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
The years were passing. Sometimes I remembered how my re-encounter with La Paz had been, when, at the end of the eighties, I came to study history at San Andrés. I was struck by the colour of the heights, between ochre and reddish, a limestone conformation that hinted that we were in a place little given to the somnolent manifestations of routine, and the snowy majesty of Illimani dominating the city from the distance…
Sometimes this project, at least the reading in the original language, seems like a struggle between encouragement and discouragement. Yet again, after the disillusionment with my Spanish when struggling to read Tres Tristes Tigres (for Cuba), comes an easy and enjoyable novel from Bolivia which restores my faith in my language ability. The same happened not long ago when Guinea followed Chad in French. It makes me hope that maybe it’s not me, it’s the books.
Oscar is obsessed with the presidential palace. As a boy he frequented the Palacio Quemado (the Burnt Palace), a labyrinthine, disorienting building, the symbol of the country’s lost governments, which received its strange name from being almost totally destroyed in an 1875 revolt. His brother Felipe had died there, giving him another level of mystery to penetrate.
His father worked in the Palacio Quemado as dictator Banzer’s Information Minister, and he himself ends up in the press office concocting inspiring speeches that he doesn’t believe in for the president. It is a moot point what he does believe in, if anything. For him the speeches are virtually only works of art, not something that represents life and death to the people. Nevertheless he seems to think that if only his speeches were true, Bolivia would be saved. The compassionate speech that he writes for the president doesn’t match Canedo’s body language, its failure is all down to him. Oscar turns out to be out of sync with both Canedo (who is a lame duck less than a year into his presidency) on the one hand and the people on the other (who are in a tax revolt).
His relation with Natalia, who also works in the government, is ambiguous, like the one he has with the government itself. She tries to open his eyes to how corrupt political life really is. When he goes into a slum the people there intimidate him for his supposed support of the government. Oscar’s own sister is on the opposite side of politics.
Palacio Quemado is a great look inside the unfortunate side of Bolivian politics, and highly recommended. Unfortunately I don’t think it has been translated into English.
PAZ SOLDAN, Edmundo (1967 – ), Edmundo, Palacio Quemado, Miami, Alfaguara, 2006, ISBN 978-1-59820-546-3
I died on the evening of the most beautiful day in my life: I died on the evening of my wedding in the Saint-Philippe-&-Saint-Jacques Church. Everyone believed that I had been struck by lightning at the sacramental Yes which had gushed out of my guts. It was said that I had been carried away by the fire of my consent, so powerful and true was it. I was supposed to have been hit by my own bridal thunderbolt.
Now we are in Haiti and in the world of voodoo, which originated in Benin, our last country! In 1938’s Haiti, a young French bride, Hadriana, dies at the very moment of making her marriage vow to Hector Danoze in church. Her death provokes a religious tug-of-war between the ‘enemy brothers’ of the orthodox Catholic church and the adherents of voodoo spiritualism, a microcosm of the religious situation in Haiti as a whole.
There is a forest butterfly, manipulated by a secret society, which poisons virgins and turns them into zombies. It poisoned the lemonade at her wedding. A sorcerer is believed to have taken her corpse out of the cemetery to make use of it.
Will she escape?
The tale is told by Hadriana herself, including her experiences after becoming a zombie! I had always ridiculed tales of zombies, but reading this beautifully written tale from Haiti where they are deeply embedded in religious belief – as with vampires, after reading Mary Shelley’s Dracula – changed my thoughts (to some extent…) Zombies are carefully (almost scientifically) described as people who display all the symptoms of clinical death, but are still able to use their mental faculties. After burial they are raised by a sorcerer to be subjected to forced labour in the fields (zombie-jardin) or an urban workshop (zombie-z’outil).
There is some wonderful writing, such as the lovely description of the butterfly-colourful local buses, tap-taps.
You could take the symbolism further and see Haiti (once the richest place in the Western Hemisphere) as a whole as the beautiful, promising woman who has fallen into zombiedom. On the whole, a lovely, disquieting book.
DEPESTRE, René (1926 – ), Hadriana dans tous mes rêves = Hadriana in all my dreams, Barcelona, Gallimard, 1988, ISBN 978-2-07-038272-9
DEPESTRE, René, Hadriana in All My Dreams, translated by Kaiama L. Glover, NY, Akaschic Books, ISBN 9781617755330
Convinced that all women, even those who seem truly attached to their husbands or determined never to let themselves be dishonoured, can be seduced, that those who remain indifferent to the first manifestations of love by a man, insensible to beauty, to the birth or standing of a would-be lover, deaf to his supplications or to the language of rich presents, would be unable to resist the charm of philtres. Vidaho had successively put everything into play in order to conquer Doguicimi.
