Stomach rumblings tore Nyamuragi straight out of his soliloquy. He is trying to find some way to relieve them, right now. To tell the truth, he doesn’t like it when it is shouting down there, deep down inside of him… that promises some hard hygienic work. And hunger, of course.
Nyamurangi the Mute admits that he had drunk too much water this morning, that’s why it was churning away under his jacket, furiously and chaotically.
Impossible to relax beside the stream; it’s a public place. But his intestines are seething. He has to do it quickly! Where should he go to do it? To relieve himself? If only he was on the other side of the hill, near his own place.
The call of his stomach made itself felt more insistently. His look became more imploring: some place! Just a little one! The urgency of his need deforms his facial features. In a single bound, he flings himself at young Kigeme, just as she was putting the 10 litre can onto her head to carry it home – Kigeme, who sees this constantly silent and solitary man smash into her.
Into the young girl’s memory, images of her friend raped a few weeks ago instantly surge. She had spoken to her about this fixed, flaming look, this furrowed forehead, these hands which are laid onto you without warning, with violence and envy… Her friend had told her her to scream if she was assaulted.
As for her, she is fourteen, twelve years fewer than Nyamuragi. She drops the can from her head, so she can struggle, compulsively pressing her dress to herself, a huddling, fearful, frightened little girl, lost. She struggles, while this is all surging through her head. She resists this imperious grasp pulling her away from the stream to impel her who knows where…
“Ni ibiki?” “What is it?” she asks. She sees the mute holding his crutch, hears the rumbling with gusto…
And suddenly, in the silence of this morning stained by the struggle, the cry goes out, strident, high and stamped with such fright: “Mfasha!” “Help me!”
Not long we had an incident of mob violence in Greece, now here is another lynching in Burundi.
Burundi is in some ways almost a twin of Rwanda, whose situation is much better known. Both were Belgian colonies, had a population divided into Hutu and Tutsi, and Burundi’s language Kirundi is very close to Rwanda’s Kinyarwanda. In fact, the 1994 plane crash that killed Rwanda’s president, marking the start of the genocide there, also killed Burundi’s president and led to similar strife there.
Baho! itself is a ‘Greek tragedy’. A mute shepherd, Nyamuragi, suddenly needs to go to the toilet. He signs (rather graphically) to a young girl, Kigeme, to lead him to the nearest place for him to go. But the society has been so traumatised by violence, both against women (there has been a series of rapes) and in general, that any innocent act risks being misunderstood. The girl cries out for help, and Nyamuragi runs away, which ‘proves’ his guilt in the eyes of the community. A lynch mob follows and captures him. Hauled before a kangaroo court, Nyamuragi ends up condemning himself, or being condemned by language – he wanted to say ‘ego’ (’yes’) but could only pronounce ‘ejo’ (’tomorrow/yesterday’ – interesting that Kirundi uses the same word for both, like Hindi for example, and the Burundians apparently have a similar concept of the circularity of time to the Hindus). He is so traumatised and alienated that he doesn’t care enough to explain himself to others, even if he could, or even to save himself.
The novel well captures the fright of ‘the other’ that can lead to genocide, racism, or at least injustice from misunderstanding or just distancing. Nyamuragi himself has had both his parents massacred when he was 14, and he finally becomes mute (although he never really wanted to speak), having lost all faith in humanity.
It would be nice to be able to say that the men ‘defending’ Kigeme were trying to protect her, but they seem to see the issue as more of a property crime – women being the property. It is actually not a fair world for women – those who speak up are abused by the men.
If there is a glimmer of hope, it is that those in the silent majority may act against the preachers of hate.
The book is sprinkled with bits of Kirundi, which looks like a lovely language – I just wish they were translated! – and some great proverbs.
This is a short but powerful and thought-provoking novel from a small country that has itself gone through so much violence and vitriol. Although the writing is sometimes a bit unpolished, on the whole it is very thought-provoking. At the time I was reading this novel, the ‘Me Too’ movement was big in the news. Since I read it, it has been translated into English. It deserves a much wider readership!
RUGERO, Roland (1986 – ): Baho!, La Roque d’Anthéron, Vents d’ailleurs, 2012, ISBN 978-2-911412-99-8
Is murder unforgivable because the only person from whom rightful forgiveness could come is no longer there?
In 1994 I went on holiday in South America. I was totally shocked that in the short time I was away, up to a million people were massacred in an intentional genocide in faraway Rwanda. I still suffer a strange feeling of guilt over that.
