SONG 17
We should taste the yes and the no of our own experience—
Yes and no, day and night—and in coexistence
Straddle the tank of our consciousness, always about to take off
For the eternal dwelling of luck,
As in the fairy tales of our childhood:
“Once upon a time there was a voyager of the past
Present in the future like a fiancé,
Anointed with scented boa grease,
Awaiting his already finely adorned betrothed.
‘What do you desire?’ he asked her.
And the fiancée subtly answered:
‘To melt away in the Unique and be only That,
Past, present, and future all at once,
That is what I want and what I can do!’
“And once in her lifetime she was
That voyager of desire,
Who could discover and savor life
With all the commitment of her own existence.”
What game do you make your creatures play, oh, God?
Raya and Raye cosily taking turns
Or violently cavorting on their path,
Angel and devil each in turn.
Could you really not sanctify or
Demonize us once and for all,
To be done with it, just to be done with it!
• • •
I no longer wanted to follow the course that seemed to be imposed on me—a course made of artificial, easy options that depended neither on my talent nor my hard work, nor on any of the strengths I would have proudly displayed. More and more, I was surrounded by a new and improbable group of people, crumbling under the weight of false needs known as “what’s in.” They used language full of Anglicisms and bombastic words that people caught like a virus, pushing their snobbishness so far that they monopolized the same license plate numbers on their big fat high-priced cars, using every letter of the alphabet: 555 A, 555 B, C, D, all the way through Z. To prove what and to whom? What difference did it make to themselves, their families, or their country? I didn’t see or understand it. All I knew was that I didn’t want it, not even as a gift. I categorically refused to take that direction; in pursuit of my destiny, I wanted to go elsewhere. Besides, I’d had enough of following my destiny so passively. Just once I wanted to decide on a direction myself, and bring it to a positive conclusion or else pick up the pieces on my own.
Since my return to Wouri and throughout the time I was singing in nightclubs, I had made regular visits to my mother Naja and my Tata Roz, trying to be as useful as possible to their whole family. My mother had accepted nothing from me, however, and still less from any of my friends—no money, no gifts, not even a drink or a meal—because, according to her, the money from my dismal milieu could only be dirty and dishonorable. An unmarried girl who sang in places of perdition couldn’t possibly be an honest worker!
“To find out whether you are truly on your own path, get off it every now and then; break with what seems impossible to lose without losing your life in the process. And if you find your conscience is better because of it, that means you weren’t really on your own path. On the other hand, if you yearn for it, if everything seems blocked, and you can find no reason or strength or joy in continuing, never hesitate to turn around and go back to your former path, for you’ll have the proof that it was right.”
Remembering these words, which Tata Roz had said to me before I fled my mother’s house, I decided to alert no one, to say goodbye to none of the people I knew, not even to Mother Dora or my boss or my dear Ndiffo. I was thrilled with the experience I had gained, of course, but I wanted to go back to the point of departure, to the crossroads where I had taken one fork, and wait a while. I resolved to go back to my mother, who was quite alone and in trouble since her dear “husband-brother” had been imprisoned. In fact, I recognized that my first and primary preoccupation was still to be the pride of my parents, and especially of my mother, who, it seemed to me, had not been given much of a chance. I wanted to live with her, thinking that without the inhibiting presence of her husband, I’d find a way to prove to her that creativity doesn’t inhibit honesty, and that she could count on me. Furthermore, it was time for me to provide modern artists with the dignity that the great poets of the past had enjoyed. If this were truly my path, I would succeed—I was sure of it. If not, the future would be sure to give me the wallop I deserved: As Grand Madja always said, we can never run faster than our destiny, and even if we go past it, it will always catch up with us sooner or later!
• • •
One evening, during a very animated conversation with customers who had stayed late at the club, we were complaining about the ever-increasing negative perception of the work of artists in general, and of women artists in particular. A gentleman by the name of Oron drew my attention to certain areas in the creative arts in which a woman’s respectability was guaranteed because she was less exposed. He suggested that if I truly felt at odds with the environment I was in I should seek my new form of expression in sculpture, painting, pottery and ceramics, or literature.
Taking into account what I’d already learned, it seemed obvious to me that, having begun my pseudo-journalism career those past few months, writing would be the logical next step for the new life I was planning, on the condition that it be outside of the circles I wanted to abandon. I was going to try writing poems, songs, and maybe even novels! I would submit my songs to great singers and publish my novels with famous publishers such as those I had discovered through Ndiffo; I would live off my royalties and enjoy a more select and subtle fame. If my mother still had any objections, well, that would be too bad for both of us. I was even prepared to marry the first candidate she would consider serious, as long as he’d be tolerant enough to accept my situation as an artist and help me convince my family that it was an honorable profession.
