TWENTY-ONE

In the tap-tap we are pressed together thigh against thigh, flank against flank, forced despite ourselves into a malodorous, grudging embrace. People are talking nineteen to the dozen and this wild jaunt is soon transformed into a theatrical performance. They all have something to say about their prowess, their exploits, their cunning and that male or female wisdom that allows them to see further than ordinary mortals. How could anyone see that far and not have made their escape from this galley? I ask you. But none of us, myself included, has the courage to ask these comedians to be quiet, to call to mind the only subject that would make us come out with our truths like a decayed tooth pulled once and for all. Because another conversation, a silent one, is weaving its way among us – in the shadow of our guts, the redness of our blood, the obscurity of our bones.

We know full well what is being hatched by our flesh torn by suffering, our black-nailed hands, our gashed heels, our threadbare clothes, our gap-toothed gums, the sweat that sticks to our skin.We know. And so we continue the conversation elsewhere, in the intimacy of kerosene lamps whose glow makes our faces seem as if devoured by rats. When our shadows dance against the rough walls of our houses we will raise the subject of the secret evil that has been advancing over two centuries. Later, later, once we are within our own walls.

The time for stifled voices is back. Le temps de se parler par signes. The time of unbearable absences. Here we are, all three of us, caught between fear and anger. Hope and despair. We do not yet know that our first hardships are still within an inch of our happiness. We do not yet know that the waiting could kill with stealth.

When a man with a thick bull’s neck and a T-shirt with the image of the leader of the Démunis gets into the taptap and sits down, the lively conversation seems to be inflamed. The more it becomes inflamed, the more it loses all savour, while the other, the silent one, comes to life, flares up in our chests. We want to jump onto the neck of this man, to shout out our exhaustion and to tear off his T-shirt. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. But we are weak. Some more weak than others. We are indignant, we stifle our shouts. But we are weak.

The events of the previous day, those of the morning, have shaken up our hearts a little more. Fearing as we pass the young, cruel faces of these children who already have death at their fingertips, we hurry on despite ourselves. Death has already filled their eyes so many times that they destroy to assure themselves of their own existence. Destroy or themselves be destroyed. Frighten or be frightened. Fear has become the most subtle vigilance, an implacable sovereign. The radios do not tell of it all. It is impossible for them to tell of everything. Death travels more quickly than the news, bulletins and the latest reports.

Who will ever know that a sixteen-year-old, graced with one of those nicknames from Hell, A-bullet-to-thehead, one day begged Aunt Sylvanie for help? Who will ever know? His emotion was such that his lips were trembling and words were pouring from his mouth as if he wanted to clear them out, like a poison that was scorching his tongue and his insides. When Aunt Sylvanie asked him what he wanted from her, he replied that he wanted to be able to sleep in peace. He could no longer shut his eyes at night, since he had severed with a machete the hands and legs of a youth in his neighbourhood who was trying to run away, before pushing him, alive, into the flames of his burning house. Since he had planted his member inside Marie-Laure, the daughter of the head of the only school there. Marie-Laure started out fighting like a young bird caught in a trap. She cried out, her head knocking against a wall at every thrust of the hips, then finally passed out when the third of the gang members, sated, gave a final grunt and left her for dead. Throughout this account, A-bullet-to-the-head was talking jerkily, gasping for breath. His chest was moving up and down as if he were winded, and he begged Aunt Sylvanie to surround him with the protection of the Invisibles because from that moment he was afraid – despite the interventions of a healer, a boko who had demanded a frizzle chicken, three grey tortoises and a black candle. Despite the blessed image he carried in his right trouser pocket, the one in his left and the one in his shirt pocket one to ensure that he does not miss his victims, another to make sure he gets paid on his return and the third to keep him from ever getting caught. At first he had been well stoked up, by the dope, the journalists of the Prophet President’s radio and the authorities who were bigger than him.

‘In the end the dope possesses you. Your guardian angel abandons you, leaving you alone on the vast plain of life, driven away.’ He paused for a moment, heaving a great sigh before continuing, gazing into the distance, his hands calmly resting on his thighs. ‘You can’t resist the oppressive voices of the radios, nor the furious voices of the authorities. It’s impossible to resist lectures like that!!!’

Her lips pressed together tightly, face impassive beneath her scarf, Aunt Sylvanie did not try to interrupt him once.

‘At first you’re more afraid of blood than of those they send you to kill,’ he said. ‘Then you’re even more afraid of the anger of the authorities than of the blood and then after that you’re no longer afraid of anything at all… Until the day when death catches up with a few like me and takes away our sleep.’

Cars overtake us at speed, some of them with sirens blaring, guns poking from their windows. We all, the driver included, take up positions that ensure we do not meet the eyes of the passengers in these vehicles that paint a new face on an old disaster with which we are all too familiar. One day, someone in this city must have given a signal for disorder and ever since then there has been no respite. No safety catch. The order of time, of space has not returned since. And today this city continues its inexorable progress into horror.

Our tap-tap is stopped by four youths in rags who are soon joined by quite a horde swarming around the vehicle. Without a moment’s hesitation they attach themselves to the bonnet and the doors, dancing and yelling out their excitement. Their faces covered with bruises, their feet and calves with cuts. They twist, remove and smash everything in their reach, man-made objects, public or private property, bodies and souls. And this afternoon they are armed to the teeth.

Two of them take aim at us, each with a gun he can hardly hold in his hands. They are barely twelve, thirteen, fourteen years of age.Young adults who have only just arrived on the scene are carrying automatic weapons and cartridge belts on their thin shoulders. They have scarves wound around their heads and wear shades, no doubt stolen, that swallow up their faces, with secondhand jackets and T-shirts that are too big for their frail bodies: Nike, Puma, Adidas. The man with the bull’s neck wearing the T-shirt with the image of the leader of the Démunis exchanges a sign of recognition with them. They twist their hands and wrists and give out a resounding ‘Yo’, a kind of war cry of complicity. My vision becomes blurred. My ears are ringing. I am overcome by dizziness.The youths have surrounded the taptap and are threatening us with their guns while the younger kids calmly strip us of everything that comes to their hands. I hold out my purse and my earrings. I would have held out anything. And then things happen quickly, very quickly.

The driver takes off at speed, happy to be alive. As we are. The silence that follows is filled with shame and anger. Other tap-taps surge into the alleyways in an icy panic. All that can be heard is the sound of engines. The exhaust gas burns our eyes. I crouch down into my seat until I can no longer be seen from the street. Next to me on my right there is an elderly man whose lips are still trembling, mumbling out disjointed words in a low voice, while to my left are two building workers, who will no doubt have handed over their tools and their day’s pay, and behind me a young university student who has clearly not yet read the book that will give him the key to what he has just experienced, an explanation to show him the way. I can’t help thinking of a song I heard the other day:

I have no work, I don’t need it.
I was born to steal your money.
I was born to kill you.

Nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing. No-one will believe any more in the miracles of the rains or the blossoming of the trees. No-one.We are heading towards the night, in the silence of stone, the muteness of tombs.

Eyes half-closed, I want to be silent to swallow my shame. Any further and we would all have soiled our underwear. Myself included. And we would have sat in our filth without flinching. We have lost all self-respect. But you can get used to anything, even losing your selfrespect.

I am becoming a woman who doubts. This evening, I will kneel on the ground at the foot of my bed and I will humbly ask God to forgive my lack of faith in the work of the men of this place, as His ways are so mysterious. Eyes closed, head nodding, I silently murmur a hymn and cannot stop myself from asking God to help me, humble creature that I am, never to doubt.