NOTEBOOK 4

NINKI-NANKA, A FICTION

LET ME PUT THE QUESTION TO YOU ONCE MORE, BADOU TALL: WHICH SUNRAYS caress your eyelids when you wake up in the morning?

All I know is that you must be somewhere far from our country, which is in a very bad way. Nearly all the young men your age are condemned to exile. And in the places where our children end up, they get treated like modern day slaves. I do hope that’s not the case with you.

Never lose courage! Not a single day goes by without my prayers for you rising up to heaven.

The Notebook you are holding in your hand is unusual in that it is the only one I wrote with a single stroke of my pen. I have called it Ninki-Nanka, a Fiction because I wanted to amuse myself a little. The main reason for this title is, though, that nothing you read about here has actually happened. Why do you think it was that on the corner of one of those narrow little lanes in Niarela I suddenly wanted to part company with you and go and lose myself in a world with which I am no longer very familiar? The answer is quite simple and straightforward: while I was narrating my little stories about Yacine Ndiaye and her two children to you, President Daour Diagne was hard at work pushing our country to the very edge of the precipice. His persistence and single-mindedness in this can only be described as diabolical. I consider it my duty to talk about the dark clouds I see gathering above our heads, and it’s out of deep concern for you that I want to tell you about my fear of impending disaster.

I sometimes have the impression President Daour Diagne secretly hates us. Does he think it’s our fault that he is old and nearly impotent, despite all his efforts to convince us of the opposite? If that’s the case, his enemies are quite right in claiming that his fear of death is eating away at his soul and messing up his brain. Are there any misdeeds or offenses he is trying to punish us for? I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that I am not the only one who worries about the future. The people we should always listen to are undoubtedly our poets. A few days ago, I heard one of them broach this topic on the radio with his “Eulogy to Daour Diagne.” Do not be taken in by that title! While pretending to praise his qualities as Father of the Nation, this poet actually annihilated the president with his savage diatribes, which is how our nation has always taken revenge on its despotic leaders. “But of course, Daour, he said to him, you are a giant. The wind is scared of you, you see, and no longer dares to blow anywhere near us.” The poet was also amazed that Daour Diagne had apparently “Managed to imprison the waves behind the walls of a dungeon, since he couldn’t bear to hear them singing the song of our freedom.”

Having said that, I doubt nevertheless that Daour Diagne and the pathetic little thugs who make up his inner circle deserve such intricate figures of speech. For my part, I have decided to keep it simple and describe the chaos toward which these people are pushing us in the manner of the authors of the realist school. So please don’t be surprised if the figments of my imagination bear a close resemblance to a great many scumbags whose names and pictures you regularly come across in the newspaper. Even a child would understand very quickly that Dibi-Dibi, for instance, is a carbon copy of President Daour Diagne.

And, Badou, I’m sure you know our popular saying that a wise man is not someone who stands in the middle of a heap of burning ruins, exclaiming, “I knew this would happen!” The true sage forewarns us about an imminent disaster in order to prevent it from happening, either through the medium of speech or with a modest work of fiction like the one you’re about to read here.

For almost three years now, Atou Seck has been listening to the crackling sound of machine guns and watching columns of black smoke rise into the sky from all over town.

When the civil war started, it looked as though the government soldiers—all neatly shaven and kitted out in their shiny boots and smart uniforms—had the situation under control. A few army units took control of the main intersections, and their tanks made sporadic forays into the inner city. The street children, always excited when there’s a commotion, immediately formed a circle around the soldiers who were busy speaking into their walkie-talkies. Their faces were grave, but in fact they seemed calm rather than concerned.

Casting his mind back on the civil war when he is alone in his derelict house, Atou Seck has the feeling it has crept up on them without warning, as furtively and stealthily as a predator holding its breath in order to escape the notice of its prey.

Right at the beginning, it was small, nimble detachments, and occasionally even snipers, that were harassing the government troops. After launching an attack, they would immediately disappear again under cover of darkness. The curfew President Dibi-Dibi was forced to impose, which gradually extended over the entire country, failed to have any effect. Within six months, the government troops had suffered thirty-seven casualties. In retaliation, the army massacred a few hundred people and laid waste to several large buildings.

Afterward, a quarrel broke out among Dibi-Dibi’s generals, and today, nobody knows exactly how many armed factions are attacking each other or who is fighting whom. To make things worse, the insurrection bears the hallmark of a certain squadron leader Zero, who is normally invisible. When he is giving press conferences, all you see is his AK-47 and his piercing, suspicious eyes peeking out from behind a beige balaclava.

One hears people say: “It’s amazing to think that all this started as a simple student protest.”

“Yes, it’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“With a less lily-livered president than Dibi-Dibi, it would never have come to this.”

“He started to panic when he learned that certain young officers among his entourage . . .”

“It’s very easy, dear friends, to blame Dibi-Dibi for all our troubles. Don’t forget that you voted for this Dibi-Dibi of yours in a democratic election!”

And so on and so forth.

Atou Seck was perplexed by all this, but it began to dawn on him, too, that a seemingly trivial little thing can ruin an entire country.

In the republic of Diafouné, this seemingly trivial little thing was a brief period of unrest among the female traders of Kimintang—the largest street market in the capital, and thus in the entire country. It was an everyday occurrence. The women were fed up with exorbitant taxes and corrupt officials, and so one morning, they called a meeting. Their leading lady addressed them, “President Dibi-Dibi is our brother, and he is a man with a big heart. His ministers are hiding the truth from him, but if we march to the palace, he will listen to us, for we are his beloved sisters.”

The march, which has since become known as “The March of the Women of Kimintang,” was organized with feverish excitement. On the appointed day, an exceptionally bright and colorful procession made up of flute players, acrobats and drummers set off in the direction of Dibi-Dibi’s palace.

The students found out about this and said to the women, “You are our mothers and our sisters. We will help you make yourselves heard. Dibi-Dibi knows all about us.”

The women traders of Kimintang accepted their offer and the students joined them among great cries of jubilation. But they also shouted out insults that decency prohibits me from recording in this book. The truth is that this civil war started in a perfectly fraternal manner: the market women wanted to draw their brother Dibi-Dibi’s attention to their hardships, while the students were keen to lend their sisters in Kimintang a helping hand, with a pinch of revolutionary zeal thrown in for good measure.

As was his habit, President Dibi-Dibi suspected that his enemies were up to mischief. He said to himself, We’ll soon see who is going to bugger whom. To gain time, he allowed the demonstrators to camp in the palace grounds. Political rabble rousers—but also quite a few petty criminals—used the opportunity to join the demonstration. They were doubtless the first to throw stones at the palace facade. Mirtaa, Dibi-Dibi’s daughter, was walking up and down her balcony when one of the projectiles hit her forehead. Seeing Mirtaa covered in blood and crying her heart out made Dibi-Dibi mad with fury. He called in his army chiefs and told them, pointing at the crowd: “See for yourselves what they’ve done to my daughter.”

The following day, newspapers and television channels all around the globe were showing pictures of the one hundred and thirty-seven victims of the carnage which followed. And here are just a few of the headlines that appeared on the front pages of the major international daily papers:

BLOODBATH IN THE REPUBLIC OF DIAFOUNÉ . . . DIAFOUNÉ: 137 DEMONSTRATORS KILLED BY THE ARMY . . . YET ANOTHER AFRICAN COUNTRY IN TURMOIL!

That’s how the civil war really began.

Slowly but surely, Diafouné got used to the bad news. There were many people with grievances, all of them eager to make their voices heard. Dibi-Dibi, on the other hand, only started to worry when his soldiers staged a mutiny because they hadn’t received their wages for several months. In a televised speech, he described them as traitors, whereupon the very same soldiers broke into the defense minister’s office, tied the poor man up and cut him into neat little squares and triangles. When they were finished, everything was carefully loaded into a wheelbarrow and pushed through the streets, accompanied by the familiar rhythms of patriotic songs.

One year after these hostilities broke out, it transpired that tens of thousands of peasants had left their villages and small towns and were heading for the capital city en masse. At nightfall, they camped wherever they could. Their nightly festivities were always very lively, and there was always plenty of food, because several animals were slaughtered every day. After seeing everyone singing, dancing and getting drunk on beer, many of the young men in the towns they were passing through joined the cheerful procession the following morning.

The army was ready and waiting for them as they were approaching the outskirts of the capital. Thousands of casualties were the result. And since it never occurred to anybody to remove them, the dead bodies just stayed there, rotting under the sun of Diafouné from that day onward.

The man is standing on the seashore. He has spent the last few minutes waiting for the voice of Imam Dione, a voice intimately familiar to him. He checks his watch, murmuring: “The hour of the prayer of tàkkusaan has passed. Why has Imam Dione remained silent?” The man knows the answer perfectly well, but it is too distressing for him to confront the truth.

He, Atou Seck, is the last remaining inhabitant of Gouye-Guewel who hasn’t fled.

Atou Seck clearly remembers the day when thousands of his neighbors and friends, for fear of being caught in the crossfire, decided to leave and seek refuge elsewhere. But where exactly? Nobody knew. Staying put would have been tantamount to sitting back and waiting for certain death. So they thought it would be better to go where their legs could carry them, no matter where, a bit like when we instinctively fight back if we’re attacked, even though we know it’s pointless, but without being able to stop ourselves from doing it.

Cooking pots, armchairs, household appliances, and even old television sets are piled up on top of trucks and carts. Days of uncertainty lie ahead and everyone is stocking up on drinking water, dried meat, millet and rice. Those who thought of all the eventualities are even packing a small First Aid kit containing Nivaquine, alcohol etc. The crowd is huge, thousands of people are running around like ants, but Atou Seck has the feeling he is watching some sort of shadow dance.

