Here we are now, back in this big city of stone, which has turned cold. The evenings fall rapidly. It is only four in the afternoon but already dark. The street lamps light up strangely. It is terrible, this endless obscurity. It takes you by surprise, just when you thought you still had time. It feels like a betrayal. A compulsory rest imposed upon you despite your insomnia.
We have become little grey creatures. Rounded shoulders and round bellies. I cart my misery around, not knowing what is causing my voice to tremble and my soul to drown. For days now, I feel trapped, pacing about in my cage, my throat tightly constricted. What is happening to me? I am drained of all energy, and the beat of my heart has altered to an unusual rhythm. Under these covers, still warm from the heat of the night, I find myself suffocating. What is happening to me in this odourless city?
Here there are no griots, only poets. You think that you are leading an extraordinary life and that people see you as you would like them to. You adorn yourself with your writing. It becomes your identity, your bread and butter, and your reason for living. You begin to believe in what people say. You become locked up in your creation, become submerged in words, and sentences suffocate you in the solitude of your retreat. They make you forget the blood and the dust.
I think of my country, far away, and my eyes open beyond space.
In this vast city, words travel fast. I am bombarded with ideas. I see myself in that large conference room, listening keenly to writers from Africa—Angola, Ghana, Uganda, Kenya, Nigeria … One of the speakers proclaims:
‘It is our duty to understand our place in the history of humanity. An African literature cannot exist until the day we liberate ourselves from the arrogant criticism of the West.’
I dream of my country, which obsesses me all the time. I carry it with me all day. At night, it lies next to me, making love with me.
We must stamp out bad habits, uproot false theories. We must face ourselves squarely. Time flies, it has nothing to lose. The seeds we sowed have now taken root. I think of Adjamé, Treicheville, Yopougon. I think of the three‐lane motorway, lit in the dark humid night of an all too well‐known village.
I think of Abidjan’s gangsters, Bouaké’s thieves, of the organised gangs of Korhogo. And I say, ‘Just open your eyes! Open your eyes!’ I say, ‘Look at the sky. Its dark clouds herald a storm. The torrential rains will come with the sound of machine‐guns, and the roll of drums will come with the sound of military boots.’
I speak of Cocody, where the air is cool, where flowers bloom faster than in our pathetic neighbourhoods. I speak of the inequalities that breed like geckos under the ruins of slums.
There is no reason for being forgetful. No justification for laughing with your arms folded across your chest. The lunatic’s hair is tangled. The lice infesting his head are bloated with blood. The man stinks. His stench permeates the city.
I say, ‘Be wary of your lucky star. It will fall from the heavens and become reduced to cinders and ash. It will cake into clay.’
I say, ‘Be wary of those cheques with lots of noughts, those big‐bellied bank accounts, and black lacquered Mercedes.’
Your gardens will be trampled upon, your sacred altars under siege, and your fetish idols beheaded. Your houses will crumble. Your books will be strewn on the ground, and your famous thinkers condemned. All traces of your footsteps will be erased and your chests will be pierced with poisoned arrows on abandoned beaches.
All this news will be broadcast live on television and radio, by satellite, telex and telephone. The whole world will be able to see your contorted mouths, the thick oozing blood and your gruesome bodies in their final last throes.
Must you be blind, to not see?
Deaf, to not hear?
Mute, to not scream?
You want to believe in fairy tales and legends. Pray that things remain the same.
But really, it is obvious that the grass is not all that green, and the cows are not all that fat. If you stand back and think about it properly, you will realise that something has turned sour. You can no longer walk in the streets without thinking that something is not right. Times have changed. Admit it. Would you drink water from that lagoon?
We must perform cleansing rites. Make the necessary sacrifices. We must replant our huge trees that have been uprooted, replenish our sacred forests that have been decimated.
Particles of wind were singing and, as at the time of the primal whirlwind, leaves were blown upwards into the sky. The word was complete. That word which is at once uttered and silent, both active and inactive. The one possessed only by the initiated.
The gush of wind. Growling from the steel in the heavens. The rain will be dry and hard. There will be nowhere to shelter. You will have to offer your face and uncover your head. The rite will take place in the heart of the city and across the land. Debris will hurtle down the corridors of power.