With my program clearly defined, I arrive unannounced at my mother Naja’s house. Here I find a new woman, open and feisty! Delighted with my decision, she tells me of her plan, which she hopes I will share with her: Get her husband out of prison, get him away from the plot against him by proving his innocence, and rehabilitate him in the eyes of all the “brothers.” In pursuit of her objective, she grows more attentive and watchful, and becomes better informed about the country’s politics by listening to the radio I brought with me, although she’s shocked each time by “so much injustice and senseless violence.”
Clearly, some marriages mark the end of daring and creativity in women. Alone and free, my mother in no way resembles the timorous woman I once knew, and it is a true pleasure to share this undertaking with her. A perfectionist in search of the absolute, she does her part of the job boldly, meticulously, and with great imagination.
We put our money together to purchase the clothing stock of a second-hand shop run by an expatriate about to go home, and we reorganize the running of it. Each of us spends half a day selling from our little counter in the market while the other busies herself with personal affairs or administrative and legal steps to be taken on behalf of the brother-husband. When my mother is at the shop, she irons the clothes that have been tried on, arranges them as if they were brand new, and cannot stand any small spot or crease, a missing button or a hole. She readjusts, mends, dyes, and, better yet, she produces new outfits with her own hands from the good pieces taken from worn items. Her fingers, like a fairy’s hands, transform pumpkins into royal carriages, and it doesn’t surprise me later on when I find my own fingers always hungering to touch, knead, and recreate shapes.
My mother is involved with her preaching or Bible studies as before, but she does not impose them on me. I take advantage of this to write everything that comes into my head, a kind of automatic writing that I do without attention to rules or laws, without seeking mastery or aesthetics, simply putting down as faithfully as possible my sensations and feelings, no matter how chaotic they might seem. At night I read her some passages while we prepare food together for the next day.
When it is my turn to be in the shop, I use the time to put what I have learned about advertising into practice, connecting with the clientele as much as possible, which rapidly brings us a loyal and diverse patronage.
This is how we collect a tidy little sum of “clean savings” and manage to retain a lawyer for my stepfather’s defense. Although we both know that the accusations brought against him are true, my mother is eager to believe in his innocence, as if her faith and confidence could transform her guilty spouse.
“Do you know the importance of what we call ‘names of bravery’ in our tradition?” she asks me, when I have too overtly shown surprise at her obstinate “belief in her man.”
“I don’t see where you’re going with that,” I reply, confused.
“When you call your child ‘Mountain Lion’ or ‘Dry Seasons’ Lightning’ to celebrate his nobility or fearlessness, you don’t do it because you think he’s really like that, do you, but because you wish he may become that way.”
“Yes, but . . . I still don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me: We weren’t talking about children, but about your husband, who has been convicted of unscrupulous acts.”
“First of all, my girl, men never grow up. Even when he’s very old, your man will often remind you that he’s still a child. So you must always keep that in mind if you want to live with him until the end of your days, and you must take it into account so that you will be able to love him over and over again. I lost your father because I didn’t understand that soon enough. But let’s get back to names of bravery. Giving a child a brave name means declaring love and respect for him, but more than that, faith and confidence in him. For if someone has no confidence in you, you owe him nothing. When my husband comes out of prison, what I would like is for him to be convinced that my trust in him never left me for a single moment. I don’t want this for what’s past, but for the future, so that he has a name of bravery to cling to, and can believe in the possibility of a new innocence.”
“I understand, Mama, but I’m afraid it’s this lack of blame, this false trust, that encourages impunity and supports our men in their refusal to look themselves in the face and question themselves.”
“It’s not a question of encouraging impunity, my daughter, but of always allowing belief in redemption and rebirth.”
“Monsters are reborn, too, Mama; but I hope I’m wrong. And I promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to release your husband from his twenty years’ sentence. I hope he’ll get out as quickly as possible so that we have time to look truth in the eye together.”
Those few months spent with my mother, struggling along on only what we made ourselves, and for our own ideas and choices, were like a drink from the fountain of youth. I felt renewed, with a new self-confidence as a woman and a mother. Most of all, I was fearless and without contempt, without resentment toward either of the mothers Naja, or even toward my father or stepfather. I felt certain once again that fear made people malicious, and that they needed compassion rather than condemnation. I had my stolen childhood back and I felt full of dreams and momentum. In addition, my creative choices had been reinforced, and it made me very happy to discuss those with my mother.
“Mama Naja, I want to tell you something that is very important to me before I go to Mfoundi to take the needed steps to get your husband out of prison. I now know, with greater certainty than before, my future path, and if it should inevitably lead to disgrace then I was born for disgrace. It is my destiny but, fortunately for me, also my choice: All that I have to do I will do through artistic creation, and I would be so happy if you could accept me that way. . . .”
“Do you still doubt that? Didn’t you accept me with my crazy affiliations? Of course, there will always be things we disagree about, and that is as it should be. Be yourself and be happy, my daughter. I love you.”