From time to time, shots ring out somewhere down south. That means an attack on Gouye-Guewel could be imminent. But who is the assailant? The insurgents or the official army, referred to on the radio as the loyalists? Nobody knows.

Within a few minutes, the column of refugees has shrunk to a dot on the horizon. Atou Seck is wrapped up in his thoughts as he watches them move farther and farther into the distance. Right next to him, the crashing of the waves. The ocean is angry. Atou Seck wonders whether the sea is upset with the inhabitants of Gouye-Guewel for having entrusted their destiny to Dibi-Dibi, a half-demented freak who never stops talking, or whether it is perhaps telling them to stay and defend their houses instead of running away like cowards.

At his back, Atou Seck can hear footsteps. He turns round. One of his neighbors, a young man called Omar Diaw, is walking toward him. So at least he is not totally alone in Gouye-Guewel. But he soon finds out that Omar Diaw and his family are leaving as well. They are just a bit late.

Omar Diaw says to him, “Atou, what are you doing here all alone? Don’t you know what’s going on?”

“I do know,” he says calmly.

With vivid gestures, Atou Seck starts talking to him about the way scavengers fight for the carcass of their prey. Omar Diaw, who remembers him as a more moderate man, wonders whether he hasn’t suddenly lost his reason, like so many others in Gouye-Guewel.

“Which carcass are you talking about, Atou?”

“I am talking about the politicians of this wretched country,” he says, looking around in disgust.

“You’re right, old Atou, but this is not a good time to talk politics. We have to think of getting you to safety. Armed men are marching toward Gouye-Guewel.”

“Who are they?” Atou suddenly wants to know.

Atou Seck can tell from the unmistakable shakiness of his own voice that he is much more worried than he dares to admit.

“Nobody knows anything about them,” Omar Diaw says hastily.

He pauses, looking straight into Atou Seck’s eyes, and adds, “Atou, the fighting in Gouye-Guewel will be very fierce. They say that he who succeeds in taking Gouye-Guewel is practically assured of gaining control of the capital and of the whole of Diafouné. Come with us, old Atou.”

Atou Seck has already stopped listening to him. He is thinking of his own family. Where is Lalla, and where are their grandchildren?

He puts that question to Omar, who looks at him without saying anything. Atou Seck reads sadness and confusion in his eyes and insists. “Omar, I have the right to know. This is about my family. Tell me the truth.”

Omar Diaw lowers his head.

“I have the right to know,” Atou repeats.

Omar Diaw is stammering something about reprisals against civilians. A terrible massacre. He gets carried away and starts describing details.

Atou Seck exclaims, “And my family? Lalla and our grandchildren . . . ?”

For two or three seconds, Omar Diaw has the peculiar feeling that old Atou Seck is suspecting him of having killed his family.

He mutters, “God never makes mistakes, Atou. He always does what’s best for us.”

Atou calms down a bit and asks, in a broken voice, “Did they have to suffer?”

Omar Diaw is almost relieved to be able to tell him that the first casualties fell in a salvo fired by the attackers: “It was only afterward that all hell broke loose. They had lost some of their men in that same place a few days earlier. So they took revenge.”

It is not the first time that Atou has felt sympathy for the victims of catastrophes like this one who don’t even get the chance to find out who is coming to kill them or for what reason exactly they have to go through such excruciating suffering and die.

Omar Diaw has the impression that Atou Seck is experiencing a flashback of his entire life, but it’s time to go. He cannot leave him alone in Gouye-Guewel.

“Atou, let’s go back to your house. I will help you get your things together. You must come with us.”

“Where do you want me to go, Omar?”

“We are all leaving, as you can see, Atou, but not a single one of us knows where we are going. We will start walking along the road straight ahead of us, and that’s that.”

Atou shakes his head. “I still cannot believe that such horrors have been perpetrated here in this country. It all started in such a brutal way. Isn’t it incredible, Omar?”

“It’s atrocious,” Omar answers hurriedly, since he definitely doesn’t want to embark on an interminable discussion. Time is running out. Atou can see that Omar is only interested in one thing right now, and that’s to save his own skin. His lips are dry, his gestures clumsy, and his gaunt eyes speak of his palpable fear. For days on end now, Omar has had constant visions of himself dying a horribly painful death. All this is unbearable to him. Although he feels sorry for Omar, Atou Seck cannot suppress a fleeting internal smile. He used to be such a bigmouth, Omar. As a worker at the Air Liquide factory, he had been renting a small room in Atou’s house, together with his wife Nabou Sarr. Atou Seck remembers his keen interest in politics. Having started out as a reluctant Dibi-Dibi supporter, over the years, he turned into a keen champion of his regime. A few weeks ago, after listening to the news early one morning he went to find Atou Seck under his acacia tree. He gave free rein to his rage. “Old Atou, excuse my choice of words, but our politicians are no better than a pack of rabid dogs! They loot our country, and once they’ve ruined it, they go and live a life of luxury on the Côte d’Azur or some similar place. This is simply not acceptable! If they think we are just a herd of cattle they can lead to slaughter, they are mistaken!”

Right now, however, as things are heating up, Omar, the firebrand, only has one single idea in his head, and that is to leave Gouye-Guewel and go as far away as possible.

So Atou Seck says to him, “And now our paths will separate, Omar. I am going to pray for you.”

Hesitantly, Omar Diaw joins both his palms together and holds them out to him. Atou Seck murmurs a few short verses from the Koran, putting his hand on Omar’s shoulder with the words: “Farewell, Omar. We will not see each other again. My whole life is here at Gouye-Guewel and this is where I want to stay while I am waiting to die. May God the Almighty protect you all, your family and you yourself.”

Omar Diaw takes leave from him in great haste. After a few minutes, he turns round, but his wife and children call out to him, asking him to hurry up. He starts to run and catches up with them.

Atou Seck does not take his eyes off them until they turn round a street corner and disappear.

He calmly continues on his way back to his house.

For several days now, he has eaten nothing but stale bread. He still has enough kenkelibaa tea, but the charcoal is almost finished. Soon he will no longer be able to cook any food or have a hot drink.

In the early afternoon, he was wandering up and down his courtyard for almost an hour. He is surprised to discover that being alone makes him much more alert to certain details. This is practically the first time he has ever taken note of the rather basic architectural features of his house. The zinc entrance gate is on the left, and on the same side there is a row of small rooms under a pink tile roof. Omar Diaw had been renting two of those.

Atou Seck tries to make his transistor radio work. When he turns it on, it makes a few hissing noises and stops. Then it starts up again before dying out completely. “The batteries must be finished,” he thinks. It’s too bad; all the shopkeepers in Gouye-Guewel have left with their merchandise piled high on their carts.

He hears a muffled sound. A bomb. A few seconds later, a machine gun salvo from quite far away. For some days now, he’s had the impression the fighting is getting closer and more threatening.

A mouse brushes against his ankle and slips into a hole under the fence.

All sorts of creepy-crawlies are running around everywhere, in search of crumbs and leftovers. And as for birds, there must be tens of thousands in Gouye-Guewel. Atou Seck loves listening to their high-pitched chirping and the flapping of their wings. When he looks up at the sky, he is amazed to see all these birds fluttering and twittering above his head. It’s as if they had appeared out of nowhere to keep him company.

Not far from him, there are a few kitchen utensils—mortars, calabashes and pots—covered in a fine layer of dust. His gaze is fixed on a grain of red dust as it whirls around in empty space and is taking its time to settle on a bowl. Another grain of dust has just got stuck to it. One might call it a fine rain, with each drop falling separately from the others. A graceful little dance, and a welcome distraction for him. Within the short span of a few minutes, the foliage of the acacia tree has acquired a reddish coat.

The days come and go.

He often talks to himself, just to hear his own voice. Sometimes it seems as though the combatants are on the verge of entering Gouye-Guewel. But then, a few hours later, silence reigns again.

This war is a mystery to him.

Roukhou-Djinné. Satan’s Den, in other words. Before the war, this used to be the sleaziest part of Gouye-Guewel. Atou Seck still can’t believe that he can now wander around Roukhou-Djinné without seeing drunkards emerging from the brothels on the opposite side and staggering around among the street-sellers’ stalls with their kebabs and fritters. The upturned wooden tables and chairs lying scattered all over the narrow little lane—so narrow, in fact, that in the old days, only cyclists and pedestrians could use it—are a reminder of the haste with which the fugitives abandoned the area.

Roukhou-Djinné, its bars and its two-penny prostitutes. And let’s not forget the way it settles its scores. At sunrise every morning almost without fail, there was a body drenched in its own blood under a streetlight. The most commonly used weapons were knives and broken bottles. The police would arrive to take a statement, with sirens blaring and their beautiful blue lights flashing. But in Roukhou-Djinné, nobody sees the need to talk to the cops. It’s a point of honor and besides, why get mixed up in any of this? It’s common knowledge that the policemen couldn’t care less. A couple of tramps disemboweling each other in Roukhou-Djinné has about the same level of importance as a lizard basking in the sun in the savanna.

Atou Seck has entered a small square and stops in front of Diallo’s shop. The whole district used to come here and lean on Diallo’s counter to buy—or more likely, to borrow—some oil, a few kilos of rice or a piece of soap. He tries to remember: when was it again that Diallo came and settled in Gouye-Guewel? The images inside his head are a blur. The truth is that nobody ever really knew very much about this crafty shopkeeper. Early one morning, people saw him getting off one of those trucks coming from Conakry, carrying a small bundle of clothes. He said he was originally from Koundara. A Fulani from Fouta-Djallon. That’s why everyone decided to call him Diallo. He himself clearly wasn’t too keen on going around telling people his life story. He spent all day every day sitting at a low wooden table, selling a bit of everything in tiny little bags: powdered milk, tobacco, Chinese green tea, and a candy made from baobab fruit called “monkey bread.” The Guinean had the habit of serving his clients while sucking very hard on his pipe—he loved blowing up his cheeks like a set of bellows—and teasing the young girls of Gouye-Guewel. After three years, he had saved enough to buy himself quite a large house. In front of this house was a signpost with two enigmatic words painted in black: “Duggal seet,” or “Come and see.” A near perfect code name, considering Diallo had rigged up a clandestine bar in his backyard and some rooms for rent by the hour.

