The Heart of the Leopard Children (10 page)

Go to sleep now; try to get some rest. The only prison you need be afraid of is the one you enclose yourself in everyday, the one where you are the prison guard. Forget about the bricks, the cement, and the steel. Leave your blood and tears on the metal bars and lie down
in the filth on the ground. Stay on course and follow me. Remember to keep your heart and soul open!

As your uncle, I went looking for your father in the jungle where he was born. Our stubborn mother had left the convent and all those overly affectionate priests. She had been living among them against her will and one day finally took off with her uncles and the rest of the family. This all happened during colonization. These crazy men defied the authorities, burnt their identity papers, dared to look the White men in the eyes and risk imprisonment. After that they had to leave, otherwise things would have certainly gotten worse. So they went far away, into the heart of the jungle and back to our first village. A few huts made from wood, clay, and leaves; some indolent domesticated animals; and in the main square a mobongui fire. The fire, I love it too, this is our soul, it's the best moment of the day and of life, when the day is over and we gather around the homefire.

As you know, your father and grandmother didn't live in the village; they were living in the clearing, a mile or so away. When night falls and darkness colors the sky, you can close your eyes in your hut until morning. Your spirit brings you closer to the others who are dancing when the lights go out. They watch over us, and the mobongui. Your grandmother admitted to me, somewhat concerned, that your father really enjoyed staying up at night. Seated with his hands on his knees, you could watch him leaning to the left, then to the right, but more often than not, turned toward the sky. He wanted to immerse himself in the black light and become one with it and its angels. Shortly after surprising him in this way, our mother's companion disappeared forever, which confirmed the suspicions that had been made about him. He was accused of being a boa-man after his very own brother had caught him copulating with an enormous serpent. He tried to suggest that he had been the victim of an animal attack, but no one believed him, especially because his younger brother and the two old women who saw him at the time had immediately gone into a trance that lasted for hours. The poor soul had to resign from his position as deputy mayor of the small municipality
in which he had been otherwise prospering. It's true that a boa-man can stir up a lot of fear and even fall victim to lynching the moment a baby or a young child shows signs of suffering from a persistent fever. Days went by peacefully in the clearing before they found him, his stepson barely a few years old by then, conversing naked and happy with the invisible in the pitch-black night, no sound, and no moon. Listen to your fatigue, calm down, and let the words flow.

I never quite understood your father's love for the invisible world. As a child, he was so inspired he would go on about it for hours. I don't think he ever even realized that most people are just content with what they can see and hold firmly in their hands. It's hard to believe that such a spiritual boy had welcomed me with a good pelting of stones. He was and always will be as wild as a baboon.

Everybody ran for cover whenever he came upon a white priest. You can understand why the other kids saw him as a country boy when I brought him to the capital at your grandmother's request so that he wouldn't grow up like an animal. Like our mother, he couldn't bear the injustices in the colonial world. Men in chains, standing single-filed in the streets for failing to pay taxes, and especially the intransigence and brutality of the militiamen who came from all corners of the colonial empire. These militias were composed of strong men who guaranteed the security of the evangelizing commandos in the countryside. At the crack of dawn, they would wake up the whole village to the sound of the Bible and for those who didn't like it, they would happily strike them with the buttstock of a rifle. These soldiers made up for their poor mastery of French with the whip and reserved the same treatment for the men and the women. They must have been handpicked for their stupidity and aggression. During interrogations, they were always sounding off viciously, beating while spitting out army life's some serio's shit!

The separation between black and white neighborhoods particularly outraged your father. Aside from his years spent in the clearing and the darkness of night, he'd also learned to read the books of White men and had come to realize a lot of things. For example, he
wondered why the white neighborhoods were off-limits to the black population after dark in what was a Black country. At the hour that the siren sounded for civilization it was also chiming in terror in the capital. During this time, a story was circulating about a young student who had just returned from Paris. He was claiming that the Whites over there served him every day in cafés and restaurants, greeting him with
What can I get for you, Sir
, and welcoming him in their establishments. He took a good beating for this to teach him not to spread ridiculous lies. Just because he'd been away studying in France was no reason to come back with tall tales and take people for simple idiots willing to believe anything.

To calm his rage and indignation, your father focused on being the best in his class, and went on to become an important patriotic activist for independence, and even a freedom fighter for black people the world over. I have come to believe that he was never as happy as during those weeks of the nationalist liberation and jubilation when colonial rule finally came to an end. During that period, the nocturnal flights to the land of those-who-have-left-their-bodies-behind took second place to the changing realities of the time.

Those years will always be a source of great pride for him but sadly not of peace. Neither your father nor I could have imagined the violence that would persist, the arbitrary governance that became the order of the day, and the corruption that came to eat at the very fabric of the society. We naively rushed headfirst into the socialist farce. “Everything for the people, nothing but the people.” Hearing this slogan during one of our meetings, an old man, with a kind of botched up French, somewhat confused, asked us in our own language why was there in fact nothing for the people in this revolution and instead a bunch of weapons in the barracks. The leader of our proletarian revolution immediately squelched this bourgeois-reaction-of-an-imperialist-conspiracy-sort-of-valet-to-capitalism. We taught him the Marxist-Leninist principles Kalashnikov-style, and we certainly didn't forget to carry out an in-depth frisking under the loincloths his wife and daughters wore. Consistent with the
revolutionary principles, his sons were given a thorough beating and incarcerated with him. Army life's some serio's shit!

