Allah is Not Obliged (23 page)

They arrived in Boundiali one night and the two women sat down and explained the reason for their mission. Allah had bestowed on the village a huge brood of brats, (‘a brood of brats’ means a lot of noisy children) born to the savage hunter. The savage hunter was the little brother of the head of the Touré family. The savage hunter had decided to give his older brother a share of his brood, the patriarch’s share of the hunter’s offspring. Mamadou was that share. They had come here with little Mamadou to give him to Touré, Touré the patriarch. Uncle Touré had the power of life and death over little Mamadou. Little Mamadou would sleep wherever his uncle told him to sleep, without complaining. Uncle Touré, the patriarch, thanked the women who brought him, took Mamadou by the arm, hailed his first wife, and gave little Mamadou to her. Little Mamadou would belong to her. The patriarch’s first wife was called Tania and Tania was Saydou’s mother.

The school year had already started. The patriarch brought his nephew to the white colonial
toubab
colonist commander. The commander authorised little Mamadou to be enrolled in the school at Boundiali.

Saydou and little Mamadou went to school together. Saydou was the same age as Mamadou and Saydou was jealous: he didn’t want his mother to look after little Mamadou with all the tenderness she gave him. Saydou’s maman kept them apart and she always blamed Saydou for everything.

They slept, Saydou and Mamadou, on a mat by the feet of mother Tania. And little Mamadou always peed the bed. He wasn’t clean; he was disgusting. Big maggots (‘maggots’ means fly larvae) crawled all over the mat. Saydou thought up an idea to get rid of little Mamadou. One night, he did a pooh, a big pooh, on the mat at the end of the bed and in the morning he mulishly (‘mulishly’ means obstinately, stubbornly, without budging an inch) swore that it wasn’t him, Saydou, who had relieved himself, but little Mamadou. Seeing as little Mamadou was a chicken, a coward, he didn’t know how to defend himself. He sat down and cried; that was proof, proof that he had done the pooh. Saydou’s mum, Tania, got angry. As punishment, she sent little Mamadou to sleep in the boys’ hut with the boys (the servants). The boys put him on his own at the back of the hut. He still peed the bed and still lived surrounded by wriggling maggots. The maggots that swarm under the mats of filthy little brats.

Saydou and Mamadou still went to school together; Mamadou turned out to be clever, really clever, and Saydou was a dunce. Saydou had all sorts of problems. He couldn’t
pronounce things, his writing was a spidery scrawl. In a developed country, Saydou would have been sent to a psychologist. When he was ten, the teacher had no choice but to expel Saydou from the village school.

For four years, during the last war, Mamadou went to the village school by himself. But there was no teacher. After the war, Mamadou was too tall, too old to be in primary school. He was expelled too.

The village teacher tutored Mamadou for the school certificate, which he passed. This was considered an achievement by Black African Third-World Natives with no initiative. An achievement that the commander and administrator of the white sector decided to encourage. They made legal changes to Mamadou’s birth certificate. Now little Mamadou was five years younger and therefore fulfilled all the necessary conditions for admission to primary school in Bingerville. He went to the primary school and then to normal school in Gorée and then after to medical school in Dakar.

While Mamadou was pursuing his brilliant education, Saydou was starting out on his cursed life. Fight after fight, prison after prison, escape after escape. Escaping across Côte d’Ivoire, across French West Africa. Wandering in the Sahara—Nigerian Sahara, Tibesti Sahara, Libyan Sahara. Back home to his village, where it was prison after prison again, until the last time he was released and Mamadou asked him to go into the Liberian jungle to rescue his mother.

Saydou told the story of his cursed life and the life of the doctor Mamadou Doumbia all the way on our journey through tribal war Liberia. For three days and three nights. On the
fourth day, we reached the village of Worosso, not far from the Ivoirian border. We means Yacouba, the money multiplier, Muslim grigriman, Saydou, the bandit sent by Doctor Mamadou to rescue the aunt, and me, the blameless, fearless street kid, the child-soldier. Worosso was where El Hadji Koroma’s camp was. The compound there had human skulls on stakes all round the boundary like all the tribal war camps in Liberia and Sierra Leone.
Walahé!
That’s tribal wars. We walked through something that looked like a gate, marked out with two skulls on stakes with two armed child-soldiers between them. We got our Malinké greetings ready. Suddenly we were surrounded by about ten guerrillas armed to the teeth. They’d been lying on the floor of the forest round the camp. They’d promptly got to their feet. We still wanted to do the greetings. Without listening, they shouted, ‘Hands up!’ Without hesitating, we put up our hands. They disarmed us. Searched us down to our underpants. That’s tribal wars that’s responsible for that kind of welcome. Still not responding to our greeting, they told us all to explain ourselves.

