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The Lieutenant of Kouta
By Massa Makan Diabaté, Shane Auerbach, David Yost Michigan State University Press
Copyright © 2012 Hachette Livre
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61186-227-0
CHAPTER 1
Hands bound, head covered in egg yolk, pulled by Lieutenant Siriman Keita, Famakan had no idea what he had coming.
"The Whites!" the lieutenant screamed. "This is all the Whites' fault! In the old days, a child of seven years was already in the fields. Today, they want to educate them. And what an education! Monday, they sleep off the exhaustions of Sunday. Tuesday, they work a little. Wednesday, they get ready to go out on Thursday. And Friday, they start dreaming of Sunday. And the second they know how to write their names, they speak of independence.
"Independence? In other words, no more pension for the lieutenant. No more pension for all those who showed, on the other side of the sea, the courage of our race. It's nothing but jealousy! Selfishness! Well, until the day they put dirt in my ears, the jealous and envious will find me here in Kouta, as sure as the sun follows the rain."
The lieutenant drew out the whole village with his shouting.
"It would have been better, Famakan, if an eagle had taken you from your mother's back at two months old. Your punishment will be exemplary. It would have been better if your mother's pagne had come undone in the middle of the market. Everybody could have seen her boutou-ba at their leisure! Her bushy slit. Nobody would have married her, and you would never have been born."
The women covered their ears to avoid hearing any more, saying, "Some neighbor the lieutenant is! Such insults, and on such a beautiful morning! ... And from the mouth of a man!"
"Famakan, your parents conceived you by day. We're told over and over again not to do that during the day. The siesta has spoiled this country. The child of the siesta will never amount to anything! Such children have no right to life. In the old days, they were abandoned in a cave where they died of starvation; or the family matriarch, on the advice of the elders, performed a bleeding, and their blood drained softly, slowly, and for a long time, chasing off the evil that they bore.
"Go to a house in Kouta after lunch and ask for the father of the family. You'll be told he's taking a siesta. An improved siesta ... Siestas make us ugly and unlucky. And the Whites have their share of the responsibility. They put thieves in prison, where they're fed. In the old days of this country, before the Whites' arrival — with their laws, their judgments, their mitigating circumstances — well, thieves had long nails pushed into their heads, softly, slowly, and for a long time. They were buried alive. They had their throats slit in the town square with badly sharpened knives, to make examples of them."
Famakan followed the lieutenant without saying a word, his eyes wild. He suddenly remembered what had happened to his classmate, Fakourou. It was the dry season; the harmattan was blowing, and the whole village had disappeared in the swirling wind. Fakourou had found a long cigarette butt at the edge of the market. On the Dotori Bridge, he saw a man smoking, snug in the old coat of an ex-soldier. Since many locals wore similar clothes, given to them by relatives who had gone to war in the white man's land, he didn't recognize the recently arrived Lieutenant Siriman Keita.
Fakourou asked the man for a light, his right temple bent forward, the cigarette butt pasted to his lips, awaiting the first, nostril-warming puff. The lieutenant had discreetly passed his cigarette from his right hand to his left. And by way of response, he gave Fakourou a slap so violent that the boy saw lights crisscrossing before his eyes! Scared out of his wits, he set off running from the Dotori Bridge to the school. He was seized by a high fever, and rumor had it that an evil spirit had beaten him.
"This village needs to be ruled with an iron fist," the lieutenant shouted, "like the Colonial Army! Until the day you die, you will never steal again. I, Lieutenant Siriman Keita, swear it myself. At the mere glimpse of a fallen object on the ground, you will flee in panic. Ah, the Whites. There's only one thing to teach the children of siestas: he who steals an egg today will steal an ox tomorrow."
The people of the neighborhood who were eating their breakfast stopped passing bowls from father to son, from mother to daughter. All eyes followed Famakan, held by the lieutenant's leash like a dog. Egg yolk ran into his eyes. He tried to wipe his face, but at that moment, the lieutenant pulled the cord taut, and Famakan collapsed into a mud puddle.
"Get up or I'll slit your throat!" the lieutenant roared, drawing the saber he always carried on his belt.
"Kill me now," Famakan murmured, "and let's be done with it."
"Not before I judge you!" threatened the lieutenant, catching Famakan's gaze with the gleam of his saber.
They arrived at the square house, and Siriman immediately barricaded his door to keep out the crowd of onlookers that had followed him since the Dotori Bridge. Then he dragged Famakan into his living room, ordered him to sit on the floor, and bound his arm to a chair.
"Now, Famakan, let's be frank. This egg — was it you who laid it, or one of my guinea fowls?"
"Has anyone ever seen a man lay an egg?"
"Well, you're going to lay one today, and I bet it'll be big enough to hang over the mosque."
"Sir ..."
"Call me 'Lieutenant'!" shouted Siriman. "It's my rank; I won it under fire against the enemies of France while your father and your mother were frolicking like geckos in full daylight. I myself made some female conquests overseas. After all, I am a man; I eat salt, and he who eats salt ..."
