That same Saturday, as the sun rose progressively toward high noon, the extended family invaded Sikolo Obame Afane’s house little by little.

Young people and neighbors alike were observing from the outside veranda, sitting on the ground, or pressed up against the window pane.

In the large salon that served as the meeting room, the Elders sat and formed a circle, closing in on the object of their attention: Ada.

Ada’s grandfather had four children: a daughter, Ntsame Afane, who had gone to live in the city; a son, Nguema Afane, who had two wives and nineteen children; another son, Sikolo Obame Afane; and another daughter, Okut Afane, who was Ada’s mother. Once all of the members of the Family Council had gathered, Ada’s grandfather began to speak, and in a hoarse yet resounding voice, he said:

“Obame, we have all come down from the mountain to gather at your house. Of course, as an elder, I am the one who is supposed to host you at my home. But as the little one is not well and her presence at this meeting is necessary, I preferred to come down instead.”

After these words, there was a pause so long that you could have heard a fly buzzing about. Then grandfather spoke again:

“Your younger sister, Akut Afane, is in mourning. Do you realize this?”

“Yes, Father, I know,” answered Obame Afane.

Then, addressing the other family members present, the grandfather asked in a booming voice:

“All of you who are gathered here, do you know that my daughter Akut Afane is in mourning?”

“Yes, we know,” answered the elders in unison.

“Aren’t all of us gathered here from the same bloodline? All branches of the same tree?”

“That’s exactly right,” the chorus rang out again.

“So, if all of this is indeed true, aren’t you curious as to why it is only Akut Afane in mourning? How can one broken branch fundamentally change the tree? Last night, at the hour the owls were screeching, my daughter came to announce to me that she had lost her daughter. Do you hear me? Ada Ondo, here in front of me, sitting between her Uncle Obame Afane and her Aunt Awudabiran', is apparently no longer alive. Let Obame Afane explain to us what has happened to his sister and her daughter. I’m done talking.”

With these very words, all eyes turned first toward Ada before converging on Obame Afane. As much as her extra weight would allow, Ada huddled between Awu and her uncle, at whose house she had shown up last night in a sorry state. She had gotten pregnant while away at school, just before summer break. When Ada had returned to the village, her mother didn’t notice a thing as the girl had hid her condition very well. Ada was in cinquième, boarding at a provincial collège8 about twenty miles away from Ebomane. The pregnancy evolved considerably in the course of the school year to the point where hiding it became practically impossible; consequently, her secret no longer was a secret, and the school’s administrators decided to expel her. Her mother was summoned to pick her up. Ada was practically full term. In the bus on the way back, no words were exchanged between mother and daughter. It was only upon arriving in Ebomane, as they were getting off the bus, that her mother had blurted out to her daughter matter-of-factly: “You are not to set foot in my house. In my mind, you are dead.” In hearing these words, Ada lowered her head and sat down on her tiny suitcase, watching her mother distance herself from her as the bus drove off in the opposite direction. The somber veil of nightfall began to enshroud the large village. Ada was somewhat relieved by the timing of this as she didn’t want to be recognized. A moment later she managed to get back on her feet and, with her suitcase atop her head, she walked into the night toward her Uncle Obame Afane’s house.

As grandfather had allowed him to speak, Obame Afane got up, looking very serious; his eyes swept across everyone in the room. He then glared at his sister Akut who was directly in front of him, sitting on the floor between two chairs occupied by Elders. With her disheveled hair and her pagne attached haphazardly just above her breasts, she offered up an image that was angry as well as resentful. Then, turning toward his father, Obame Afane said:

“When my daughter Ada arrived at my house yesterday at nightfall, I could tell right away that a terrible misfortune had befallen this family. And why? Akut isn’t married and doesn’t have a job. She turned her back on school very early on. And then she had never wanted to marry. My sister always preferred the easy route. School was too hard and marriage too confining. Years went by, and Akut saw that her former classmates were doing well socially and professionally. She began to regret her choices bitterly. This has to be said here today. It’s something everyone knows. And it’s the truth. And everyone knows what I think about this. She never wanted to follow my example—that of her older brother—as she figured that a woman didn’t need to struggle in life in order to succeed. After coming to her senses, Akut wanted to make up for lost time and redeem herself by becoming the woman she should have or could have always been: an educated woman, financially independent, and happily married. I know that my sister completely forgot about her past and was living only for the day when this dream would become reality. Do you hear me?”

“We hear you,” answered the crowd in unison.

“But do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Speak, Obame Afane, your words are as clear as the waters of Assok,9 retorted one of the Elders.

“I’m indeed saying that Akut no longer lives for herself but only for and through her daughter and everything she represents. As you all know, the only path to true success in today’s world is through education and good judgment. But unfortunately, no other woman in this family has ever had such ambition. Ada is the first in whom we all truly believed. She became everyone’s hope for the future. And personally, she was my own pride and joy. Now look. Look at her. In the condition that she’s in, she can forget about school and a good life. Ada’s success was her mother’s reason for living. Now do you understand, Father, why your daughter is in mourning?”