When Diallo died, his son, Ibnou, an earnest, well-mannered boy, kept the shop, but decided to close the family brothel. This could have been done quietly and discreetly, only Ibnou Diallo did the exact opposite by blowing up those rooms with dynamite—in his opinion, they had been under the diabolical control of Cheytan for too long. The explosion made a lot of noise, thick black smoke rose high into the sky, and Ibnou Diallo was hailed by the notables of the district.

Atou Seck ventures a look inside Ibnou Diallo’s shop. It’s empty. Next, the empty field where as young boys they used to play their noisy soccer matches. Just like the other landmarks in Gouye-Guewel, such as the public fountain and the street junctions, it seems too big and expansive for what was a relatively modest number of people. Kitchen utensils and small household objects have been dropped here by the inhabitants during their flight, reluctantly, one might say, due to the lack of space on their small trucks and carts.

His walk takes him to the Palace cinema. A giant poster with the words “Apache Fury” shows some Indians wearing brightly colored feather headdresses and fighting American soldiers at the foot of a hill. Their horses are rearing and trampling on the dozens of bodies that are lying scattered on the ground. This was the last movie the inhabitants of Gouye-Guewel had the chance to watch before the war catapulted them out onto the road and turned them into refugees. “Where on earth can they possibly be now?” Atou Seck wonders with a tender little smile.

As he is walking past a public rubbish dump, amid all the garbage, he spots a piece of stale bread. He considers picking it up. He might need it soon. But he leaves it and walks on. He will not stoop so low.

Even if you are dying of thirst, never drink water from the sewers. The day will come when rain will fall in abundance from the sky and then you won’t be proud of yourself.

He does not really care for most of Wolof Njaay’s proverbs, since most of them are a bit too cynical for his taste. This one is an exception.

For over two hours, he has been trying to get up onto his feet and go for his daily walk in the courtyard, but in vain. The repeated attempts have made him dizzy, and he feels like he is about to pass out. A voice coming from deep inside him says that if he gives up now, even for a single second, it will be the end of him, for good. The rats, lurking in the shadows, are waiting impatiently for the moment when they can nibble his flesh. They know hunger and thirst have sapped his strength. They can see death prowling around him. They themselves are death. Soon his body will be cold, and out of their holes they will come, one after the other, with their sinister little squeaking noises.

The radio has started up again. A journalist is bellowing into his microphone. Atou Seck notices his voice getting louder, more jerky. Talking himself into a frenzy, he predicts the defeat of Dibi-Dibi’s opponents, calling them “insurgents” and then announces that President Dibi-Dibi is going to deliver a speech to the people of Diafouné.

Atou Seck can barely believe it: the radio has started working again all by itself . . .

In the middle of the night, he is woken up by a nightmare. He jumps up from the mat where he had been asleep and walks to the entrance gate. Facing the street, he shouts at the top of his voice, “Shame on you, Dibi-Dibi! I, Atou Seck, herewith declare that I hate you, Dibi-Dibi! You have plunged us into fear and despair!”

After that, he lies down again and goes peacefully back to sleep.

Let’s face it: It wasn’t Dibi-Dibi’s lot to move into the presidential palace by walking over tens of thousands of dead bodies. Nor did he stage a coup, occupying the radio stations, closing the airport, condemning corruption and announcing the beginning of a new era. The reality is that the elections that brought him to power were free and fair. After he had been punching the air of Diafouné with his fist for a quarter of a century many of his fellow citizens were saying to themselves, out of sheer desperation, Why not vote for him, a man so energetic and full of resolve? He may be old, but he is bound to get things going. And besides, it doesn’t cost anything to try.

But here is the catch: a nation’s destiny is not a garment you try on in a hurry while doing your shopping at the supermarket.

For Dibi-Dibi’s opponents, many of whom started off as his most fervent supporters, this is one of those home truths they find harder to swallow than tulukuna. They would love to spit it out again if they could. Well, they have missed their chance. They can’t even argue that Dibi-Dibi didn’t openly show who he really was while making his bid for power. No, he had been talking utter nonsense for decades and made it crystal clear to everybody that, if he was ever in his right mind for a single day, that day must have been a very long time ago. After all, hasn’t every single one of us seen that little glimmer of madness dancing in Dibi-Dibi’s eyes? Year after year, in meeting after meeting, in the big cities as well as in the remotest villages, he used to repeat: “I know about all your problems and there isn’t a single one that I cannot solve.” This sentence, which became famous, was immediately followed by an even more famous gesture: Dibi-Dibi, looking down on the crowd and waving a key in the air, the key of change that is supposed to open the door to prosperity even for the poorest of the poor.

That was all that was needed to drive the crowd into frenzy. One day, he told a group of young supporters who had come to listen to him near the market place of Kimintang, “Those of you who are without a job, raise your hand, raise it high in the air!”

Immediately, thousands of hands went up and Dibi-Dibi shouted, “You will all have jobs if you vote for me! If I don’t give each one of you a job, you can go and tell the whole world that I am the biggest liar on earth!”

According to the reports, Dibi-Dibi himself felt he had taken things a bit too far that day. When he got into his car, he asked his chief adviser and confidant, “Do you think they believed me when I said I was going to give them all jobs? Perhaps that was pushing it a little bit, don’t you think?”

This adviser was not a boot licker. On the contrary, he was one of the few people Dibi-Dibi respected. He shook his head and said calmly, like a man who has seen this kind of thing before, “No, Dib. Not a single one of them believed you.”

That threw Dibi-Dibi into a panic. It was only a few days until the elections, and he started talking about wanting to fix his mistake. So the adviser said, cunningly, “It’s best to do nothing, my friend.”

“But you told me yourself that they didn’t take me seriously! I need to know . . .”

The adviser smiled. “That’s exactly why they’re going to vote for you.”

After a moment’s reflection, he added, “If you ruin these young peoples’ dreams, they’ll make you pay for it. You must never forget that they have been told so many lies that the best way to plunge them into despair is to tell them the truth.”

Dibi-Dibi’s face lit up. “It’s not the first time I have heard that bullshit . . .”

“Correct. It comes from your old enemy. The honest politician. The indomitable one. He who has never had to recant. One might call him the politician who doesn’t like politicking! He repeats his little spiel at every single meeting and he claims that he tells his supporters some very hard truths. This is the result.”

“You’re right, he gets hammered at every election, that guy!” sniggered Dibi-Dibi with malice, letting himself sink deeper into his seat.

Dibi-Dibi hated this opponent’s guts, because that man wanted to be seen as a scientist—an even greater scientist than the great Dibi-Dibi? Impossible!—and was trying to change the rules of the game. There was nothing he, Dibi-Dibi, wouldn’t do to win votes. Playing the clown had never been a problem for him; in fact, his pathetic antics were probably an expression of his true nature. His political gatherings were veritable fun fairs. Dibi-Dibi loved mingling with the dancers so much that he regularly ended up rolling around on the floor, with the public calling out to his opponents, “Be afraid, monkeys, the Lion is on his way!”

“Monkeys, be afraid! Here comes Dibi-Dibi the Lion!”

“Truly, God has endowed this man with every talent!”

“He will bring so many billions to this country, we won’t know what to do with all the money!”

“We have no room in our hearts except for you, Dibi-Dibi! This is God’s will, and there is nothing the slanderers and those driven by envy can do to change it!”

From time to time, one of his party leaders shouted into the microphone: “Dibi-Dibi?”

And the crowd responded: “Long live Dibi-Dibi!”

This reminded Atou Seck of his conversations with Omar Diaw. At the time, Omar was one of those fanatical Dibi-Dibi supporters who could be found in large numbers in a popular district like Gouye-Guewel. He never missed an opportunity to praise Dibi-Dibi’s exceptional qualities. One day, Atou Seck got so irritated by this that he said to him, “Omar, it’s possible that your hero is an unusual human being, but I, Atou Seck, have just one small problem with him.”

“And what’s that?” asked Omar Diaw.

“The way he walks, Omar. Have you ever really seen how Dibi-Dibi walks?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, old Atou Seck.”

“Dibi-Dibi waddles exactly like a duck, Omar. Do you really think it’s wise to entrust our people to a man who walks like that?”

Omar Diaw burst into laughter and turned to the crowd. “Hey, good people of Gouye-Guewel, please take care of our old uncle Atou Seck. He’s losing his marbles!”

The most notorious gossip- and scandalmongers of the district were there like a shot, forming a circle around them.

Atou Seck reassured them, “It’s nothing, you know what we’re like, Omar and I, we enjoy teasing each other a little bit.”

Two days later, he confided to Omar Diaw, “Omar, since you are almost like a son to me, I think I will probably vote for your Dibi-Dibi. I’ll do it for you. If so many people in this country believe in him, why shouldn’t I give him a chance, even if I don’t like him?”

Omar Diaw had no time for Atou Seck’s pedantic quibbles. He had just won another vote for Dibi-Dibi, and that was really all that mattered to him. Pleased and relieved, he exclaimed, “I wouldn’t have expected anything less of you, Atou! Having spent your whole life fighting for worthy causes, surely you wouldn’t want to deprive your grandchildren of the good fortune they have at their fingertips!”

“What kind of good fortune are you talking about, Omar?”

“If Dibi-Dibi gets elected, all the jobless young people will find work. That means you won’t see a single one of them loitering in the streets anymore!”