This novel is the story of two characters struggling to deal with the trauma from that time. The young woman, Isaro, had to flee the country for France after her parents were murdered. She comes up with the ‘modest’ research project of interviewing all the survivors and putting their stories into one book. What she does come up with is a novel, which centres on the other main character, Niko – we don’t find out that he is only her creation until right at the end. Niko is a sociopath and a mute, who has banished himself to a nose-shaped island in a lake, populated by monkeys. While he was not popular, he was a peaceful blacksmith until the day the genocidal army came and he is forced to club to death another man who may – or may not- be his own father, or else both of them will be shot; and he must decide whether to die or become a murderer in a split second. He chooses to kill and to live, and becomes the enthusiastic leader of a band of thugs.
I would have loved to have had the inexplicable explained – that is, why the genocide happened and how apparently normal decent human beings could carry out such heartless brutality on those they had lived with peacefully. I didn’t feel that I did get it. Maybe it’s some disease of collective madness that infects a group. Before we look down on the Rwandans – or Germans – or Turks – or anyone else collectively, we need to remember that few of our countries or peoples haven’t committed injustices to others (certainly my country has); and if as individuals we are sure that we would never commit such atrocities – well, can anyone who hasn’t been guilty of cruelty to a cockroach, for example, ever be certain of that? All of us are guilty if we knew what was happening in a ‘faraway African country’ and didn’t care.
Nowadays, Rwanda is doing quite well economically, and is even very progressive in some respects (banning plastic bags and percentage of women in parliament). An astonishing number of victims have even forgiven their tormentors. It has come at the price of putting a blanket over much of what happened. Nowadays, officially, people can’t call themselves Tutsi or Hutu.
I can’t imagine what it must be like every day to see someone who murdered the whole rest of your family walking the streets. I can’t blame any country for deciding that, when a choice has to be made, reconciliation or at least peace is preferable to justice, but I wish we could have both – not only due process for those who ordered the crimes, but also for the torturers, the people with the machetes, and the bureaucrats.
GATORE, Gilbert (1981 – ),The Past Ahead, translated from French by Marjolijn de Jager, Global African Voices, Bloomington & Indianapolis, Indiana University Press, 2012, ISBN 9780253006660
(Originally published as Le passé devant soi, Paris, Editions Phébus, 2008)
Three final images flashed across Serenity’s mind as he disappeared into the jaws of the colossal crocodile: a rotting buffalo with rivers of maggots and armies of flies emanating from its cavities; the aunt of his missing wife, who was also his longtime lover; and the mysterious woman who had cured his childhood obsession with tall women.
I know the title sounds misleading, but this novel isn’t about Ethiopia (once known as Abyssinia), but Uganda. (This is sort-of-explained by the narrator’s father (Serenity) thinking that the ancient land called Abyssinia should really be the modern land of Uganda, but I wasn’t sure exactly what Isegawa was thinking of here – obviously not Homer’s “blameless Ethiopians”).
When I was growing up just about all we heard about Uganda was about its crazy dictator, Idi Amin Dada, who was an endless source of both jokes and horror to the rest of the world (Uganda seemed a safely small and remote place). A great novel (and film) about his time is The Last King of Scotland by Giles Foden. Obviously being a bigoted buffoon doesn’t stop someone from being powerful (I’m writing this on Donald Trump’s inauguration day). But I should say that although I haven’t visited Uganda – I’m hoping to, perhaps on my next trip – those who have been there seem to universally find the country beautiful and the people great, and say that it’s one of their favourite African countries.
Isegawa is a fluent writer who spins an interesting tale of a family interwoven with Uganda’s turbulent history. However, I have to admit that I couldn’t get my hooks into this novel. None of the characters are really sympathetic, and the narrator (Mugezi), especially, although he is an understandable product of his unattractive parents (the family is like a microcosm of a dictatorial regime), is not a nice piece of work – an admirer of the Idi Amin at the beginning (later he acquires a bodyguard called Amin who “was reprisal himself”), with pretty racist opinions of the local Indians whom the dictator expelled from their country, who seems to despise almost everyone and resorts to some ugly stratagems to get ahead in his quest to gain control. The complete modus operandi of the despot is on display – intimidation, bullying, censorship, torture, protection, power struggles and lies. He seems to hate everyone and even contemplates using his would-be fiancée as a means of getting revenge on his father.
Although Isegawa wrote the book in English, it was first published in Dutch in the Netherlands where he was living then (he since moved back to Uganda.