Saydou went first. Saydou told unbelievable stories about his exploits. First he’d been a colonel in ULIMO. That was a lie: he’d come straight as an arrow from prison in Boundiali. It’s on account of being a colonel, he said, that he had six kalashes. That was a lie too. When Doctor Mamadou had sent him to rescue his mother, Saydou wanted to take guns. Doctor Mamadou Doumbia had gone with him to Man, to the Liberian border where you can get kalashes at bargain prices. The doctor wanted to buy him one, Saydou wanted six. Mamadou
bought him six, thinking he might be able to use them to trade, as financing for his adventures (‘financing’ means support during a journey). And it was armed with six kalashes that he headed into the tribal war Liberian jungle. Saydou kept on making up stories. He pretended he was happy, really happy, when he found out that El Hadji had retreated with all the Malinkés to create a safe haven for the Malinké people (‘safe haven’ means sanctuary provided by some authority). He was so happy he’d decided to leave ULIMO. On account of his rank and his bravery, ULIMO didn’t want to let him go. The ULIMO leaders had begged him to stay with them. He said no and he publicly accused his ULIMO bosses of having killed loads of Malinkés themselves. The ULIMO bosses weren’t too happy. They set a trap for Saydou, then arrested him, disarmed him, chained him, and put him in prison. This was still Saydou telling his adventures. The ULIMO bosses didn’t realise that no one on earth could keep him, Saydou, locked up. Saydou smashed the walls of the prison and stood in front of them, arms dangling, his chains vanished. Well, at that point the ULIMO bosses and the ULIMO soldiers and everyone at ULIMO started shooting him: they fired at him but it was useless. The bullets transformed into water and ran off his body. The ULIMO bosses and the soldiers and the child-soldiers panicked. They all bolted, they ran away leaving their guns behind. Saydou picked up six and that was the ones he was bringing to El Hadji Koroma.

After Saydou, Yacouba explained himself. Yacouba started making up stories too. He’d been a lieutenant-colonel in the army of Johnny Koroma in Sierra Leone, lieutenant-colonel
grigriman. It was a lie, a barefaced lie. He said he was made lieutenant-colonel on account of his amazing
grigris
. He’d rendered the shelling from the warships and ECOMOG planes inoperative. All the shells from the planes and all the warships out at sea and all the cannons at the airport fired on Sierra Leone turned into water. ECOMOG forces fired shells at the people of Sierra Leone for nothing, the shells never exploded. Yacouba had managed to bewitch a whole army, an army and all its weapons of war. And that’s not all. He’d managed to make all of Johnny Koroma’s guerrillas, all his soldiers and child-soldiers, invisible to the ECOMOG invaders. The invaders were firing at thin air.

Yacouba was told to stand down. Now it was my turn.

Listening to the big guns, Saydou and Yacouba, lying like chicken thieves, I wanted to sell myself too. I said that I was a commander too, a commander in Johnny Koroma’s child-soldiers. I was a champion spy. I’d managed to infiltrate right into ECOMOG headquarters. I’d managed to nick their maps, all their maps. So that ECOMOG were bombing in the dark (meaning at random). I’d put laxatives into the chief of staff’s whisky and he got the shits. He couldn’t stand still. Using a dugout, I’d rowed out to the ships in territorial waters that were shelling. I got on board the ships and poisoned the marines’ rations. The marines dropped like flies. They thought it was an epidemic. The marines deserted the ships. That’s why the shelling had stopped.

After all our stories, the guerrillas started answering our Malinké greetings. They wished us welcome. From the way we talked, they knew we were Malinké and not Gios or
Krahns come to spy. So we could make ourselves at home, we were welcome in Worosso, in El Hadji Koroma’s camp. We were patriots. We would be incorporated into El Hadji Koroma’s army with the same rank that we had in our previous units. The great patriotic army of generalissimo El Hadji Koroma needed officers of our calibre.

That’s how we all got to be senior officers in El Hadji Koroma’s army. We all had it easy: we were all entitled to batmen (a batman is an orderly) and, even better, double rations of food.

But you didn’t get to eat well in El Hadji Koroma’s army. All you got was a little handful of rice in a corner of the plate that wasn’t enough for a sick grandmother on her last legs with nothing to do except lie in her hut and die all the time. There wasn’t enough rice. Absolutely not even nearly enough.

El Hadji Koroma’s system was based on exploiting refugees, ripping off NGOs. The troops—meaning us—captured Malinké refugees the NGOs were required to feed. And we insisted the NGOs route everything that was supposed to go to the refugees through us. We generously helped ourselves before thinking about the people it was intended for. Every time an NGO showed up with food or medicines, the poor well-trained refugees would stand at the gate and deliver the same speech.