Atou Seck looked at him for a long time before asking him with incredulity, “Do tell me, Omar, if it’s so easy to provide everyone with jobs, why haven’t Dibi-Dibi’s opponents already done it? Are you suggesting they let our children starve to death out of pure malice?”

With the most serious expression he could muster, Omar Diaw replied, “You know, Atou, there are scientists who can explain the secrets of matter and the movements of the planets. We don’t understand what they’re saying, but we still know they are right. Politics, too, is a science, and Dibi-Dibi is one of those exceptional creatures who can make things happen that you and I would think impossible. And don’t forget that Dibi-Dibi has learned this science at the greatest school of the world.”

“What are you telling me there, Omar? Where is that school?”

“It’s in the country of the Toubabs!” Omar said triumphantly. “Dibi-Dibi and his opponents were all in the same class. But make no mistake, he was always miles ahead of them!”

Now, Atou Seck couldn’t help himself anymore and he burst into laughter. “So you’re saying that all our politicians went to the country of the Toubabs in order to learn how to deal with my problems here in Gouye-Guewel? Does that make sense to you, Omar?”

“The earth doesn’t stand still, Atou!”

Atou Seck shook his head with a treacherous little smile. “I have a confession to make to you, Omar: I am very worried about Diafouné and its future.”

Omar Diaw’s face clouded over. “And why would that be?”

“Because of the countries all around us. I’m sure they are just waiting for the first opportunity to steal Dibi-Dibi from us. It makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it? Why should they have to die of hunger while the solution to all their troubles is right on their doorstep?”

Omar Diaw brightened up. Playing along with the banter, he said cheerfully, “Is that all, Atou? Then there’s no need to worry; we are not going to let anyone steal Dibi-Dibi from us!”

He paused for a moment, then he looked at Atou Seck and said in a low voice, “The real problem, Atou, are not our neighbors but the big countries like Canada and America. Those whites who have always taken away all our riches won’t let us keep Dibi-Dibi unless they are sure we are prepared to make absolutely any sacrifice to keep him!”

When he heard these words, Atou Seck understood once and for all that he was dealing with a crank. He reassured him, “They will never have any reason to doubt it. On the day when these people arrive here to kidnap Dibi-Dibi, I myself, Atou Seck, will be the first to lie down on the runway at the airport to prevent the plane from taking off!”

Omar Diaw realized that Atou Seck was pulling his leg, but he didn’t mind. What he wanted was a vote for Dibi-Dibi, and he got it.

Atou Seck watched him walking away and mumbled, “I have no choice but to wait for that fellow under my acacia tree. He’ll be back soon, and then he will sing a very different tune!”

And indeed the day arrived when Omar Diaw came to find Atou Seck under the acacia and said to him, “I owe you an apology, Atou . . . You tried to warn me, but I was both deaf and blind. This Dibi-Dibi and his gang behave like greedy scavengers!”

Atou Seck pretended he didn’t understand. “What on earth has happened, Omar? You’re always so full of anger—that’s not good, Omar.”

“Dibi-Dibi and his clan are busy destroying this country, Atou! For them, Diafouné is a cake, and each one of them just wants to grab his slice.”

“That’s exactly what I told you, my dear Omar. A nation should not entrust its destiny to a man who can’t even walk straight.”

During the first few months of his reign, Dibi-Dibi put on a good show. But it wasn’t long before it dawned on people that he had no idea where he was leading the country.

As the years went by, Dibi-Dibi’s dementia became more and more evident. Locked up inside his palace with its enormous mirrors on the walls, he did nothing but stare at the only image he was able to tolerate: his own.

On one occasion at least, it looked as though he had come to his senses again. A short-lived bout of humility caused him to publicly reproach himself for his tedious, interminable television appearances. But then he made a rambling ten-hour speech to apologize for this.

Another time, when he announced to the nation that he was planning to make a speech, political observers tried to predict what the subject might be. There were innuendos of a crisis in top government circles, possibly even involving strategy changes. The appointed hour arrived, and Diafouné played its national anthem. But Dibi-Dibi, as it turned out, just wanted to ask his fellow citizens one question: what had happened to the ducks he remembered from his childhood? In the past, these feathery birds were waddling around everywhere, he was sure of that, and he simply couldn’t understand why they had since disappeared from the towns and villages of Diafouné. He even became quite poetic when he started reminiscing about the mother ducks and that rasping, unmistakable sound they made, almost like a groan. It wasn’t very melodious, he admitted, but their ducklings, those soft little balls of yellow fluff, used to bring tears to his eyes, the eyes of one of the most eminent ecologists of all time! No, it really didn’t make sense that there wasn’t a single duck left in Diafouné. Having to govern such a peculiar country, a duckless country, or, more precisely, a country where all the ducks had dissolved into thin air literally overnight, well, that was simply too much for him! He was deeply grateful to his beloved people for placing their trust in him, but, as far as the ducks were concerned, there was absolutely no way he could compromise. It was a matter of principle for him, meaning he was prepared to resign and give the green light for early elections.

Nobody will be too surprised to hear that Dibi-Dibi had the basement below his palace converted into a dungeon. It is rumored that this is where he makes lepers rape the wives of his enemies. The latter are put in leg irons and forced to watch the spectacle. Dibi-Dibi, meanwhile, frantically struts up and down the torture chamber, mopping his brow and spurting a string of expletives. He calls the women bloody whores and eggs on the lepers, referring to them as his valiant warriors. Go on, fire at that enemy vagina and wreak havoc on all those stinking what’s-their-names for me!

And who could forget the meeting he held in February-the-16th Square? That was the day when, without warning, he interrupted his speech saying he had to take an urgent phone call. Then, in full view of everybody, he took off his right shoe, lifted it to his ear and shouted, “Hello! Hello!” He listened to the person at the other end with a grave and thoughtful expression, slowly moving his head up and down and constantly promising to do his best. When he had finished, he explained to the crowd that Tony Blair had just consulted him about his problems over there in England, and that he, Dibi-Dibi, simply couldn’t leave his old mate in the lurch, since that wasn’t his way of doing things. Yes, he said, Tony Blair was faced with a difficult decision, and he thought there was only one person on this earth wise and intelligent enough to give him sound advice, and this person was none other than his good self, Dibi-Dibi. This was nothing new, he added, asking his advisers, all nodding eagerly, to confirm this. All those heads of state with their solemn faces and their nuclear warheads, well, without his modest insights, they would have blown the planet to smithereens a long time ago!

The ancients, so intimately familiar with the history of Diafouné, could still recall Daaw Demba, the ruler of the Cayor between 1640 and 1647. His power went to his head, and for seven long years, Daaw Demba unleashed a reign of terror where the most ordinary gestures of everyday life became grounds for the death penalty. His subjects were forbidden to consume both fresh and salted meat, and a newly married man was prohibited from deflowering his own bride—obligingly, Daaw Demba himself took on that task throughout his entire kingdom. His secret agents crisscrossed the Cayor in the most deceptive disguises, and if two of the king’s subjects were spotted holding an intimate conversation, or if they were heard laughing out loud, they had their heads cut off on the spot, since that, too, had been officially banned by Daaw Demba.

In the end, however, the Cayor did not find it very hard to rid itself of Daaw Demba. All the conspirators had to do to get rid of the tyrant was to wait for him to fall into the trap of his own vanity. Forced into exile, he died a miserable death, far away from home and forgotten by all.

And as for Dibi-Dibi, his hour of truth is not as far off as he likes to think. Since he was betrayed by his generals, he’s been hiding in his palace where he alternates between bouts of dejection and exaltation. His fits of rage are apparently so extreme that he injures himself occasionally by hurling everything he can lay his hands on at the mirrors. His fear of being poisoned, we are told, has pushed him to the brink of starvation.

In New York, they are talking about dispatching a contingent of soldiers to Diafouné. The United Nations has decreed that to restore peace, military intervention is needed.

Commander Zero’s message is clear, however: “Foreign soldiers will not be allowed onto the sacred soil of our country. Should the UN decide to send troops, we have no option but to fight them.”

The night has been quiet.

Atou Seck blinks, and then slowly opens his eyes a little to the first rays of dawn. In all his life, he has never felt closer to the earth and the trees that surround him.

He has always been able to tell upon waking, purely based on those subtle, barely perceptible variations of light, whether it’s closer to six or seven o’clock in the morning. One or two little sunrays more or less? Perhaps. But why that is, he doesn’t know. The voice of Imam Dione is echoing inside his head. He is grateful to still have the strength to get up and perform his ablutions. During prayers, it seems as though he is no longer alone in the house. Someone is secretly observing him; he can feel it more and more clearly. He listens more intently, but all he can hear is the sighing of the wind in the foliage, followed by the gurgling of his intestines.

A few moments later he hears barking coming from the river banks, or perhaps even from the sea, to the west of Gouye-Guewel.

“Stray dogs,” he mutters to himself.

The first explosion makes the doors and windows shake. The ones that follow are equally deafening. With raucous cries, thousands of birds emerge from the trees and start circling above the courtyard until, suddenly, they change direction all together and fly north. Atou Seck does not budge from his mat. He has remained calm throughout. He is just curious to find out what will happen next.

A few minutes later the sound of whistling bullets fills the air. A noise he only knows from the cinema. He tries to imagine Gouye-Guewel after the battle: a lunar landscape, with smoke rising up from piles of rubble and hundreds of dead bodies being devoured by vultures. Dozens of craters, dug out by the bombs.

After three hours of fighting, the shooting ceases toward midday.

He can hear human voices coming from the little alleyway.

Soldiers, no doubt.

“There is no one here,” one of them says.

“Indeed, that appears to be the case.”

