Market day came again two weeks after I had arrived in Tchékos on the tipot. For two days young people brought all my merchandise to the chiefdom’s depository, the market’s central place. Consequently, Bayard and I were quite empty-handed and very comfortable when we went there that day, together with all the young members of the ruling family.
My “mother-in-law” is surprised to see me dressed the same way as when I arrived, although I could have worn one of the beautiful pagnes they had given me. I cite my lack of ease in wearing a pagne when I have to do a lot of walking, and ask them to give me some time to get used to it. I sense her disappointment. She would have liked to see me carrying myself proudly in one of the lavish velvet pagnes, which would have called greater attention to my quality as a princess-like figure about to be married; it would have increased the standing of her son, the prince, for the couple’s first outing. But in the end she accepts my argument.
My heart is pounding wildly. The night before I wrote a letter to the uncle-regent in which I explained the truth and asked him to forgive both Bayard and me. When he comes back from the market he is bound to find it in plain sight on his work table. In the letter I ask him to hold a family meeting and a purification ritual and blessing for Bayard so that his conscience will be changed, and he will accept his destiny. I have decided not to come back again, and implore him to apologize for me to his family, all of whom have been generous to me. If there is nothing I retain from all they have given me, it is not because I lack gratitude or am disdainful, but I deem myself unworthy of their trust and would feel like a thief if I accepted it, given Bayard’s and my circumstances.
I work it so that I am the last one out of the house, which I lock, and then I give the keys to the uncle, who walks up ahead of us; I know I can no longer stop him from finding my letter when he comes back. I don’t feel prepared to face the family, and so there is no question of my returning.
In the marketplace I am all eyes and my senses are sharp, in search of a way to disappear unnoticed. But I am surrounded! Male and female cousins, nephews and nieces, and innumerable servants compete for my attention with a thousand little gestures. One wants me to see a small shop, another shows me a certain corner of the market, while yet another wants to introduce me to an aunt, a great-uncle, and so on. How do I extricate myself?
I will have to wait for the time of the sub-prefect’s speech.
Ah, yes! The long-awaited moment, the most solemn moment of all the festive celebrations in the country’s interior regions. This is where the government’s authority is confirmed and hierarchies are recognized: The sub-prefect represents the prefect, who represents the governor of the province, who represents the minister of the interior, who is the representative of the head of state himself. In short, here the sub-prefect represents the head of state, whom no one dares to ignore!
The sub-prefect is flanked by the commander of the police brigade and the police commissioner. Their seats face those of the mayor and deputy, who are in turn surrounded by the chiefs of the various villages.
Two kinds of notables face each other: the “governmentals” and the “traditionals.” The former occupy the central positions, some hiding behind the sub-prefect, others behind the commander of the brigade or the commissioner. These are the shady product buyers, their interests linked to those of leading candidates. They are Baffi, Lebanese, or Greek, and have a solid grasp on the attaché cases that invite you to speculate about their buying power. This is the governmental court that decides the price of the merchandise before it’s purchased.
The other court consists of the village notables of the different chiefdoms, each close behind his respective chief; they look timid, almost embarrassed, probably wondering how they will be swallowed up. A court of figureheads and folklore that have nothing to say other than thanks and praises for the government. All they are expected to do is deliver.
Nevertheless, the various courts compete in signs of apparent respectability: pagnes, hats, fancy pipes, umbrellas and canes, attaché cases, and even cigars. . . .
Between the two courts, a bullhorn will be used to amplify the speeches.
Expressions of gratitude from the traditional dignitaries to the government.
Entreaties and grievances, and then a motion to support the head of state.
The sub-prefect’s speech will be last, after the mayor and the deputy speak, should they wish to do so—which often happens only when election day is approaching. The sub-prefect’s speech will contain references to the solicitude and benevolence of the head of state and will ask that people double their efforts for development. He will not neglect to mention the deterioration of the exchange rate, the courageous battle the head of state is waging to stabilize it, and the promise of a final victory should he be reelected for another term!
