Imagine Africa
He carries out his act of contrition and shows his remorse.
For the stench of blood that covers his body. For the hundred warriors killed when he wanted the hippos in the lake silenced. For the five hundred warriors who left on the swallow hunt. For the thousands of Chopes, whose ears I ordered to be cut off in cold blood with a penknife, just so I could have them stuffed with women’s earrings. For the spilling of blood in endless wars.
Is there anything wrong in this?
To govern is to kill before you get killed. To conquer is to rob and cheat, to rob and expel. Treachery is a spear disguised as a smile.
Their coming to get the king of the Rongas is merely an excuse for this action. What sort of an emperor would I be if I didn’t protect my allies, merely for fear of the foreigners?
Now that they hold me captive, what will they do with me? Will they deport me? Kill me? Strip me of my possessions?
“Sit down on the ground, Bantu emperor,” a white soldier shouts.
“Humiliate yourself before the power of the new empire!” A black sepoy commands.
The sepoys behave arrogantly, relishing a glory that doesn’t belong to them.
A swallow shits and the dropping lands on the top of his head. The emperor tries to wipe his head with his bound hands. The invaders laugh. The emperor feels dizzy with rage. As if the swallow were provoking waves of rebellion in his mind. He laughs. He purses his lips and spits in the face of a white soldier. The sepoys are alarmed. The man, who seemed to be defeated, now appears to be invested with new powers. Where have such power and audacity come from?
“You’re a prisoner now, Bantu emperor!”
“Did you place me before the people to see me weep? Well, you’re mistaken,” says the emperor. “A king neither weeps nor bends. The king doesn’t beg even if they kill him. A king is born a king and dies a king. In the democracies of the world, servants without lineage are elected, not the sovereigns. I am an emperor in spite of being a captive. I shall be an emperor even after I die. I shall always be an emperor in the memory of my people. I shall never kneel before any power in this world. Do you sit me on the sand, before subalterns?”
Stars flash in his mind. Swords clash in his ears, and he hears the voices of brave warriors uttering their cries of war. And he comes forth into the open. His soul emerges from the gloom and he smiles. So I haven’t died! He comes forth. Prison is the door through which the spirit escapes. Enraptured at the future, he proclaims:
“Come to me, distant morning, and open the eyes of these sepoys who torment me. Go, my heart, go. Take me galloping on the mule of time. I want to fly next to the swallows so as to bring new beginnings more quickly to these lands.”
“Accept your capture, Bantu king.”
“I’m not a man, I’m a people. A people’s soul isn’t captured, it flies free like the swallows.”
“Who do you think you are now? Do you still think you’ll defeat rifles with your wooden spears, black emperor?” Asks a white soldier.
“I am the future, and I am certainty. I know the mysteries of beyond. Within me resides the key to the mysteries of tomorrow. The future will be happy and verdant, there beyond time. This land, I swear to you, will be dressed in the hues of each and every springtime.”
“How do you know, Bantu king?”
“From the future I get the scent of bougainvillea, cashews, bananas and lilies, marula and mafilua. In the distance, I can hear the drumbeats of glory. The fields are covered in corn. Freedom will come!”
“You insult the dignity of the new empire. We shall kill you.”
“Imprison me, kill me, as you will, for this land’s belly has already been made fecund.”
Women, experienced in the art of weeping, are putting on an inspired performance today. The men’s tears are reflected in the sweat of their bodies. The light of the mind glows bright. A feeling of awe comes to him that will lead him to sow a new life in the soil. He discovers that the word is the only seed that survives the corrosion of time. The moment is fertile, the seed needs to be sown. And so he addresses the ears of the world:
“My body now withdraws to prison, but I remain. The boat will bear me away to distant lands, but I shall remain. Women of my land, my mothers, don’t weep, for you are fertile with the future. Death and new life rise up on the route towards the future. With a much mightier power, the one who will save this people will emerge from you, women of N’wanati. These invaders will fight to silence the voice of your bellies, for new generations will forget momentarily, the bellies of the women of the foreign gods. Don’t let yourselves be intimidated by these black sepoys or white soldiers. Those who laugh at this ending will weep at the next beginning. All this will pass.”
“The Portuguese wars are arduous, but we are noble. We shall always be kings here on the banks of this river where the spirits of the N’wanati sleep. And I shall return. In another form, in another time, incarnated in another generation, but I shall return!”
If the sepoys had looked at that prisoner with greater attention, they would have discerned, in the emperor’s eyes, the birth of certainty.
Tears and song, silence and dance in the game of uncertainty. The rivals celebrate the moment. We do not know what the future holds in store for us, but we know that our ears will never be cut off.
Dragged away like a dead fish. Placed in a cart and then in a boat that advanced over divine waters. There in his exile, the emperor gained a new name. They baptized him and obliged him to eat salt cod and olives.