They stopped in front of Atou Seck’s house, and the first voice is heard once more, “But you never know.”

“That’s true, my boy. You never know.”

They must be thinking of landmines. Or an ambush. They are quite right to be taking precautions, Atou thinks. There it is again, the rattling noise of machine gunfire. One of the two soldiers utters a horrific scream. The detonations, punctuated by more screams, increase very briefly, and then Gouye-Guewel is quiet again.

It suddenly occurs to Atou Seck to go and look for the soldiers in order to give himself up. But as soon as he tries to stand, he gets dizzy and has to sit down again. He feels as though he is suffocating. His heart is racing and he gasps for air.

Atou Seck looks up, and there she is in front of him, leaning against a large grey and black stone with her two front paws suspended in the air. Her gaze is fearful and sad at the same time. “I have never seen anything like this before,” Atou Seck murmurs, “I can’t remember ever coming across a human being with such a hairy body before . . . And her tail! It’s so long!”

It is a female monkey.

“She must have been hiding in the dark, watching me all this time,” Atou Seck thinks to himself. And now she has lost her fear and has come out into the open. That must mean that his end is nigh and this monkey knows it. She is here, waiting for the moment when she can pounce on him and quench her thirst with his blood. This is the first time he feels any regret for not listening to Omar Diaw’s advice. He should have left with the others. Having one’s death pangs sullied by the loathsome howls of a monkey, that’s humiliating. He doesn’t deserve that.

Her eyes. She talks to him with her eyes. But that doesn’t mean Atou Seck understands what she wants from him. She is as motionless as a rock. Her gaze is sending out silent words that hover in the air for a moment, then vanish. Atou Seck imagines himself chasing those words like a child running after soap bubbles on a rainy day. When the little one stretches out its hands trying to touch them, the bubbles burst without a sound, and the child shrieks with joy.

It’s beginning to dawn on him that the presence of this monkey cannot be a coincidence. Everything around them seems to have been waiting for this animal to appear. She has taken her place in this setting in the same way as a creature of flesh and blood slots into a picture to fill an empty space.

The arrival of this monkey, so silent and yet so alert, has changed everything.

The grey and black stone that serves as her armrest.

The clothes line that cuts across the courtyard, with its red and white plastic pegs swinging softly in the wind.

The long wooden bench. That was where Atou Seck’s friends used to sit during their lively games of checkers. They were so hooked on the game that they often spent the whole day there, pushing the pieces around the board. But now the wooden bench is upside down. For him, that spells solitude and exodus.

A sudden gust of wind rattles the front gate. The monkey flinches, turns round, and quickly swivels her head from side to side. Atou Seck is surprised to see her suddenly getting so nervous.

But she calms down very quickly. That doesn’t bode well for Atou Seck. She disappears behind the house and when she returns, she positions herself directly in front of him, transfixing him with her suspicious gaze.

She obviously thinks he is planning to trick her. He wants to tell her this is not true, but he can’t open his mouth.

His lips are parched.

Two days later, without warning, he sees the monkey leaping out of the tree and planting herself right in front of him again. She seems even more agitated than during her previous visit, but in a different way. This time, she has a very clear idea in her head. She moves behind the checkers players’ bench, then back toward Atou Seck. The noises she makes as she returns to her original spot are almost human. “Any moment now she’ll grab my hand and show me what she’s hiding over there,” Atou Seck thinks, vaguely amused by her antics. She is growing palpably impatient with Atou Seck’s reticence.

He gets up and follows her. You never know. When a wild animal suddenly appears out of nowhere, one has to be careful.

The two babies are huddled up under the bench. They peer at him with dark and fearful eyes.

On that same day, she left them with him in the courtyard. Before he even had the chance to figure out what was happening, she was gone.

But Atou Seck was in good spirits. He adopted them without a moment’s hesitation. Playing leapfrog with them and even talking to them from time to time slowly brought him back to life. They may not have been able to answer him, but he pretended not to notice. He was fed up with hearing nothing but the echo of his own voice. Right from the start, Atou Seck was convinced they were there purely to cheer him up. He thanked his lucky stars for sending him two grandchildren.

One morning, at around ten o’clock, they were all dozing together on his mat. Barely conscious of what was happening to him, Atou Seck could feel a rope being wound around his body. They were chuckling happily as they bustled about, and he thought they had invented a new game. In reality they had tied him so tightly to his acacia tree that from one minute to the next, he had become their prisoner, incapable of the slightest movement.

At least once a day, they go out and leave him alone. As far as he can work out, they go rummaging around in the garbage heaps and investigate the kitchens in the abandoned houses of Gouye-Guewel. They might bring back a few small chunks of cassava, a piece of banana peel, or some peanuts, and on a lucky day even some large cashews.

They put his food on the mat, making sure he is able to reach it with his mouth. It is demeaning, but he has no choice. How distressing to have to contort oneself like that in order to eat, but when he manages to snatch a crust of bread, he quickly takes it between his teeth and starts chewing it slowly. After a few days he has perfected the technique and not a single crumb of his meager rations is lost. The two little monkeys sit there, observing him and accompanying his meals with their malicious chuckles.

If they are unhappy with Atou Seck—and that happens almost all the time—they whack him with a stick and say things he doesn’t understand. They can get so furious that he is afraid they might kill him on the spot.

Sometimes, usually in midafternoon, Atou Seck watches as they groom themselves. They shave, take long showers, and then each put on smartly tailored light blue suits. They always wear exactly the same clothes: white shirt, brown hat, big dark sunglasses and a red tie. Whenever he sees them getting dressed up like that, Atou Seck knows they are about to take him on one of their little strolls around Gouye-Guewel. They loosen the rope around his neck and drag him along the streets of the neighborhood. They never fail to stop at the drinking trough near the public park. He hesitates every time before drinking its greasy, greenish looking water, but he has to do it. Without further ado, he crouches down and lowers his lips into the trough to quench his thirst.

Atou Seck obediently does their bidding. But he still hasn’t stopped wondering why they treat him like this. Occasionally, he even jokes with them as if nothing had happened. But that’s something they cannot stand. He has the impression that the mere sound of his voice puts them into a state of shock. Are they perhaps amazed—you simply never know—that humans are able to speak as well? They look at each other in disbelief and their dramatic gestures convey their exasperation. He receives a few lashes with the whip, and they pull harder on the rope.

Every now and then, the mother returns.

They go and meet her on top of the enclosure. They hug each other, she delouses them, and they purr with delight. Seeing the three of them so happy together gives Atou Seck high hopes every time that she will take them with her when she leaves again. But the female monkey’s departure is always as sudden as her arrival.

Atou Seck has found names for them. “You, the little male, will be Ninki. And you, his younger sister, are going to be called Nanka.” Atou Seck mutters to himself, “Ninki-Nanka.”

Ninki-Nanka—they are all the company he has in the world. Although they detest him, it is reassuring for him to have them around. It would all be fine if he could only talk to them. He misses nothing so much as the warmth of a voice. It’s strange, but before, he had the reputation of being taciturn, very stingy with words. And now, his favorite pastime is listening to the conversations the two monkeys are always so absorbed in. What can they possibly be talking about? Atou Seck thinks they may even be using a real human language. Human, but at the same time perhaps unknown to all humans. So he tries to listen intently, hoping to catch just one word of what they are saying. Just a single word. But his hopes are always dashed. They talk too fast, these little monkeys. Each sound crashes so violently into the next that it almost makes his skull hurt.

Ninki goes up to his little sister and whispers something into her ear. She listens to him, frowns and slowly nods her head.

That’s enough to give Atou Seck a huge fright. Monkeys whispering secrets to each other, surely that’s one of the scariest things in the entire world! Monkeys don’t whisper. That, at least, he is certain about.

“Oh well, the war between Dibi-Dibi and Commander Zero is clearly not preventing my two little monkeys from living like royalty!” Atou Seck says to himself with a snicker. Each one of their meals is a veritable feast. A few evenings ago, they started having dinner outside in the courtyard. Seated at opposite ends of a long table, they help themselves to thinly sliced roast beef or grilled grouper. Oysters and prawns frequently feature on their menu. Those are the times when they are rather less talkative than normal. They lift their fork to their mouth with an elegant flourish and then chew their food with great relish. They seem to like fruit, but not nearly as much as he would have expected from this species of animal. Little Nanka definitely adores persimmons. She puts them in the freezer overnight, and the next morning they have ripened in the cold. She then takes them out, cuts them into paper thin slices, bright orange in color, and drops them into a bowl of yoghurt. Atou Seck has never seen them drink wine except at mealtimes, but they clearly cannot tolerate much alcohol. One glass is enough to make them tipsy, and more than once, Ninki has come and pissed on his prayer mat in his inebriated state, giving him an insolent look.

“Listen to me, abominable creature! I sacrifice my life for you, and instead of thanks, all I get is your ingratitude!”

Unable to understand the reasons for this unexpected outburst of rage, Ninki and Nanka stare at each other in surprise. But no sooner have they turned their menacing gaze on him than he is begging for mercy. “It’s not you who are making me so angry, my adorable little grandchildren! My enemies are on their way from the hereafter to attack the earth. I can hear the clattering of their footsteps in the sky! They have seen how much you are spoiling me—me, your grandfather—and that makes them jealous! We must be vigilant, for soon they’ll be right here in the courtyard of this house! They are cannibals, they want to devour our guts, but we won’t let them do that to us!”

When he stops talking, Ninki walks up to him with a banana in his hand. He waves it in front of Atou Seck’s face, who tries to grab it with his teeth, but Ninki suddenly throws the fruit far away. Then he opens his mouth wide and starts beating his chest and uttering incomprehensible grunts. Atou Seck hangs his head. Quickly and discreetly, Ninki gives his sister a signal at which Nanka jumps over the wall and returns with a stick that she passes to Ninki.