When it came time to read my novel from Benin, I was thrown into a slight panic when I realised that what I had bought was not the novel I had chosen, Doguicimi by Paul Hazoumé, but a collection of literary essays on it! The novel itself seemed to be out of print, at least in French. If I was to go reading countries in order, I’d have to wait while I got a copy of the actual novel (or another one). One of the many perils of ordering books online. (Not long before, I had ended up with an Armenian book with the right title, but that turned out to be a collection of short stories, not the novel I wanted). Finally my second-hand copy arrived, covered in obscure pencil notes that I had to erase before I could read it. But I did have my chosen book.
Set in the old kingdom of Dahomey, it tells the story of how the king is so determined to go to war that he ignores the ancestors (whose wishes are transmitted via the ‘devins’ – soothsayers). His advisor Toffa is captured in the resultant debacle and is treated by definition as a traitor. Toffa’s wife is the feisty Doguicimi. Everyone is surprised that she doesn’t get done away with for speaking out, but it turns out Vidaho, the heir to the throne, has become secretly enamored of her and becomes obsessed with getting her, while Doguicimi remains steadfastly loyal to her captive husband at great personal risk till her horrible self-sacrifice. Personally, I found it hard to understand why she was so attached to him considering the way he had treated her! I suppose it is tradition and the need to be respected; perhaps her name (which is explained halfway through to mean something like ‘cite me as an example’ has something to do with it.
The people’s opinions about the Whites, who are starting their encroachment on the region, are fascinating – what the latter see as their strengths, the former see as their weaknesses. There is obviously what we would now call racism from both sides, but it is easy to understand the feeling against outsiders trying to take control of their land. By modern standards, the arrogance of the ruling class, especially, of Dahomey comes off as unpleasant.
It took me a long time to read (510 pages, plus rubbing out time!) but I learnt a fascinating amount about the culture of ancient Dahomey (renamed Benin after independence) from this book. It is a classic of early indigenous African writing and a rare chance to see this time through their eyes.
HAZOUMÉ, Paul (1890 – 1980), Doguicimi, Paris?, Francopoche, 1978, ISBN 978-2706806711
HAZOUMÉ, Paul, Doguicimi: The First Dahomean Novel, translated from French by Richard Bjornson, Washington DC, Three Continents, 1990, ISBN 9780894104060
That happened one especially torrid summer Saturday. The embers of the afternoon had died down. The setting sun, red and immense, sank slowly but inexorably behind the Mountain, in a farewell full of passion and infinite sadness. The entire universe was engulfed in a light of dusty ochre and blood.
Strong-willed, religious Horïa lives alone and isolated with her old black servant Sââd, getting her only consolation by contemplating the view of Lion Mountain above. Her eldest son has gone to an America she can’t begin to imagine, her youngest is off fighting somewhere for who knows what (he is accused of being a terrorist). As she comes to discover, his letters had not been delivered to her for years. But she is about to lose her view of the mountain to a planned tourist centre (the concept of tourism is equally foreign to her). What right do they have? In a scenario familiar to people all round the world (such as the Amazon Indians having their land stolen right now), how do you stop ‘development’ from taking your land and destroying your way of life, when everyone knows that it’s your land, but you have no legal document to prove it according to the interlopers?
In the novel, tourists discover the mountain, and make a film and an illustrated book about it. When the President hears about this, he is ashamed and wants to develop a tourist complex there. Everyone else blames Horïa for hindering prosperity; even the imam avoids her. She is an ‘obstacle to progress’, considered a fool and senile.
Sââd had undergone torture for not wanting to join the Party. Horïa is equanimous and tries to keep to her own life, and concentrates on weaving her qilims, asking him to stay silent. Nevertheless, it all ends in a blaze of violence.
This is a simple but great and passionate novel. It was banned in Tunisia.