He stopped and took on a menacing look. "And if, one day, a boy or a girl, child of some red-butted monkey, decides to come here, to Kouta, in search of his father, I'll drag him behind the village by the tree nursery and put him down with a revolver."
"Lieutenant, I took an egg from beneath a bush, it's true ..."
"So you admit the facts. Here is my sentence, then."
"Whether it was a guinea fowl egg or a chicken egg, I'm not sure. And there's no longer any proof. You broke it on my head."
"Only guinea fowls lay their eggs under the bushes, and all of the guinea fowls in the village belong to me." The response embarrassed him, and he added: "And even if it was a chicken egg, in my eyes, you're still a thief. Your punishment will be severe, Famakan!"
He got up, looked around for a while, and finally went into his bedroom, returning with a revolver. He took a new rope from the wall and put it in a bucket of water. And to prolong Famakan's torture, the lieutenant sat down in front of him, thoughtful, his head in his hands.
"Choose between the revolver and the rope," the lieutenant finally said. "You want the revolver? Then I'll burn your face, and until the day of your death, you'll remember not to steal. The rope take your fancy? An old custom of ours! I'll beat you until it crumbles."
Famakan's anxious gaze went from the revolver to the rope, and from the rope to the lieutenant's face.
"Take your time, Famakan; I'm in no hurry. A retired soldier awaits nothing but death." He picked up the revolver. "This weapon dates back to the First World War. It has already served at Verdun. We should give it a test."
An explosion of gunpowder made the walls tremble, and Famakan understood that the lieutenant, who was reloading his weapon, was not joking.
"Papa Lieutenant," he said, sweetly.
"Don't call me 'Papa,' of all things. I have neither wife nor child. And heaven grant that I never father a son like you."
"Then I'll be honest: I don't want the revolver or the rope."
The lieutenant jumped as if he'd been stung by a wasp. "Famakan, you have a sore asshole; you need to just take a crap and get it over with. I'll go get you a third and final proposition ..."
"A thief, Lieutenant, should die in the mud. Everyone should see him struggle for his life before expiring."
"So be it! I'm going to throw you from a bridge."
"The Dotori Bridge, Lieutenant. It's the highest in the village."
"Agreed, Famakan!"
Followed by the gawkers waiting outside his gate, the lieutenant set out, holding Famakan by the rope.
"He's suicidal," the lieutenant shouted. "He chose for me to throw him from a bridge. Let none accuse me of murder!"
Famakan knew the Dotori Bridge well. The children of the village came to splash about there during the rainy season, in the stagnant water, among the dead leaves and lilies. He knew the spot where a rock had injured him, and that farther out, there was nothing but mud and sand.
Now the lieutenant began to show some concern. "This would be too severe a punishment," he said. "Let's go back to the house."
But already the young boy had grabbed hold of the lieutenant at the very edge of the bridge.
"I want to go, but not all alone."
"Let me go, Famakan!"
They grappled like wrestlers, and the lieutenant, pulled over by Famakan, fell head-first into the mud, legs in the air. To disguise his ruse, the boy dove in after him, to the applause, shouts, and laughter of the audience.
"Mark my words," the lieutenant howled. "Whoever tells this story will have to pay twenty francs! Ten francs will go to me, and ten will go to Famakan."
The lieutenant climbed out of the mud and cleared a path through the crowd, cursing: "The Whites! ... the Whites, and nothing but the Whites! They spoiled this country. It needs to be ruled with an iron fist, like the Colonial Army."
CHAPTER 2
Lieutenant Siriman Keita was from the village of Kouroula, twenty kilometers from Kouta. The old men swear that on his first day at the school for the sons of chiefs, he came dressed in panther skins, riding a saddled and bridled horse, while a pack of griots chanted praise songs in his family's honor. In the classroom, his father, then the chief of the whole canton, had ordered a miniature throne erected, to be surrounded by servants armed with flyswatters. The commandant gave strict orders to the young teacher from William-Ponty, where African officials were trained:
"Don't call on young Siriman Keita unless he raises his hand."
The scandal mongering in our country? A nuisance, I agree. But the old men, who keep the memories of the past, report that Siriman didn't raise his hand until six years later. His father, stripped of his position by a Corsican administrator in favor of a distant cousin, advised Siriman to enlist in the Colonial Army. He was sent to Kanta, near Darako, the colonial capital, and a few years later to Fréjus, and he fought gallantly wherever the French presence was threatened.
Since his retirement, he lived in Kouta in a big square house, twenty-five by twenty-five meters, surrounded by an imposing court of relatives and sycophants. Each had a well-defined task. One was to go early in the morning to choose the best pieces of meat; another was charged with keeping the house stocked with red wine because, as the lieutenant often said, "Never eat without giving your meal the extra flavor of a good glass of wine." He had had the square house constructed before his retirement. This had been the subject of much discussion in Kouta when the masons, assisted by all the town's prisoners, began building it without the least explanation. They'd received a blueprint and precise instructions from the commandant.