Atou Seck is huddled up against the tree trunk in anticipation of his lashes. The little monkey lifts his hand as if to hit him, then drops it with an expression of utter contempt on his face. He walks back to the house, without so much as having touched him.

All three of them looked up at the sky at the same time. It was the first time since the beginning of the war that they noticed the small fighter planes above Gouye-Guewel. After several flybys, the planes, which were now flying at a lower altitude, started dropping their bombs onto targets they had no doubt identified in advance. All of them were located near the zoo. Atou Seck wondered what had happened to the animals—panthers, giraffes, and hyenas—that the children used to come and see every Sunday from all over the town. They were probably abandoned by their keepers and died from starvation a long time ago. They must have been so dirty and malnourished that they could never have survived in captivity. Maybe the war was a kind of salvation for them. It dawned on Atou Seck that that was where Ninki and Nanka must have escaped from. He put the question to them, but they didn’t hear it because the entire area was shaking from explosions that were probably causing a lot of damage much farther afield. The hostilities in Gouye-Guewel had started up again, amid all the devastation and the buildings that were already in flames. Watching their tanks revving up like frightened horses could have been almost comical, had the battle for the zoo between insurgents and the national army not been so ferocious.

It looked as though the clashes of Gouye-Guewel might turn into the decisive battle.

When all was quiet again, he heard a political commentator make the following statement on air: “It will be easier to seize Gouye-Guewel than to control it.” He found it hard to believe that Gouye-Guewel, this ghetto of down-and-outs, should be a place of such strategic importance. After all, it was not the only area that was wedged between the river and the sea. Atou Seck was convinced its inhabitants would be chased out of their houses after the war. It was unheard of for ordinary people to be taking it easy on the beach instead of toiling away from morning till night. Having the sea breeze gently tickling their nostrils just like that must be a random little error, and would be rectified when the time was right, no matter whether Dibi-Dibi or Commander Zero carried off the final victory.

“Ha! My two little bastards! Nobody except you shrieks like that, nor would anybody else make such a deafening noise in the living room. So they’re still busy creating a complete shambles in there!”

Having managed to loosen his rope a bit, Atou Seck has crawled right up to the living room door. He positions himself near the window from where he can observe them without being seen. There they are, lazing about on the sofa and watching television. Atou Seck can hardly believe his eyes. Since when has the TV been working again? “Monkeys who fix televisions! Whatever’s next in Dibi-Dibi-Land?” he mutters.

He is holding his breath. If they discover Atou Seck is spying on them, he’s dead meat. Ninki, the boy, is a real sadist. Making people suffer clearly gives him pleasure.

On the screen, a young Toubab woman is pacing up and down, talking very fast into a microphone. The words coming out of her mouth sound like the rat-a-tat noise of an old moped that doesn’t want to start. “One wonders how she manages to breathe!” Atou Seck thinks. After several minutes, she finally stops talking and with a sweeping gesture, she points to six small steps covered with a red carpet. The next moment, first one singer appears in front of the rapturous audience, and then four or five more are lining up on the stage. All are dressed in fluorescent suits, shouting at the top of their voices and gesticulating wildly. Since their eyes are bulging and their mouths are so horribly distorted, they must be singing love songs, Atou Seck thinks to himself. Most of them are pressing their hands on their heart and are grimacing dreadfully. He manages a wry little smile when he sees all these young artists dancing like a troop of monkeys. Now he can understand Ninki and Nanka’s new love for the television much better. More and more often, he sees them glued to the screen for hours on end. It is like an addiction for them.

Frequently at night, music wafts across to him—muffled sounds, as if coming from another planet.

After that, it’s as though he has been completely forgotten. They will just briefly abandon the screen to make themselves an espresso in the kitchen, and then they’re back on the sofa again. Atou Seck’s new pastime is to secretly watch Ninki and Nanka watching television. At times he has trouble understanding what is going on. Nanka comes rushing into the living room and starts mimicking the female singer on the podium. Then she suddenly stops dead, holding out her hand to her brother. He walks up to her, grips her waist and they start dancing, going round and round in circles and lifting their feet up very high in front of them. There are moments when Atou Seck has to admit that their tango is not entirely devoid of grace. He wonders whether these two little monkeys aren’t themselves just images from the TV.

Atou Seck can feel death drawing stealthily closer, ready to strangle him by gradually tightening its grip. But he is not going to let that happen to him. He must be strong. In his state of distress, he is beginning to think the animals are planning to wipe out the entire human race. “They want to kill us all, one after the other; that’s what they want to do. They’re going to take as long as they want to achieve this, without even being aware of it, because time doesn’t exist for them. The worst of all wars is when you don’t even know where the battlefield is anymore.”

A ceasefire agreement has been signed. Or at least that’s what the voice is saying on the radio.

Since yesterday, Gouye-Guewel has been completely calm. Dibi-Dibi’s army seems close to victory. The news plunges Atou Seck into despair. He simply cannot take the fact that this madman will go on governing the country.

In a special newsflash on the official radio channel, Commander Zero’s death has been announced. The reporter admits that it has yet to be confirmed, but he sounds optimistic.

Commander Zero, the rebel leader, the man with his beige balaclava and the machine gun barrel pointing up into the air. Atou Seck doesn’t like him either. But no matter what, he wants Dibi-Dibi’s troops to get beaten. It has to happen. One way or another, the country must let Dibi-Dibi know it’s over and that his hour of truth has arrived. That will be Atou Seck’s very own, personal revenge. Ninki and Nanka will be in deep trouble when that happens. They will beg him to spare their lives, but he will be merciless. In preparation of his fight against the forces of Evil he decides to gather whatever information he can find about the enemy.

No stone will be left unturned.

The development over hundreds of millions of years of a species that tolerates heat better than cold. In captivity, in the zoos, they perform their acrobatics and pull funny faces to avoid having to starve to death. Granted, children throw them peanuts and biscuits, but what a way to live! A race of pathetic creatures that survives on garbage and whose disappearance would do humanity as a whole a great deal of good. While in one country—he seems to remember it’s in India—killing this animal is against the law, elsewhere, it gets turned into a delicious roast. Yes, those are his kind of people, that is what he calls a civilized country. He would love to have a nice spider monkey roast for supper, seasoned with garlic and plenty of chili. The true connoisseurs say spider monkey is juicy and tender. It makes him salivate just to think of it.

On the Rock of Gibraltar, a baboon, with his hands in his pockets, walks into a little grocer’s shop on Cannon Lane—one of several streets that intersect with Main Street. He knows Rodrigo Mancera, the proprietor, very well. Actually, Rodrigo is one of his closest buddies. When it’s his turn, he hands him a pack of Marlboros. It is the end of the day, and the shop is about to close. Rodrigo takes two bottles of beer from the minibar and offers one to Baboon. They drink and they talk about nothing in particular. But tonight, they at least have a small scandal to gossip about. Artemio Vargas, the shadiest and most notorious cop in Gibraltar, got caught at last. Drug trafficking and illegal immigration. He was in cahoots with one of the ferrymen. “These ferrymen are the biggest scourge in town,” complains Rodrigo Mancera, who always has something to moan about. Baboon concurs by blowing puffs of smoke into the air. “This time they’ve managed to collar him,” he says, sounding pleased. “At the very moment when the guy was about to hand over the dosh. A double crime—caught in the act. There’s nothing he can do, old Artemio.” Rodrigo is not so sure about that. He has realized that politicians aren’t terribly bothered about the law, and has become disillusioned. They’re all the same, rotten to the core, that’s what he thinks of them. “This is Gibraltar,” he says calmly. “Just wait and see.” Then he questions Baboon about his life in the jungle. That’s always how it starts between the two of them, with these trivial little questions that you ask a friend to fill an awkward gap in the conversation. “How do you make love?” asks Rodrigo, who has read, or perhaps only heard, that the male and the female shag each other while swinging in the air, just holding on to tropical jungle vines. The grocer finds that incredibly romantic, but it’s still rather bizarre, he thinks. It seems to Baboon that Rodrigo Mancera, who is utterly intrigued by the whole thing, wants to try it out for himself, as it were. Obviously, Baboon quite likes him to think of his people as possessing an unusual sexual creativity, but there is simply no truth in it. It makes him smile, and he categorically denies all their bullshit about what goes on in bed when actually there isn’t even a bed. “There is absolutely no reason why we should get laid in such a dangerous way, Rodrigo. I bet you’ve never seen anyone making love with his tail wrapped around a branch, my brother!” After a pause, which allows him to revel in Rodrigo Mancera’s disappointment and irritation, he concludes: “We do it on the ground, just like everyone else. What makes you think we’re so complicated, man?”