TLILI, Mustapha (1937-2017), La montagne du lion, Mesnil-sur-l’Estrée, Gallimard, 1988, ISBN 2-07-071395-4
And then the season we were in let us to keep ourselves apart no longer. In December, everything is flowering and everything smells lovely; everything is young: spring seems to join into summer, and the countryside, long waterlogged, long oppressed by sullen clouds, everywhere takes its revenge, bursts: the sky is never clearer, nor more resplendent: birds sing, they are drunk; joy is everywhere, everywhere it explodes and in every heart it resounds. It was that season, the beautiful season, which swelled my breast, and the tam-tam too, I confess, and the festive air of our walk; it was the beautiful season and everything that it contained – and that it did not contain – that it expanded profusely! – which made me dance with joy.
This was one of the first works of Francophone literature from Africa. It is perhaps not a very deep novel, but I found it a pleasant read. It certainly came as a relief after the last French novel I read, Les Racines du Yucca from Chad – much easier to read and much less boring. In fact it might be a good first novel to read in French for someone learning the language but wanting an adult book. It is based heavily on the author’s own life. It is the fairly ordinary story of a boy growing up in a traditional village, who is sent off to school in the capital Conakry and finally in France (against the opposition of his clinging mother). She was a sorcerer, in a good way – since the crocodile was her totem, she was immune from its attack. His father was a blacksmith. He later regrets not having asked about the local customs during his happy childhood in Guinea, for which he feels deep nostalgia. To tell the truth, nothing really out of the ordinary or exciting happens. What a relief after the tragic stories from Rwanda and South Sudan! Even the colonial situation (Guinea was still under French rule at the time) seems to have barely any influences. Not such an unusual story even in real life, and to tell the truth I’m surprised it’s still considered one of the classics of Francophone African literature, but still I enjoyed it.
LAYE, Camara (1928-1980), L’Enfant Noir, Paris, Plon, 2015, ISBN 978-2-266-17894-5
Translated into English as The Dark Child or The African Child.
Exile is nothing but a series of wanderings; it has no sedentary vocation. It is all very well to celebrate wandering and its enriching virtues, but it is still nothing but a succession of repeated deaths, a slicing up of a fluid lifetime into bits of existence shared between an idyllic and tormented viewpoint, focused towards the country of one’s birth and the impossibility of rooting oneself again in another soil. Exile is a slow death, a life under suspended sentence, a life in waiting.
I have to admit I wasn’t really happy with my choice of novel for Chad. Not that there’s much choice, even in French (in English, maybe none at all). This novel isn’t actually set in Chad, but in Mexico (where the author also lives), so I learnt almost nothing about that Chad from this it, apart from reading between the lines. And I’m afraid the book itself didn’t grab me. It is basically a novel about… writer’s block. I couldn’t help feeling that it could be interesting for other writers, but perhaps not for the general public. Lamko himself seems to be aware of this; but felt compelled to write the novel anyway.
Naturally, the plot doesn’t really go anywhere. The novel’s protagonist is in fact physically allergic to paper – as great a trial for someone who wants to write, as Beethoven’s onset of deafness was to that composer. He is fighting what he calls a ‘war against the paper’.
He has an ambivalent feeling about his own motherland, calling it ‘mon pays de merde que j’adore’.
He goes to a Mayan village for therapeutic reasons, where as an African he is a spectacle for the local schoolkids and has to suffer racist comments. On top of this are the normal tribulations of the writer (at one stage he thinks is recording four hours of his book, but then finds that he hadn’t recorded it after all).
For Lamko, exile means death. The exile does not abandon his country, it abandons him, and those who deliberately exile someone know that they are effectively murdering him.
I found his interminable lists rather annoying – his symptom may be ‘impasse syndrome’, a way of dealing with or merely a result of his writer’s block.
On the recurring theme of the ‘great conversation’ between books, Lamko mentions my Algerian book ‘Nedjma’, and quotes Senegal’s Ousmane (the last book I read!)
Lamko reminded me not to read too much into the writers’ native countries; they are under no obligation to write what might be expected by a European specialist in African literature from someone from an African ‘oral’ culture. The writers may have received a French education, lived overseas, immersed themselves in the literature of many countries. As an aside, I can’t help wondering if Western publishing houses, especially since they publish so few translations from most of the world, may not choose works which reinforce their own and their readers’ stereotypes about these countries, for example the treatment of women in Islamic societies. I can’t know, if a wide selection of books haven’t appeared in a language I can read.
The yucca of the title is a symbol of tenacity (only a root needs to be put back in earth for it to flourish).