"The house must be square, with a double gate and no other entrance."
The people of Kouta had several theories, notably this one:
"With this outbreak of new ideas, maybe the commandant's building a new prison with an eye to more arrests?"
The day before the lieutenant's arrival, Commandant Dotori had asked the town crier to announce the arrival of a worthy son of the nation, a great contributor to the French cause, arriving on the ten o'clock train and meriting a welcome of balafons, tabors, and talking drums.
Lieutenant Siriman Keita stepped down from the car reserved for government officials; six steps from the commandant, he snapped to attention and froze there as if petrified. The cercle guards played "La Marseillaise," and the schoolchildren sang it. Then the players of the balafon, tabor, and talking drum gave their imaginations free rein.
A song was born, which became the lieutenant's praise song:
Lieutenant Siriman Keita,
Child of our country,
You went to the land of the Whites.
You carried the rifle for them.
We will follow your example.
Wedged into the official car, to the right of the commandant, the lieutenant came to the house, where a reception was held to celebrate his return to his native land. In full ceremonial dress, covered with all his medals, he chatted with his host.
"You know, Lieutenant, there's a wave of protest against France. It concerns us greatly. There's talk of independence."
"We must crush it, Commandant. We must crack down without mercy," the lieutenant advised.
"But what will France's age-old enemies say?"
"France's enemies? To hell with them, Commandant! France concerns herself only with her friends."
"Well said, Lieutenant. Clearly I can rely on you to explain to the people that independence would be but a delusion, a mirage."
"If I were the canton chief ..."
Commandant Dotori was expecting this question. He knew that Siriman had come to Kouta to seek the chiefdom, and that his relationship with Faganda, his half-brother, was strained over their inheritance, and that that was why he'd preferred to build his home in Kouta. Dotori took a moment to prepare his response.
"You, boy, we're dying of thirst over here. Don't forget that Lieutenant Siriman Keita is the guest of honor."
The server brought two flutes of champagne.
"Commandant," the lieutenant said, "I've kept simple tastes. A glass of red wine will quench my thirst."
"You're right, Lieutenant. Champagne puts us to sleep, and red wine awakens our blood. To your health, Lieutenant!"
"To the Colonial Army, my friend! Good Lord, to the Colonial Army!"
"Well, then, to the Colonial Army!" the commandant repeated, stifling a laugh.
"Independence," the lieutenant huffed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Given what's coming, you're going to need partners who won't hesitate to strike, even at risk of losing their own popularity."
Dotori set his glass down; he had barely wet his lips.
"Another glass, Lieutenant," he said.
The server brought the bottle of red wine.
"Put it there on the table," Dotori said. "The lieutenant will help himself, and I can empathize; with all the smoke on these trains, he needs to wash his throat."
The lieutenant filled his glass and emptied it in one gulp, smiling blissfully, his eyes dilated. The commandant had prepared his response; it was neither a refusal nor a commitment. A refusal would have left him no chance of working with the lieutenant; and if the commandant had made a promise, Siriman would have mentioned it to somebody in confidence, and gossip would have carried it to the elderly canton chief. Dotori knew Africa too well to make that mistake.
"I know that your family has often held the chiefdom. Obviously the colonial administrator always intervenes, but discreetly. His role is to act as a pacifier." He stopped and took a sip from his glass. "You see, when I received the order to build a house for you in Kouta, because you didn't want to return to your native village of Kouroula, I told myself: here's the man for the job. What's more, your superior officer sent me a confidential letter concerning you. What praise, Lieutenant, what praise!"
He signaled the server, who hurried over to refill the lieutenant's glass.
"Koulou Bamba is still effective. But he's getting old, which handicaps his decision making. Be patient, Lieutenant, and we'll do great things together."
Dotori leaned over to the lieutenant and whispered, "To succeed a chief, or to have influence over him, marry one of his daughters."
The two men burst into laughter.
"Now let's leave our guests to eat and drink, and go to see your house. Naturally, if there's any detail not to your taste, the builders will fix it."
Lieutenant Siriman Keita surveyed the property. He couldn't hide his admiration for this house: its squareness, its whiteness, the thick wall that surrounded it, and the way it towered over the village.
"Commandant, you chose the spot so well! It's exactly as I'd imagined it."
"Obviously, the money wasn't quite enough."
"Well, then ..."
"No, Lieutenant, you owe nothing. I gave orders to the cercle's accountant."
He shrugged his shoulders and gestured evasively.
"I have to use my slush fund somehow, or the governor will take it away."
"You're too kind, Commandant."
"Come now! One's never too kind to one's friends."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Lieutenant of Kouta by Massa Makan Diabaté, Shane Auerbach, David Yost. Copyright © 2012 Hachette Livre. Excerpted by permission of Michigan State University Press.
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