Later on, during their pub crawl in town, Rodrigo wants to know how they choose their leader, what their favorite fruits are and whether it’s really true that they turn their young into succulent meatballs that they marinade in lemon juice before consuming them with relish? And what about their music, yes, especially their music! You know there are people who say they have tiny droplets of mambo, rumba, jazz and blues in their veins—what do you think of that? And all those many different species of baboons, I mean really, what’s that all about? The place is crawling with them, they are absolutely everywhere! How many of them are there all in all do you think? We basically have no idea and the scandalmongers claim that that’s why they’re constantly bashing each other on the head with machetes . . . Rodrigo Mancera himself doesn’t believe a word of it, of course. Everybody knows he’s not a racist, and besides one mustn’t forget that Baboon is his best mate. In fact he thinks he has heard that an absolutely phenomenal monkey was only recently discovered in the Forest of the Bees in Gabon, on the banks of the Efuwé River. Apparently the tip of his tail is so dazzlingly white that it blinds all those who stare at it! This story has made a big impression on Rodrigo Mancera as well—just imagine, you’re a bit too nosy, you’re looking at a tail from too close by and hey presto, you get punished for your sins right there and then! I was gobsmacked! Things are certainly different over there, in the Forest of the Bees, very different from home indeed . . . And in order to really squeeze it dry, this topic that seems so endlessly fascinating to Rodrigo, he wants to know what Baboon is doing here, so far from the forest, it’s not as if he is keen to chase him away from Gibraltar, but a foggy rock in the middle of the deep blue sea, that’s not exactly the jungle, is it, the trees are missing, the dark green foliage, the lianas, the wild berries and all the rest of it, Rodrigo Mancera finds it hard to believe that he has left all that natural splendor behind just to come and drink beer in this gray hellhole; it’s simply such a hideous place, Gibraltar. Baboon feels like telling him that his questions are utterly preposterous, that he should rather go there and see for himself that there are trees in that forest that almost touch the sky, what is he thinking, we, too, know how to scrape the sky, but the truth is that all this stuff bores him stiff, he just wanted to go out and have a quiet pint with his mate without turning the whole thing into some bloody lecture—he’s not an intellectual, after all. But, Baboon is quite aware of the fact that Rodrigo is essentially a decent fellow who is just talking nonsense because of what he sees on television every night and he doesn’t want to disappoint him. After their fourth outing, he has grown exceptionally fond of Rodrigo Mancera and is perfectly prepared to take him to the most far-flung corners of the jungle, yes really, why shouldn’t he? It must be conducive to the progress of mankind if the Sons of the Earth get to know each other better. Baboon recites the great epic of his people and tears well up in his eyes. Soon his feelings of sadness will cause him to shed floods of tears. Down there, the old people never tire of telling the younger generation these stories, he says ecstatically, and Rodrigo Mancera can see it in his friend’s eyes how much he is missing the forest all those many miles away on the other side of the ocean.

One day, he tells Rodrigo, the Monkey Army decides to put an end to Lion’s arrogant and despotic behavior. The way they do this is very simple: several hundreds of thousands of them start pursuing him everywhere, filling the air with their deafening shrieks, a noise that is so peculiarly shrill and becoming shriller and shriller all the time. To start with, Lion quite likes the Monkey Army’s suicidal tactics, since it means he no longer needs to go hunting; he can just grab them like fruit that’s fallen off a tree, and he always has more fresh meat than he can eat. He devours so much of it that he has to take a good long siesta to digest all that meat. But hold on, that doesn’t work, because the members of the Monkey Army continue to make an intolerable racket with their piercing screams. He gets up, roaring like thunder, and starts massacring them again by the thousands, this time not to eat them but to clear a path for himself. But the more he kills, the more of them he sees crowding in on him. The monkeys, far from being intimidated, simply leap across their brothers’ bodies and continue to torment him. Every time the wild beast stands still and gets ready to attack them, the Monkey Army reads shock and horror in his face. While some of them are pelting his head with all sorts of projectiles, others are daring enough to cling to his mane. In a final burst of indignation, he attempts the most regal and spectacular roar of his life, but he is exhausted, and the sound that comes out is barely more intimidating than the meowing of a cat. And that is all that is necessary to unleash a veritable frenzy of jubilation among the Monkey Army. Finally, as he lifts up his paw in order to fight off some of his most insolent assailants, Lion topples over and collapses to the ground.

At that point, something astonishing happens. Hanging on to the branches of a tree, or squatting on the ground right next to him, one million monkeys are so quiet you could hear a pin drop as they watch him die a slow death.

The moment their enemy has stopped breathing, they scatter and disappear into the forest and carry on bickering exactly as before.

It’s not the first time Baboon told Rodrigo Mancera this story, but he still finds it fascinating. For the little grocer from Gibraltar who is also a great admirer of Che Guevara, this is proof that a united people will never be defeated.

At about two o’clock in the morning, their pub crawl around the bars of Gibraltar still isn’t over. Rodrigo Mancera starts teasing him, hey Baboon, if only you could see yourself, you’re totally pissed, man, you’re a weakling, a wimp, after two whiskies and a few beers all you can do is talk gibberish. This is a serious insult and Baboon decides to prove him wrong, even if it should cost him his life. Without a word, he walks out into the traffic on Calle Comedias. Standing in the middle of the road, he waits for the cars to approach him, one after the other, and just at the very moment when he is about to be run over, he nimbly leaps out of the way, not without lifting his cap and saluting the driver by taking a deep, elaborate bow in the manner of the Spanish bull fighters. He then asks Rodrigo Mancera to do the same, go on my boy, we’ll soon know which one of us is more sloshed. Rodrigo Mancera rises to the challenge and in the end they both congratulate each other on their bravery and for the thousandth time that night they pledge eternal friendship between their nations. But Baboon doesn’t hold his liquor well and when he is in that state, he just goes on and on about the complicated history of his people. It all comes bubbling up to the surface and starts to file past them: the Spanish conquista in Mexico and Guatemala, the massacre at Wounded Knee, the Algerian War and the Voulet-Chanoine Mission, all Rodrigo Mancera’s dirty tricks, we haven’t forgotten any of them, you see, and it seems a little bit too easy now that everybody’s dead and our treasures have been carried off, to come and say, OK, Baboon, those horror stories of the past, they’re over now, that’s ancient history; let’s make a new start, let there be nothing but peace and harmony between us from now on and let’s all behave like civilized people. No really, that’s just a bit too clever, my friend. Yes, he says, I like you a lot, we’re brothers and I’m prepared to die with you if your life is in danger that’s all fine Rodrigo, but I don’t have a short memory, you know, so don’t take me for a fool please. Rodrigo abandoned him a few million years ago, and that still torments him. To be completely honest, he, Baboon, feels quite traumatized by that betrayal even now. They were romping around in the trees up there, near the clouds, feeding on succulent mangoes, berries and green leaves. And then, one day, when he wanted to chat to Rodrigo on the branch next to him, he was gone. “Since that day you have been looking down on me!” Baboon screams furiously, almost prepared to fight it out with Rodrigo Mancera there and then. And besides, Rodrigo’s children, should they really be allowed to call him Baboon-with-Scalded-Buttocks, and how about Consuelo, his wife, who avoids him while she’s pregnant, because, horror of horrors, the baby might be born looking like a baboon? He has a good mind to tell Rodrigo in no uncertain terms that he finds his arrogance hard to comprehend!

And on he goes in the same acerbic vein, “You are no longer one of us, Rodrigo Mancera, Homo sapiens and Homo sapiens. Or something like that. Finally, many generations and several million years later, this species reaches its pinnacle in the form of a little grocer in Gibraltar who isn’t even a genuine guevaristo! Bravo, what an achievement, young man! Just between you and me, Rodrigo, there’s no reason to be so stuck-up—when someone falls off a tree, we call that a fall, don’t we? Every day, your destiny is closing in on you a bit more. You are totally ignorant of the mess you’re in, and you haven’t the foggiest idea where the paths you have marked out for yourself are going to lead. Swallow your pride and come back home, Rodrigo Mancera. We may not be smart enough to build airplanes, but we are a lot less stupid than you, that’s for sure. Ah, I nearly forgot that little thing you’ve invented that is so brilliant. Money. You love it so passionately that you have lots of affectionate nicknames for it: Dosh. Dough. Moolah. Green. Loot. And that’s probably not all. We laugh about it so much here that it makes the baobabs and tamarinds quiver all night long. Bits of paper with mysterious scribbles on them. Nothing more. And yet, be on your guard if you haven’t got any of them. Every disease known to man will be lying in wait for you, together with hunger and thirst, basically all the most terrible afflictions imaginable, and they will kill you in the end. My brother, am I right in thinking that you only betrayed me so you can totter around in a haze of lunacy, full of bitterness and hatred?”

Rodrigo Mancera bursts out in a fit of laughter and gives Atou Seck such a powerful slap that he wakes up with a start, drenched with sweat. He jumps up from his mat and tries to run straight ahead. But that is a bad idea because it tightens the rope around his wrists even more and he lets out a long scream. Nanka sees him writhing in pain and goes back into the house to call her brother. He emerges from the living room, scolds Atou Seck and ties him more securely to his tree.

It’s a cloudless night in the middle of September. The sky is so clear that when the man looks up, he has the sensation of being in direct contact with the most radiant stars, just as it sometimes happens with the clouds, when quite out of the blue, for no particular reason, they take on the shape of a polar bear or a cruise ship. For several days now, the same wind, cool and gentle, has been blowing on Gouye-Guewel, but it is not strong enough to get rid of the swarms of nocturnal insects. The mosquitoes clearly know that Atou Seck’s hands are tied behind his back since they are attacking his face in small clusters, creating a constant buzz in his ears. He has grown weary of constantly having to shake his head to chase them away—unsuccessfully, of course—so he covers himself with his blanket.

At this precise moment, the objects around him start moving. He sits down again, waiting for the explosion. A streak of light shoots up above the trees and then drops down into the sea with a muffled hissing sound.

Then there are footsteps and he thinks, “They’re here.” He wonders whether it is Dibi-Dibi’s army or Commander Zero’s insurgents, but almost immediately decides that it actually makes no difference.

The sound of footsteps is getting fainter.

All of a sudden, Atou Seck can no longer control his anger toward Ninki and Nanka. “You little good-for-nothings! Just you wait until I get a chance to deal with you once and for all! That’ll be the end of you lounging around on the sofa all day long, watching television! Lazybones!”

Atou Seck manages to drag himself to the door again. The TV is on, and a soccer match is showing. The referee is holding up a red card in front of one of the players. With his hands folded on his head, he is begging not to be sent off the pitch. The player who got hurt by him is flat on his back, squirming with pain and clasping his right ankle. That means there are still countries where people play soccer. A different world, so to speak. Ninki and Nanka are blissfully oblivious to all this. They are fast asleep on the couch, cozily snuggled up to each other. Atou Seck looks at his watch: “Three o’clock in the morning . . . I’ll at last be able to get some sleep.”