Ada, her head lowered, did not stop sobbing throughout Obame Afane’s entire speech. From time to time she blew her nose loudly using the kaba Awu had given her the night before in a discreet effort to console her. A heavy silence hung over the room before the grandfather responded:

“My son, you have spoken. I don’t know if what you said is right. I don’t know if what you said is wrong. As for me, I’m from the old school. You, you are a man of today. We don’t see things in the same way. This explains why I cannot grasp the nature of the misfortune that befalls you. Fertile land has always been a blessing in Ebomane. But I am just realizing that today it can be considered a curse. Your first wife—didn’t she die of a broken heart because of her infertility? Everyone here knows how much you loved her, but a real woman knows this is not enough. Women were meant to have children. It is a vital need not only for her, but above all, it is also a duty greater than no other. Nothing else really matters. If you young people are alarmed because a woman has accomplished this duty just a little earlier than expected and consider that the life she carries within her is symbolic of death, I must admit to you that your new way of seeing things is beyond my comprehension. Next you’ll be telling me that a dead leaf can stand up to the wind, or that a child can give birth to his mother. The man you see before you, it is I who am truly out of touch with reality. Out of touch! That being said, I, Afane Obame, am leaving. Where are the twins? Bring me back to the mountain!”

Nguema Afane’s twins, two fifteen-year-old, good-looking guys, rushed up to their grandfather and each took an arm. Just when the grandfather was about to get up, Awu’s father, who had arrived two days earlier to bring his son-in-law’s family some goods from his hunting trip and who, quite logically, attended the elders’ meeting as a member of the extended family, asked Afane Obame to remain seated. All the young people in Ebomane knew Awu’s father. They admired him very much because he was a major supporter of their soccer team. All the young people were proud of him because he was a grandfather who was “cool.” “Serious, but cool,” they insisted.

As in-laws are considered sacred, Afane Obame didn’t have a choice in the matter. Furthermore, it was the duty of the spouses’ elders, known as Mbebeñ, to maintain particularly courteous relationships with one another. So Afane Obame settled back into his seat once again, ready to listen to his peer, his Mui.

“Mui Mbebeñ,” began Awu’s father, “the whole family is gathered here to resolve a problem that I consider very serious. Indeed, it involves the lives of our children. The problem has been put here before us. The children have let their thoughts be known. And you as well have let your thoughts be known. Everyone has argued his point of view. And these two points of view are diametrically opposed. Am I wrong?”

“You speak the truth, oh Mui Mbebeñ.”

“So we cannot part ways like this. True, I am an outsider. But because of the ties that bind us, your problems are mine. And vice versa. So it’s with just cause that I am going to intervene in this affair. Are you all ears?”

“All ears, oh Mui.”

“What is done is done. The little one is pregnant and she’s been expelled from school. Elders 1, Youth 0. That’s the score, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly right,” the crowd agreed.

“Obame Afane!” he continued, “You who teach at the white school, tell me just one thing. The banana tree has only one chance in its existence to offer up the best that it can. Is this the same for a student attending the white school? I’m listening.”

“Minkî, father-in-law,” said Obame Afane, “you’re getting ahead of me. Your question brings up a very important point that I had intended to address after presenting the current situation. Our daughter has disappointed us, that’s true. She has dishonored some among us. This is also true. But the question that we all should be asking ourselves right now is if it is utterly impossible for her to return to school. Minkî, in answer to your question, I am speaking to everyone gathered here to solemnly proclaim that our daughter Ada is not beyond redemption. If her delivery goes well, she still has the possibility of returning to school and making up the time lost . . . provided that she has the will to do so, provided that this is what she really wants.”

“Nnom ngon, son-in-law, the words you have just spoken sound as sweet as honey. You have just doused the fires of our hot heads with cool water. Nnom ngon, our hearts are beating at a normal pace once again. Dear friends, this isn’t a game. Or if it is, the score is tied. Am I lying about this?”

“We don’t even know what you mean by that word,” the crowd snapped back.

“My job here is done,” said Awu’s father, readjusting his large boubou before settling into his armchair to comfortably follow along with the turn of events to come.

Afane Obame, who knew perfectly well that it would come down to his decision alone, cleared his throat to force silence upon the crowd and said:

“Mui Mbebeñ, I believe everything has been said. I have not much more to add, and it’s my pleasure to confirm that there is no problem here. No problem at all. Akut, bring your daughter home. Be considerate of her and take care of her needs. Her condition is sacred. Sacred, I tell you.”

Little by little, people began to disperse. Soon, only the residents of the house and Akut remained. She had waited for everyone to leave before lashing out at her brother:

“Obame, my position hasn’t changed. As far as I’m concerned, Ada no longer exists. I want nothing to do with her or with the child she is carrying. You say that she is not beyond redemption. So in that case, you can rehabilitate her yourself!”

On this note, she took off without waiting for a reaction. Ada collapsed, and Awu began to console her the best that she could. She had been Ada’s moral support for the entire duration of the gathering. As she was coddling the sobbing Ada, Awu had even thought she had detected a glimmer of relief mixed with gratefulness behind Akut’s livid look. But now Awu was convinced that Akut was abandoning her daughter simply because she didn’t want to take care of her, and especially not in her current condition. Thus, neither Obame nor Awu attempted to go after Akut to reason with her; they feared that in doing so, Ada would feel that she was unwanted in their home as well.