Overwhelmed by the events, the two sepoys talk in undertones while they savour a good meal, a reward received for their services. Some portions of salt cod and five litres of doctored wine. Too little for the price of an empire.
“I enjoyed seeing the rogue being carted off to prison,” one of them says. “I was buoyant when I got this mission.”
“Why?”
“To arrest the most important man in the empire doesn’t happen every day. It was the most important act of my career.”
“I would love to celebrate, friend, but I’m sorry to say that we have been cursed.”
“Why? Didn’t you like it?”
“Did you hear those things he said about freedom? What made him so confident to say all that? Did you see how he looked at us? It was as if he was unleashing upon us all the curses in this world. The eyes of victims transmit tragedy, you know that. He even spat in the white man’s face! Where did such daring come from? Did you manage to find the meaning of it all?”
“Me?”
Neither of them can get to the bottom of it. Nor will they ever be able to. It wasn’t the emporer who was talking. Rather, it was the past talking through the voice of the future. The ancestors reveal themselves at every turn through the voices of the emissaries of the present.
“That man has a rare power over the things of the other world.”
“Do you think he was possessed, then?” The second one asks.
“Yes. He certainly was. Oh yes!”
“Don’t scare me!”
“I bound the arms of a man who won’t die.”
“You may be right. The moment we bound him, he seemed to lose all consciousness. Then suddenly, he came round. Where did such strength come from?”
“It all happened just after that bird crapped on the prisoner’s head, didn’t you see it?”
“Yes, you’re right. The guy was almost dead, but after that, he revived in a miraculous way. The dropping injected some energy into his head.”
“Do you think it was a miraculous swallow?”
“Maybe. Swallows have their mysterious ways.”
“Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
“Did I have a chance? If we refused the order, we would have died. By obeying it, we’ve condemned ourselves. The whites, who know this, didn’t even touch the prisoner. They sent us into the abyss.”
“What do you think will happen to us?”
“The supreme punishment, my friend!??
?
Their anxious thoughts lead them into the shadows.
“I’m leaving.”
“Where to?”
“To a place where the curse can’t catch me.”
The sepoy stumbles to his feet. He walks slowly. He begins to march faster, like someone about to empty his bladder by the nearest tree. He starts to run like a madman and disappears into the scrub. The other puts down his glass and chases after him. He finds him. Too late. By now, he is a fish floating in the air. He had hung himself! The gaping eyes of his dead friend seem to transmit maledictions. He has gone forever mad.
All of the people celebrate the vengeance of the spirits.
Various images remain engraved in their minds. A white man, wearing a hat, khaki trousers and tall boots. A sturdy, imposing mount, with glistening skin. Black sepoys, with their red fezzes, bloomers and tall boots. A Mauser. Shots fired.
Many years later, mothers would still have the task of satisfying the curiosity of their children, who asked ceaseless questions.
“Who was that gigantic white-skinned creature, with four legs and two heads, one of an animal and the other of a human?”
“It was a man-horse. A man, you know what that is. A horse is a kind of donkey, but it’s much stronger and only chiefs ride it.”
“Did the man have a name?”
“Yes. The man on the horse was called Muzimo wa Buquene (Mouzinho de Albuquerque).”
“And the horse? Did it have a name?”
The answer was inevitably a sad laugh.
“It’s said the emperor had a lot to say at that moment. What did he say?”
“He sang hymns to freedom.”
“How did he sing?”
“Ah! I’m not sure of that.”
“Sing, mother, sing a bit, just for us to hear it!”
The mothers would repeat it, but in a low voice so as not to awaken the anger of the new invaders. For his speech was a hymn to freedom.
“I shall continue to live in the heart of my people. I say to you Portuguese, I shall stay here, I shall not leave, I shall fight for this land to the limits of eternity. I shall always be here, in the form of a swallow. To predict the future and celebrate the rites of life and death. To choose the brave man who will fight for the freedom of this land. Freedom will come, I swear!”
The Chopes realised that the emperor was a good friend, in spite of their rivalry. After that invasion, there would be another one. With new taxes and new enslavements. For this reason, they organized msahos and timbilas and recited poems. Gomocumu became famous during that time:
Come, come all of you
Come hear the song
Don’t you wish to know who ruled the empire?
He ruled over men, he ruled over women
But he lost his freedom
For trying to kill a swallow!
1 The Battle of Coolela, 7 November, 1895, between the Portuguese invading army and that of the Empire of Gaza.
AHMAD FOUAD NEGM
AHMAD FOUAD NEGM , popularly known as el-Fagommi, was an Egyptian vernacular poet. His is well known for his work with Egyptian composer Sheikh Imam, as well as his revolutionary Egyptian Arabic poetry. Negm was awarded the Prince Claus Award for his body of work in 2013.