Given all the injuries he sustained, he was basically handicapped for life. He was only released from prison once he'd sworn on the Bible that he would agree to the marriage between his youngest daughter and the friend of the head of the police in the district, a sixty-year-old guy, local general secretary of the one-party government, a mass movement that promised to bring light to the people, blah, blah, blah. . . . The general secretary already counted three wives, half a dozen official mistresses and legitimized his children through a distribution system of local game.

You were born around this time, at what ended up being the most maternal phase of Modern Africa. Africa was in the hands of the Chinese who were convinced of the Maoist revolution and seduced by the idea that the new man could be created by hard work. They were highly qualified, always pleasant, and willing to help. They believed in their mission so much so that it wasn't surprising to hear them speaking French, Lingala, or Kikongo. Okay, so their accent wasn't always the best, but we had the greatest admiration for their level of commitment. One of them, the doctor who delivered you, even became friends with your father. You could never tell his age, and he had a name that was impossible for a Bantu to pronounce, but he came around regularly to check up on you, always bearing gifts from his country. We'd never come across someone so simple and polite, especially because many of your father's Congolese colleagues, from the moment they received their student card for a European university, would undergo a complete transformation, turning into these high-minded and haughty authoritarian puppets. The friendship with this Chinese man was strange all the same because even though he was quite generous himself, he never accepted anything from your father, not even the simple pleasure of sharing a meal. Party orders? Who knows? Let's face it; fraternity among countries clearly has its limits. When all is said and done, when it
comes time to belting out a tune, we all have our different rhythms and melodies, whether in Beijing, Moscow, Brazzaville, or Paris.

Besides the Chinese delegation responsible for building bridges, roads, and hospitals, we also had Cuban militia and East German henchmen in place to ensure the quality of our security services. There were French overseas volunteers to guarantee a rational school education and to promote French-language usage at the equator, as well as special envoys from the Vatican sporting black frocks, guardians of the African soul. They made it very clear that given the current state of affairs, the autochthon was far more in need of catechism than mathematics, and that it was important to learn to prioritize! The sovereign, independent nation to which freedom had been generously granted now found itself once again in good hands. First, we learned to ask for things, then we protested for what was rightfully ours, and today we've succeeded in becoming a nation of panhandlers, plaintiffs, our hands always outstretched and our bellies perpetually empty. Sad eyes turned toward the sky because salvation comes in the form of a cargo aircraft filled with medication and food or celestial blessings.

Caught up in the flurry of the intermingling of different nations, inspired by the many people originating from faraway lands, your father quickly caught the travel bug and sought out new places to which he could bring his language, his history, his knowledge, as well as that of his beloved people. He also wanted you to be rid of inhibitions and discover the world in all its diversity. He therefore prepared your departure for France with great enthusiasm. The world was yours for the taking.

Get some more rest now. Don't start kowtowing . . .

In the quiet and calm, I'm still able to find refuge in the lingering effects of the alcohol and marijuana. My quarters of fortune are filthy, and it's dark. A few square feet of floor space in which to find myself face to face with myself, with a story to write and most of the
pages still practically blank. In my turmoil, I just pissed on myself. The warden is cracking up like a whale behind the door. He must have got a whiff of the odor. I have to admit that this warm sensation is the one pleasant thing that has happened to me in these last hours. I better savor it before I have to deal with the discomfort of wet clothing on my skin and the nauseating stench drowning my nostrils.

With all this fear and misunderstanding, I'm longing to put my anxieties to bed and accept whatever help I can get. I'm in severe pain, it's so diffuse that I can't quite pinpoint it. Every body part, every inch of my body, my skin, organs, all together are unleashing their own dose of torture, without the slightest interruption so that I can get a little bit of relief. The cell is ridiculously small. I can't even stretch out my arms the width of the space. There isn't even a ray of light, not a single sound around me. My body is basically drowning in oblivion. For about fifteen minutes, I started to distract myself by hiding under the wooden bed, but that just really irritated the shit out of the guard on his rounds. I'd robbed him of a couple seconds of daylight. Panicked, he was looking for me in every little nook and cranny. What difference is it to him whether I'm on or under the bed? Just for that he'd felt the need to bang me about, his way of exorcising the fright I'd given him by disappearing in my own dungeon. Today, he was supposed to have gone to the bank and picked up the dry-cleaning. Don't lose your shit. Just relax. You're all protected behind your double metal doors, bars, and your locks and bolts.

I'm just letting the events of the past dance around in a frenzy. Many satellites are orbiting around me. They'd better keep their distance. I'm gladly hiding and pretending to be absent when they call my name. I'm just a spectator. Go ahead without me. I'm still watching. I need more time to fall in line. Excuse me. Can you cut me a little slack, please! Guilty or not, I'm the victim here. Me! A decision is going to be coming down from the captain by way of the ancestor, Mireille, and Drissa. I keep forgetting that I'm the only one who's going to have to answer to my hands, to my legs, to my fucked-up state, to my joy, to my sadness. For the moment, there is
this peaceful distance between the world and me. Someone else is in charge of my fate. I can finally go to sleep without fear. Days will go by and with them beautiful images of both good times and failures. Give me the tranquilizer you give to the tamed animals. They don't bite anymore; they just sit there staring at you, wisely waiting before their trough. Three meals per day, a walk so I don't forget what fresh air is and bars to make it absolutely clear where the boundaries are.