libôn: the birthplace of Dimalè! Taking my father and his family away from the stronghold of Bitchokè, the Lôs who had been so envied and had so fallen, and throwing him into that of the defeated and spiteful Dimalè, seemed like a new book written just for me, to allow me to experience other facets of our history in a different landscape.
The clinic was brand new, and the arrival of the new head nurse made it possible to have a solemn inauguration at last.
Monsieur Sub-Prefect gave a long speech about rebirth, development, and new perspectives for the district, which had suffered so much. “It is only a small first step, but one that signifies the Government’s willingness to dress the deep wounds inflicted upon the peoples of Libôn. Pier Dimalè, the soul of Libôn, is in prison for fifteen years, and I know how much his family and his village need him. But we cannot ignore the fact that this valiant son of Libôn also abused his power as a Lôs; he had to understand once and for all that the government would no longer tolerate so many excesses. But along with the government, I hope to console the people of Libôn by sending them this woman, worthy of acceptance in the heart of the region, who will help bring new lives into the world, heal wounds, and bring solace to our hearts.”
The sub-prefect overstepped the line of subtlety to say a kind word about my father when introducing him: “Another well known Lôs, who will certainly protect the village from the greed of the few depraved resistance fighters still around.”
The people gave my father a standing ovation. You would have thought he’d just been named head of security of Libôn. It’s true that people only love the strong. Nobody in Libôn had forgotten the Lôs who had humiliated Dimalè on his own ground a few years before.
A new house was built for the head nurse: two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. For the first time in my life, I had a room! Papa set up two beds and whispered to me: “One for you and your child, one for the other little ones.” We didn’t have to sleep in the living room anymore.
Libôn was very much like my own village. The houses stood closer together, as in an expanding city, but there was just one main street. The arrival of a car was always a real event, except on Saturday, market day. Then the little sheds around the central square were covered with a thousand colorful pagnes, towels, scarves, and piles of secondhand clothes. Dried cod and fat prawns filled the shelves, spreading their smell of salted smoke, which attracted the flies.
Children from the interior of the country thought they were in the big city, a heaven. They’d run all over the place, chirping like the small birds in the fruit and palm trees that would spirit away everything edible they could find: manioc or corn fritters, fried yams, the smoked little pink fish called gougeons, and so on. Alcohol-filled chocolates, the color of multilayered beads, had to be carefully kept in closed jars to protect them from the covetousness of the little thieves.
The whole animated scene disappeared as if by magic once the rays of the sun turned toward their bed. Everyone was in a rush to leave so they could reach home before nightfall. Then only familiar faces were to be seen, like the members of a large family of whom you might grow tired. You lived your week looking forward to the following Saturday.
In the clinic, though, there were always people, more than a one-nurse clinic could handle, even if she was a head nurse. She had no assistants, and all by herself she was obliged to do consultations, clean up, sterilize syringes, give injections, dress wounds, and assist with about three to five deliveries every week. I did all the housekeeping at home and even at the clinic, including all the laundry and cooking for the family.
After three months it became clear that Mam Naja needed help with bandaging wounds and giving injections, because patients were arriving in ever greater numbers and from ever greater distances. Some had to sleep at the clinic and go home the next day because they were too exhausted from their long trek. Then my father would insist that I prepare additional meals, for he couldn’t bear seeing patients go to sleep hungry.
So I become a nurse’s aide on the job, and soon I even do night duty when Mam Naja is too tired. When all of that is done I must still do the housework and the cooking. Fortunately, on such days my father is quite willing to tend to the children. He washes them, changes them, and feeds them without any argument. Sometimes he tells us funny stories or folktales. As soon as I finish cleaning the living room and the bedrooms, I go to the kitchen, where he follows me with the children. Their presence in the kitchen always forces old Rebecca to get up. She is a half-blind old lady whom my father picked up across the river. She sleeps in the kitchen by the fire, which she never allows to die down. Clearly she can’t help with the cooking, but when we’re with her she does her utmost to be pleasant, ask questions, and tells entertaining stories, too. Sometimes she surprises us with extremely relevant, often portentous remarks, and my father says she must occasionally be visionary. The children love her, most of all my baby, whom she holds in her arms much too long for my taste. I’m afraid she spoils him to the core. We stay together until the meal is ready and served. Then we go back to the living room after giving a share to old Rebecca, who is like a grandmother to us.
As far back as I can remember, my father had never spent so much time at home. There was nothing for him to do there, nothing to see, nothing to produce. No garage where he could poke around in old engines, trying to make new ones out of them, as was his passion for a while before Bitchokè took up his time. No large crowds to harangue, as he did during the short period of the multiparty system that had preceded the “independence,” when resistance fighters needed to be “reconverted” or comrades recruited. So he had plenty of time for us and, in the end, I believe these were the only moments in which we enjoyed a true, complete family life.
Some days, when it was my turn to get some afternoon rest, he’d leave to lend a hand with the intravenous injections and even with some consultations, if Mam Naja was in the delivery room. It was too good, too unexpected, coming from him. I wondered how long it would last. Sometimes I caught him looking at the patients and the children: Suddenly he would lose all motivation and be overwhelmed with boredom. He’d go off inappropriately, leaving the children by themselves. From what I knew of him, it wouldn’t be long before he’d come up with a new passion. It was a question of life or death for him: My father could not tolerate monotony or live dispassionately.
This had only just occurred to me when he found a new interest: fishing. At first he’d come back before mealtimes, very cheerful, with a fine fresh and gleaming threadfin or a pink carp. He thoroughly enjoyed preparing it himself, presenting it with great care, like a true chef. I was very envious of these kinds of apparently exciting outings, and dying to go fishing with him.
One afternoon, when my two little brothers are sleeping next to old Rebecca, I put my baby on my back in the hope that he will fall asleep, and begin to follow my father from a distance.
What is the spirit that always moves me to follow people without any truly conscious, premeditated plan, without any adequate preparation or safety measures? I tell myself that one day I am bound to find myself face to face with someone who will not at all appreciate my behavior.
Such thoughts must have distracted me. Just before reaching the river, I realize I’ve lost sight of my father. Perhaps he has spotted me and is hiding to get away from my ill-timed shadowing. My heart is pounding wildly: What if he comes out from behind a bush and asks me where I’m going or what I’m doing? I’d better have an answer ready. I don’t dare turn around to look behind me anymore. I feel as if an entire army with studded boots is on my heels, running frantically! I walk faster and faster to the little beach that I had often gone to when we first arrived in Libôn. All the village girls would come to swim and play in the water here. Someone is always there. Oddly enough, it is empty now. The solitude increases my anxiety and fear; it’s too much for me, and I finally force myself to turn around, expecting someone to call out to me: Surprise—there is no one! It takes me some time to understand that my heart is making all the noise. Fear really does create monsters inside us. I plop down heavily on a huge dead tree trunk, which has been there for some time; I used to stretch out on it when we first arrived. My baby is sleeping peacefully on my back in his nest of pagnes.
I don’t know how much time it took for my pulse to get back to a more or less normal rhythm. I don’t think I fell asleep, but I believe I simply lost any awareness of time, seeking refuge in one of those states of perception when past and future are merely a fusion of unsanctioned and immaterial instants, a kind of compact whole. A state you only become aware of after the fact.