He is waiting.

For what? He doesn’t know. He is not afraid of dying. That happens to everybody all the time.

More gunshots. This time they have nothing to do with the war. The sound of shooting comes from the living room.

“Not that blasted television again!” he growls.

The gunfire is coming from all directions, and on top of that, tanks are taking aim at fugitives who are running for cover in the woods. Soldiers are falling like flies, dozens of them. There are bodies rolling around in the dust all over the place; they are piling up in a narrow, dried up riverbed.

A few minutes later, the shots have died down to a faint echo and the combatants’ voices are fading into the distance. At that moment, the lens zooms in on one of the soldiers—he looks very young. He is stretched out on the green grass; his eyes are turned inwards and he is staring into the void. There is a blood-red hole in his chest. He is dying. Gradually, the colors on the television screen are becoming brighter and more vivid, and it is obvious that the film is running backward. The young soldier and his fiancée are on top of a hill. They are laughing and chasing each other. They are madly in love. She puts her finger on the soldier’s nose as if to say: “I breathe through this,” and her eyes sparkle with boundless happiness. The young soldier pulls her close to him, without saying a word. The fiancée is one of those ravishing, slender actresses who drive people crazy, although nobody has any idea what makes them so irresistible and so much more enchanting and alluring than other women who look almost identical to them. She has exquisite, delicate features, long, jet-black hair, and the gentle curves of her body make her look sensual and fragile at the same time. Again and again they embrace each other and then they part, murmuring words Atou Seck can’t understand.

The young soldier bids her a solemn farewell, and Atou Seck has no trouble guessing what he is saying to her. The words have remained the same, of course, ever since the birth of Man and ever since he set boldly forth to stain the earth with his blood: “Marguerite, I have to go and defend our country. I have told you that you are the one and only love of my life, and when I return, we will get married.” Words to that effect.

Marguerite is in floods of tears. Her fiancé tries to comfort her and then, suddenly, something unexpected happens: Marguerite starts taking her clothes off and frantically throwing them all around her. It’s clear that she is losing her mind. Her eyes and every one of her gestures betray a fierce determination, an unspeakable recklessness. She has decided to give herself to him before he walks into that infernal carnage, and nobody can stop her. But the young soldier blushes and, while squeezing her tightly against his body, tries to make her comprehend that he wants to protect her honor.

At this point in the movie, Atou Seck notices that Ninki and Nanka have become very agitated. They are literally beside themselves. On seeing the young woman in the nude—her near-perfect, truly sublime shape—they start jumping up and down in the living room, slapping each other on the back with glee. Oh la-la! What a grand spectacle we have there right in front of our eyes! But when the soldier refuses to play along, they are furious, calling him impotent. To Atou Seck, it looks as though they doubt that an individual who backs away from the body of a woman will have the courage to defend his country. That must be why the two little monkeys start hitting the screen as if trying to beat up this fake soldier.

“It seems that these two little scoundrels understand this language that I myself have never heard before . . . Could they have picked it up by watching TV? With those two, anything is possible.”

He returns to his mat, and there, with his eyes half closed, he pretends to be fast asleep.

“What day is it?” Atou Seck wants to know. Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? He has no idea. At Gouye-Guewel, the days go round and round in a circle. They are all exactly the same, like blindfolded children playing hide-and-seek. Each one pulls the mask off the next one, and so it goes on, forever and ever. For several weeks now, Atou Seck has been unable to distinguish dawn from dusk.

He has finally managed to undo the rope. For the first time since their arrival at the house, he can move around freely. As the only person in the deserted streets, he is in control of Gouye-Guewel. He feels well. His lungs are drawing in the sea air and the breeze is caressing his face. He feels invigorated, cleansed somehow, of every impurity.

But near the zoological garden, he spots a number of giant vultures sinking their powerful beaks into rotting corpses. As he is approaching them, they let go of their prey, lazily flap their wings a few times and come to rest on the roof of a house or on the power lines. As soon as he gets out of their sight, they return to the carcass and carry on ripping it to shreds.

He is lucky enough not to come across any guerrillas.

He could escape from Gouye-Guewel if he wanted to. But the thought doesn’t even cross his mind. There is no way a couple of monkeys are going to make him run away; after all, he is Atou Seck, the son of Fara Birame Seck and great grandson of Sangoné-Penda Seck, who heroically sacrificed his life at the Battle of Somb! He will go back and sit under his acacia tree. There, he will wait patiently for the hour of his revenge. Under no circumstances is he going to turn his back on the enemy swords!

When Ninki and Nanka hear him opening the zinc gate, they pounce on him with fury. Atou Seck pretends he has no idea what they mean and says innocently, “Ah! Here you are again, my dear little chaps! Grandpa went out to stretch his legs! Why didn’t you come along to keep me company? I am upset with you, I can’t deny it!” His contrived cheerfulness makes them even angrier. They are clobbering their chests, stamping their feet, and finally they leap on top of him. They shower him with insults, and Atou Seck realizes that they are speaking the same language as the young soldier and his fiancée Marguerite.

Ninki ties a piece of cloth over Atou’s eyes and mouth, leaving only a tiny slit under his nose to let him breathe. While the lashes are raining down on him, he remains completely rigid. Even when blood starts dripping from his wounds, he does nothing to defend himself. Now Nanka goes to the kitchen and comes back with some ground pepper that she sprinkles on his open wounds. Atou Seck hears himself uttering screams that sound almost inhuman, and he begs them for a coup de grâce to finish him off.

In response, the two monkeys slap their thighs, roaring with laughter.

What a strange creature you are, Son of the Earth! So many feelings you have mixed up inside you, but no idea where they come from.

Suddenly, words start singing all by themselves inside his head. He knows this tune very well—it sends shivers down his spine. Is that a real song, he wonders, or are these just random words, stirred up by the wind, whirling around in the air and following Atou Seck step by step on his last journey?

Man ràkkaaju naa! Waaw, man ràkkaaju naa!

He feels entranced. It’s the words that are singing and he is accompanying them. He is, and that must be made clear to everybody, the griot of the wind. His voice has faded to a murmur.

Man ràkkaaju naa! Waaw, man ràkkaaju naa!

He tries to remember the words of the song and the place where he heard them long ago . . . so long ago. It was such a long time ago . . .

Man ràkkaaju naa! Waaw, man ràkkaaju naa!

He is thinking of those old bàkk. Names of wrestlers come back to him. Youssou Diène. Mame Gorgui Ndiaye.

Where are you, Ninki? And you, too, Nanka, where are you? Come and untie my hands, so that I can at last give the wind his freedom again!

If only he could remember . . .

Man ràkkaaju naa! Waaw, man ràkkaaju naa!

If only he could catch hold of the meaning of these words at the last moment . . .

Gaynde Njaay, mbarawàcc!

Nobody will ever know why, but whoever hears these three words in Diafouné becomes invincible.

In the blink of an eye, the house has started filling up with soldiers. They seem to be coming from all directions. Their uniforms mean they must be Dibi-Dibi’s men. Terror grips Atou Seck and he wants to flee, but his tethers lacerate and burn his body as soon as he tries to move. All he can think of doing to save his skin is to shout, “Long live Dibi-Dibi! Long live Dibi-Dibi!”

But even that he is forbidden to do; he cannot open his mouth. His scream gets stuck in his throat, where chunks of sentences collide with each other. Chaos. Panic. The turmoil of the battlefield.

There is no time to think, since everything is suddenly happening too fast. Shouts and whistle blows are echoing from everywhere, an officer is bellowing orders and his men position themselves in front of every door, ready to open fire. A few seconds later, shouts are heard coming from the trees and more soldiers—this time Toubabs, all of them—are jumping down into the courtyard in small units of two or three. They, too, start fanning out in all directions, machine gun at the ready. They seem nervous. Their captain is talking to the commander of Dibi-Dibi’s soldiers, and calm returns to the house.

“Since when have these Toubabs been actively involved in the battles of Diafouné?” he wonders. He has never once heard that being mentioned on the radio. So they hid the truth from him all along!

He gets up, determined to find out what is actually going on. After all, whether there is a civil war or not, this is his house. About twenty more Toubab soldiers push their way through the front gate and are coming toward him. They look aggressive. What a story! How extraordinary to think that these young men were hiding in the trees all this time, observing his every move and gesture, while he was convinced he was completely alone in Gouye-Guewel!

Ninki and Nanka emerge from the living room, accompanied by one of the foreign soldiers. The latter turns to his boss, saluting and clicking his heels. Then he bows, with a respectful nod to Ninki and Nanka. The officer turns to the two monkeys, eyeing them with interest, and then greets each of them with an energetic handshake. It’s the first time Atou Seck has noticed a fleeting smile on the face of the foreign general. He is taken aback by the general’s courteous behavior toward Ninki and Nanka, but he can’t control himself anymore, and bursts into laughter. “This is what the end of the world must be like! You dirty little beasts, Monkeys-with-Scalded-Buttocks, do you want to drive me mad? Who can explain to me what’s going on in Diafouné?”

There is no answer. And maybe he didn’t actually say anything.

The monkey takes one leap over the fence, and there she is, standing in front of him. Suddenly the courtyard is deserted again. Just like the morning fog evaporates with the first rays of sunshine, the soldiers have disappeared without a trace. Even Ninki and Nanka are no longer there. He and the she-monkey are alone. They gaze at each other in silence.

She pulls out a revolver from under her loincloth and calmly takes aim at Atou Seck’s forehead.

One last time Atou Seck feels the wind caressing his face.

Man ràkkaaju naa! Waaw, man ràkkaaju naa!