People listen with half an ear, since they could recite by heart the words, which are always the same, pronounced since the world began. The sun is blazing hot, and everyone is keen on just one thing, to hear the price the government has set for the merchandise this time before releasing its leeches on us—a price that can vary from a hundred to a hundred and fifty francs per kilo from one market to another. Thus, you never know in advance what you will earn, and no one is able to plan. Finally, it is only after this long-awaited speech that calculations can begin at last. For, of course, there are still the unforeseen events of rigged scales and quality evaluations of the merchandise, solely at the discretion of the government’s henchmen. If they decide your cocoa is of C rather than A quality, you might lose as much as two hundred francs a kilo. And there are the poor chiefs busily bargaining, bribing the “evaluators” to rate the sacks of their subjects or their own courts in one category rather than another.
In the end, the market power of a chief is limited to trying to have his subjects ripped off by fifty rather than one hundred percent, and then only if the quality of his product is truly the best. . . . Oh, God, when will this stop? And how far will it go?
The sub-prefect is beating around the bush in an increasingly unctuous tone. People are growing tense: The prices won’t be good! Everyone is so edgy that no one pays any further attention to me. I back away slowly. At the end of the street I see a bus that is larger than the one we arrived on two weeks earlier. I go over to it without being noticed. I get on. The sleepy driver opens his eyes, so bloodshot that I feel like running away, but my fear of getting caught and brought back to the village is greater than my fear of the bulging eyes examining me. I bend over so I cannot be seen from the outside.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can you take me to Mfoundi?”
“No problem, Pretty Little Miss, that’s where I’m going. One thousand four hundred francs a ticket. We’ll leave as soon as the bus is full, when the buyers have stopped buying.”
“Can’t we leave right now? There are many other markets on the way, you can fill up there.”
“Hmmm, you’re running away, aren’t you? How much will you pay me if I leave right now?”
“How much do you want? I have no money. . . .”
“That’s what I figured! But you have such beautiful eyes that it’s difficult to refuse you anything. All right, then, I’m perfectly willing to leave right now and fill the bus with passengers in Bokito. On the condition that you sleep with me for two nights. . . .”
“Just two? A whole week if you want, but let’s go right now!”
“Easy there, Little Sister! I said two nights and no more, understood? Don’t count on sticking around with me in Mfoundi, eh! I didn’t ask you to go there. Don’t think you found yourself a husband, is that clear?”
“Very clear, Brother. I just wanted to thank you more. Let’s go before people notice my absence.”
Since the vehicle was parked at the top of a hill, he let it coast and turned the motor on when we were halfway down and out of sight. People were still tensely waiting for the crucial price that would cause them to explode with either joy or gloom, or else with withheld anger against something—or someone—that no one could really pinpoint.
I was on my way to the next ordeal.
We had driven for almost an hour and we were already quite a distance from Tchékos before I stopped looking in the rearview mirror. No car had followed us, and nobody was going to start worrying for a while yet. Before anyone would realize I had fled, we would be too far to catch up with. . . . God, how they would search for me! How Bayard’s heart would jump! His mother would go especially crazy. Just thinking about her, about her pain and disappointment, made me squeeze my lips tightly to keep from crying and from asking the driver to take me back. Would he have done that? He paralyzed me with fear, that man.
• • •
Letter from Bayard’s uncle to Halla Njokè:
Dear Little Halla,
After you vanished from the market, we looked for you everywhere and were very afraid. Fortunately, we found your letter when we came home. Without that, Bayard would surely have invented still more lies. Your note was a brutal awakening, but it was good for us, for it forced us to look truth in the eye, and we have made our decision: Bayard will not go back to Wouri. We will make him go into the sacred forest to prepare for his enthronement. He has to confront his destiny as chief! If he wants to transform his people into yéyés, that is what they will be left with, but at least he will have done something. By making him study things that have no relationship to our reality here and that are of no real interest to him, we were going to lose him.
Bayard’s mother says she misses you. She says she will always see you as Bayard’s first wife, even if nothing happened between the two of you. She says that all you needed to do was sell everything the family gave you and leave with that money; it was yours, for you suffered to acquire it. She says to tell you that she planted a shea tree in the middle of the courtyard that will be named for you so that Bayard will never forget you.
It is an educated brother-in-law who had just met you at the market who is writing this letter for us. We’ll save it carefully. I know that one day we will hear from you, and I will do everything I can to send it to you, even if it takes ten years. But if you do not receive it, God will protect you and bless you anyway, because you are in our prayers.
The whole family sends you greetings.
(The letter would reach me through the intermediary of the director of the national radio three years later. When I participated in the public broadcast of a very popular program, Bayard’s uncle heard me and sent his letter to the director of the radio station, requesting that he call me in and hand it to me personally.)