LAMKO, Koulsy (1959 – ), Les racines du yucca, Paris, Philippe Rey, 2011, ISBN 9782848761848
In this way the strike established itself in Thiès. An endless strike which was, for many, along the whole length of the line, a time of suffering, but, also for many, a time of reflection. When the smoke finished floating over the savanna, they came to understand that the time had finished, the time of which the old people had spoken to them, the time when Africa was a kitchen garden. It was the machine which now reigned over their country. In stopping its motion over more than fifteen hundred kilometres, they became aware of their power, but also aware of their dependence. In truth, the machine was in the process of making new men of them. It did not belong to them, it was they who belonged to it. In halting it, it taught them this lesson.
This novel is set in three towns along the French-built railway from Dakar (Senegal) to Bamako (Mali). As the interminable 1947 railway strike drags on, the railwaymen and their families suffer intolerably from hunger and thirst and injustices by the colonial authorities, and eventually their destitute women also become more militant. The action takes place in three cities: Dakar and the railway town Thiès (Senegal), and Bamako (Mali).
The workers’ struggle represents the larger struggle for the people to overturn the power relationship with the French colonial administration. In the end, solidarity triumphs. This is not without a terrible cost, to themselves as well. Even their own social order is challenged. Different people have different ways of attempting to deal with the situation and the colonial régime. When a relative becomes a strike-breaker he is put on trial by them, despite being an elder and so traditionally worthy of more respect. Payments for polygamous families also cause conflict. As so often in revolutions and wars, it is the women who become prominent in keeping day-to-day life functioning and in forwarding the struggle (and, it has to be said, are sadly often suppressed back into their former roles afterwards). The high point is their protest march from Thiès to Dakar.
There is the cruel irony that, although there is no water to drink, the authorities use a but water cannon to disperse the protesters (who call themselves ‘God’s Bits of Wood’).
A great study of the price people have had to pay to achieve freedom, and still have to pay to get adequate working conditions.
OUSMANE, Sembene (1923 – 2007), Les Bouts de bois de Dieu, Paris?, Pocket, 2013 (originally published 1960?), ISBN 978-2-266-24581-4
Translated into English as: God’s Bits of Wood (Harlow, Heinemann, 2008, ISBN 9780435909598)
Among my surprises from this project has sometimes been finding where the countries come in order, when you rank them by population. I must admit to being surprised to see the countries of the Sahel, and nearby, ranked so highly in the population stakes, and fairly close together – we’ve just had Niger and Burkina Faso, here we are in Mali, and Chad and South Sudan will follow shortly. I’ve always thought of these countries as having few people with a poor, if not precarious, environmental existence, but on the contrary they obviously manage to support large populations somehow! And it was a surprise that what I always thought of as wretchedly infertile desert or semi-desert lands have larger populations than the countries round the coast, except for Nigeria, Ghana and Ivory Coast.
Like my book for Uganda, Wangrin is not very nice character, but in this case he does have redeeming qualities (and I found this to be on the whole a far better book). Like the English and Australian outlaws, Robin Hood and Ned Kelly (respectively), his criminality is supposedly directed only against the rich and powerful (including the French colonial authorities). But he does come off as quite nasty, calculating, hypocritical and venal, with his eye always on the main chance. Perhaps most shocking is when he passes through an Eden-like town, is treated with kindness and generosity by the commandant’s interpreter and gatekeeper Romo, decides he wants the latter’s cushy job, and sets about stealing this position for himself (thereby making Romo his greatest enemy, reasonably enough) and sets up his son. As he enriches himself, his morality decreases. He enters into complots then cheats his partners in crime. Even his daughter gets used as a weapon. He is not above conjuring witchcraft against his enemies. His prayer to the spirits reveals the sort of person he wants to be:
“Breathe into me the virtue which permits the chameleon to constantly change its colour according to its surroundings in order to pass unseen.”
He can never feel secure, claiming he even sleeps with his eyes open. Nevertheless, he does have some redeeming qualities, such as his generosity to the poor (which the author emphasises in his Afterword but doesn’t come out in the tale itself – what a strange praise-singing is this novel, where ironically only the hero’s worst qualities usually appear!) It’s as if Bâ himself has been mesmerised by Wangrin, as were his other victims, one is tempted to say like the creature of a snake charmer (if it weren’t for the hero’s ultimate fate!)