‘Why will you not trust our brothers, the men of El Hadji Koroma who have saved our lives? Everything you give to them, they give to us. They are our brothers. When they
receive something, it is as though it were placed in our own hands. We cannot come out to accept your donations and you cannot come into the camp. We, the refugees of Worosso camp, refuse all donations which do not come through our brothers.’

Faced with the misery, the destitution of the refugees and their determination, the NGOs gave in. And we helped ourselves before thinking about the refugees.

We played this game every day for three months. But we had not forgotten the aunt. No. We were still actively looking for her, but on the sly. We means Colonel Saydou the liar, Lieutenant-Colonel grigriman Yacouba, the crippled crook, and me, Commander Birahima, the blameless, fearless street kid. We were searching on the sly because if anyone there found out that we were there looking for the aunt, we’d lose our stripes.

One day, Saydou came and told us something incredible. At first Yacouba and me thought it was another one of his stories. But he took me by the arm and brought me to the generalissimo’s house. It was true, really true, Doctor Mamadou Doumbia was here in Worosso in El Hadji Koroma’s camp. Really here. The doctor had walked in and talked to El Hadji Koroma himself. The generalissimo had given his orders. Investigations were made. Aunt Mahan was tracked down. She had arrived at the camp ill. Probably she had malaria and a raging fever that meant she was confined to her mat (bed). Back then, the Malinkés in the camp, all the Malinkés, were boycotting the NGOs (deliberate severing of all relations with an organisation). They didn’t want to work
with the NGOs because the head of the NGOs refused to work with their saviour, El Hadji Koroma. NGO stretcher-bearers would come to the camp to evacuate the sick to a field hospital. Aunt Mahan refused. She completely refused so as to show solidarity with all the refugees in the camp. For three days she lay there, and on the fourth day she died like a dog. May Allah have mercy on her.

Led by the generalissimo’s aide-de-camp, we went to the hut where my aunt had been. My aunt’s last words were for me. She was really worried about what would happen to me, according to one of the refugees from Togobala who had been with her in her dying moments. I cried my heart out, Colonel Saydou crumpled on the ground. Yacouba said prayers and said that Allah hadn’t wanted me to see my aunt again; may Allah’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven. When I saw Saydou collapse and beat the ground with his two hands, I was sick to my stomach and I wiped away my tears. Because Saydou was crying and saying, ‘My aunt’s death makes me sad, very sad, now I cannot bring her to the doctor and the doctor will not give me my million CFA francs.’ It was the million Saydou was crying for, not my aunt.

The refugee from Togobala who was with my aunt in her dying moments was called Sidiki. Sidiki gave the doctor the tattered
pagne
and blouse the aunt had been wearing. The doctor kissed them.
Faforo!
It was pitiful to see.

Sidiki had the effects of another refugee from Togobala who also died observing the rules of the boycott. He was an interpreter. His name was Varrassouba Diabaté. He was a Malinké and, among the Malinké, when someone is called
Diabaté that means he is from the
griot
caste;
griot
from father to son and he’s not allowed to marry a woman who isn’t
griot
. Varrassouba Diabaté like everyone from his caste was intelligent. He could understand and speak lots of languages: French, English, pidgin, Krahn, Gio, and other Black Nigger African Native savage languages from fucked-up Liberia. That’s why he had a job as an interpreter at the HCR (High Commissioner for Refugees). Varrassouba had lots of dictionaries:
Harrap’s Larousse, Petit Robert
, the
Glossary of French Lexical Particularities in Black Africa
, and other dictionaries of Black Nigger African Native savage languages from Liberia. Every time a big someone from the HCR wanted to visit Liberia, they sent Varrassouba Diabaté along with him. One day, Varrassouba Diabaté accompanied a big somebody to Sanniquellie in gold-mining territory. He met the gold bosses. He knew the bosses of the gold mines made loads of money. Varrassouba Diabaté ditched the person he was supposed to accompany. He stayed in Sanniquellie and set himself up as a bossman. He was making loads of money when the Krahns arrived in Sanniquellie. They didn’t want Malinkés being bossman gold miners. Varrassouba got the fuck out
djona-djona
. He arrived in El Hadji Koroma’s camp, the Malinké refugee camp with all his dictionaries. He intended to go back to Abidjan, to his well paid job as an interpreter. Unfortunately, he was too sick when he got to the camp. On account of the boycott, he couldn’t get healed. He died and they threw his body into a mass grave. Sidiki didn’t know what to do with the dictionaries. He offered them all to me. I took the
Larousse
and the
Petit Robert
for French; the
Glossary
of French Lexical Particularities in Black Africa;
the
Harrap’s
for pidgin. That’s the dictionaries I’ve been using for my bullshit story.