As others have said, the novel strangely amoral, I’d say even sometimes immoral. It’s also often quite earthy, as you might gather from the opening quotation above (but not magical realist, as I first thought). Nevertheless, it is quite readable. I just wish there was someone in it I could like…
Isegawa, Moses (1963 – ), Abyssinian Chronicles, New York, Vintage, 2001, ISBN 0-375-040613
[originally published in the Netherlands 1998 as Abessijnse kronieken]
My devastating Kenyan choice starts explosively with the protagonist being arrested for murder:
They came for him that Sunday. He had just returned from a night’s vigil on the mountain. He was resting on his bed, Bible open at the Book of Revelation, when two police constables, one tall, the other short, knocked at the door.
“’Are you Mr Munira?’ the short one asked. He had a star-shaped scar above the left brow.
’You teach at the New Ilmorog Primary School?’
’And where do you think you are now standing?’
’Ah, yes. We try to be very sure. Murder, after all, is not irio or ugali.’
’What are you talking about?’
’You are wanted at the New Ilmorog Police Station.’
’Murder, of course – murder in Ilmorog.’”
This is a much meatier and severer work than my Tanzanian book, Paradise. It is a searing endictment of a country newly liberated from colonialism, but now subject to injustices from its own leading classes. Someone obviously thought so – the author was imprisoned without trial because of it! It also has a much more bitter tone than Gurnah’s book.
Ngũgĩ is famous for having stopped writing in English. He highlighted the African writers’ dilemma of whether they should remain prisoners of their respective colonial languages, with the sugar of a vastly wider market and earnings, or should devote themselves entirely to developing their native languages, inevitably limiting themselves to a tiny market. If they do write in Kikuyu (Gĩkũyũ) (like Ngũgĩ; or whatever), and turn out a worthy work, they can probably be sure that it will be translated into English anyway, so it would seem to be better if the author himself writes the English version as well. But I have just read the bilingual In altre parole/In Other Words by Jhumpa Lahiri, about her experience in learning Italian, and I’m no longer so sure. She deliberately didn’t translate the work, which she wrote in (what seems to me magnificent) Italian into her stronger language of English for a complicated set of reasons based on wanting to be faithful to the language of composition.
Back to Kenya: A poignant moment comes when the schoolteacher Karega is teaching Kenya’s proud (pre)history while remembering its sufferings at the hand of nature and man:
“These thoughts mocked at Karega as he was carried along by the grandeur of the people’s past, the great cultures that spread from Malindi to Tripoli. He confided: The Earlies Man, father of all men on earth, is thought to have been born in Kenya… Lake Turkana… and he stood back and expected a gasp of disbelief or a few questions.
‘Yes, Muriuki,’ he pointed to a child whose hand seemed raised.
There was a great rustling of books, noise from the benches, children clambering from their desks. Muriuki had fallen down.’
The boy had fainted from hunger.
There is an interesting introduction by the author of my Ugandan choice, Moses Isegawa (to follow).
Petals of Blood is a key work to understanding the continuing impact of colonialism on the African psyche. It’s a bit of a plod (compared to Paradise, for instance), angry and depressing and occasionally confusing. But considering its importance and how much its author suffered for it, it deserves to be read.
NGŨGĨ wa Thiong’o (1938 – ), Petals of Blood, New York, Penguin, 2005 (first published 1977), ISBN 978-0-14-303917-4
“The boy first. His name was Yusuf, and he left his home suddenly during his twelfth year. He remembered it was the season of drought, when every day was the same as the last. Unexpected flowers bloomed and died. Strange insects scuttled from under rocks and writhed to their deaths in the burning light. The sun made distant trees tremble in the air and made the houses shudder and heave for breath. Clouds of dust puffed up at every tramping footfall and a hard-edged stillness lay over the daylight hours. Precise moments like that came back of the season.”
A tour d’horizon of colonialised Tanzania (Tanganyika + Zanzibar). The bulk of the book follows an expedition from the coast to the interior at the dawn of the colonial era. (The author himself is from Zanzibar). The young hero, Yusuf, encounters both the German colonialists and other tribes whom he poorly understands – he is pretty much just as much an outsider there as the Europeans. As an outsider it is good to be reminded that also to an African, other Africans can seem equally exotic. As a boy Yusuf is taken on the long journey inland by his uncle, and only eventually comes to realise that the latter is actually using him to pay off his debts. A minor quibble is that the Swahili words in the text were not glossed (my Swahili is fairly minimal!) It brings into relief the vast differences between the coastal and interior people, which splits Tanzania to this day. It is well worth reading, even if much more lightweight than my Kenyan title, Petals of Blood (coming soon!) and a little slow to get rolling.
GURNAH, Abdulrazak (1948 – ), Paradise, London: Bloomsbury, 2004 (or. publ. 1994), ISBN 9780747573999