He is a world champion networker. He always keeps his promises (unfortunately often of revenge). Although become poor, he dies owing nothing, money or otherwise. On the other hand I must admire him for his linguistic skills, speaking perfect Bambara (his mother tongue), Peul, Dogon, Mossi, Djerma, Hausa and, passably, Baolé and Bété (not to mention French)…
There are some great images, like this one of civil servants fearful of an official inspection:
“When the wild animals are disturbed while feasting on the spoils of the hunt, they pause for a moment and move out of the way until the danger has passed. Then they return to their repast as soon as they no longer feel fear.”
The novel is suffused with the world of the griot (praise-singer), whose qualities include:
“On the other hand, what Kountena’s guitar cords refused to him, his vocal cords and his tongue granted it to him to a large extent. He was a marvellous story-teller, singer, and at the same time an excellent mime.”
It is also full of wonderful proverbs, such as the Peul pearl “If you are led to eat the meat from an animal’s body, at least wait until it is good and fat”, i.e. “If you have to do something below your rank, it should at least be something worth doing.”
The book is also chock-full of fascinating footnotes, from which I learnt a great deal about local life. Considering how much I was reading about Ancient Rome that year, I couldn’t help noticing the similarities between Rome and Mali in their obsession with auguries taken from natural phenomena.
In the end Wangrin falls victim to the prophecy that was made of him, falls from power, is ruined, becomes a drunkard, and falls to an ignominious, stupid death. All in all, a great portrait of a flawed but fascinating character.
Coming back to that Afterword… I’m not sure if Wangrin was originally a real person, but all that I can say to Bâ’s plea that..
“generally, the historical existence of the one who gave himself the surname ‘Wangrin’ is admitted, but it is considered that I must have “romanticised” his life to some extent, even introducing, to spice up the story and give it some sort of symbolic significance, a subtle dose of oral tradition and supernatural events of my own creation.” [my translations]
… this is a perfect description of this great novel. Methinks he doth protest too much…
Amadou Hampâté Bâ (c.1900-1991), L’étrange destin de Wangrin, ou les roueries d’un interprète africain, Paris, 10/18, 1973, 1992, ISBN 978-2-264-01758-1
“It’s a coup d’état!” Gouama sobbed. “They’re overthrowing me. They’re taking my power. My God, I’m not president any more. It’s not true! It’s impossible! Don’t shoot, I’m the president. The pres…”
My generation was a bit sad when this central West African nation changed its name from Upper Volta (which was a sort of synonym for ‘back of beyond’) to Burkina Faso (’Land of the Incorruptible’). Fortunately they didn’t touch the name of the world’s coolest-sounding capital, Ouagadougo. The Burkinabé seem to be very popular with visitors, but they do know a lot about coups.
This great novel could have justly been called “The Come-uppance”. It is a cynical look at the corruption and brutality of a 10-year African dictatorship in the country of Watinbow. ‘Father-founder of the Nation’ Gouama is corrupt, nepotistic and violent, and superstitious (being willing to have two people killed in a grisly manner to supposedly safeguard his rule). His particular specialty is bumping off his opponents using ‘accidents’ (the sabotaged parachute drop of the title was his way of getting rid of two coup plotters). He is stupidly fond of humiliating even those on whom he is dependent, like his army chiefs of staff. When his Chief of Staff Kodio leads a coup against him, his presidential guard, emasculated by his suspicion, is incapable of (and/or unwilling to) defend him. The incredulous Gouama is dragged from under his silken mosquito net by his brother. He flees, or rather is hustled, to the border, apparently not being recognised by any of his subjects, and receives some lessons from his people about what they really thought of him (though it later becomes apparent that he saw nothing to interest him except an abattoir, a kangaroo court and a lynch mob). Like bullies generally, he turns out to be a wimp – pitiful, pathetic and risible. Deliciously, he is told by his police to ‘fous le camp’ (’Get lost!’) Tricked and abandoned by his ‘friend’, the president of a neighbouring country, and by the former colonial power, he ends up grovelling at his trial. Fortunately the despicable dictator gets his just deserts and you can’t help cheering as he gets humiliated by his ex-subjects and ex-friends overseas. (There is though the sad thought that his overthrower will no doubt end up being of the same ilk).
This ought to be compulsory reading for all of the world’s dictators and would-be dictators, and for all of those who suffer under them. And it’s very worth reading for all of us.
ZONGO, Norbert (1949 – 1998), Le parachutage, Paris, L’Harmattan, 2006, ISBN 2-296-01712-6 (Collection: Ecrire l’Afrique)