CATHERINE COBHAM teaches Arabic language and literature at St. Andrews University in Scotland and has translated a number of contemporary authors from the Arabic, including Mahmoud Darwish, Naguib Mahfouz, Hanan al-Shaykh and Fu’ad al-Takarli.
MARILYN BOOTH holds the Iraq Chair in Arabic and Islamic Studies at the University of Edinburgh. Her publications include Harem Histories: Envisioning Places and Living Spaces and May Her Likes Be Multiplied: Biography and Gender Politics in Egypt. She has translated over a dozen works of Arabic fiction, including novels by Hoda Barakat, Hamdi Abu Golayyel, Elias Khoury, Alia Mamdouh, Somaya Ramadan and Latifa al-Zayyat.
Alexandria, Your Sea is Full of Wonders
Alexandria, your sea is full of wonders
I wish it would give me a share of its love
One wave would throw me into the arms of another
When the sea is in turmoil and the fishing rich
I’d wash my clothes and spread my cares out to dry
In its rising sun that I’m madly in love with
Like a peasant in Urabi’s army
Who died in your fortress and was swept out to your sea
Like a breeze blowing over the hilltops
Coming from the sea bathed in your charms
Like a word from Bayram’s mind
Like a song from Sayyid’s heart
Like a student at a protest
Who shouted your name
And died rejoicing
Like the voice of Nadim in your night
Rousing your people to give you new heart
Like a brick from a house in an alley
Like a tear in the eyes of a man who can’t sleep
Like a star above the lighthouse
Guiding the lost
When the moon is absent
Alexandria, Egyptian woman
With your radiant smile and welcoming laughter
The sea is a window and a latticework screen
And you are the princess looking out on the world
Alexandria, I’m in love and I want
To rest in your arms
My only wish
That my words be a pledge of my passion
And we sit and talk with love and affection
Alexandria, you are full of the poor and wretched
Trying to make a living and never sleeping
Early morning they leave
Late at night they return
Their troubles increase
And they never rest
Poor souls worn out by their lives
Whose efforts are vain
Who have reaped no rewards
They lower their nets in a turbid sea
They raise their nets with nothing to show
Among your people are wolves
Above your people are monsters
Among your people are great lovers
If their lives betray them
They remain true
To your people’s brown beauty I surrender my fate
I cannot see them
Without singing my songs
Translated by Catherine Cobham
NOTE
Ahmad al-‘Urabi (1839–1911): Egyptian army officer who led the resistance to the British fleet’s bombardment of Alexandria, July 1882. Bayram al-Tunisi (1893–1961): pioneer of modern Egyptian vernacular poetry and theatre, critic of the British occupation and the Egyptian monarchy. Sayyid Darwish (1892–1923): Alexandrian composer and singer, bard of the 1919 revolution, one of Egypt’s first recording artists and composer of the music of the Egyptian national anthem. Abdullah al-Nadim (1843–1896): political activist, pioneering journalist, orator, writer and satirist, and known as the orator of the ’Urabi revolution.
The Eyes of Words
If the sun were to drown
In the sea of sad clouds
If the earth were engulfed
By a wave of dark shrouds
And sight died away
From all eyes and all minds
And the pathway went missing
Amidst circles and lines
You might get around
(You think you’re so wise!)
Yet you haven’t a guide
But the words’ very eyes
Translated by Marilyn Booth
FRANCIS BEBEY
Translated from the French by CHRISTOPHER WINKS
The Ifé Mask
FRANCIS BEBEY, born in Douala, Cameroon in 1929, studied at New York University and worked in the Music Department of UNESCO. Both his poems and his novels earned him international recognition. In 1968 he was awarded the Grand prix de la littérature d’Afrique noire. He was also celebrated as a musician. He died in Paris in 2001.
Author of Symbolic C
ities in Caribbean Literature, CHRISTOPHER WINKS has also published numerous articles, as well as translations from the French, German, and Spanish, in a wide range of journals and anthologies. He is the editor and co-translator of Los danzantes del tiempo, a collection of poems by Kamau Brathwaite, which was awarded the 2011 Premio de poesía José Lezama Lima in Cuba.
Le Masque D’Ifé
The Ifé mask
Le masque d’Ifé
The Ifé mask
Au front bois du temps brun
Its wooden face of brown time
Sourit aux ans
Smiles at the years
Qui passent en dansant
Which pass dancing
Sur le balancier des heures.
On the pendulum of hours
Qu’est-ce que c’est, l’année,
What is this, a year,
Qu’est que c’est, le siècle ?
What is this, a century?
Répète-t-il au fond de lui-même :
It repeats deep within itself: