Doomi Golo: The Hidden Notebooks
307
Doomi Golo: The Hidden Notebooks
307eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628952742 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Michigan State University Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2016 |
| Series: | African Humanities and the Arts |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 307 |
| File size: | 552 KB |
About the Author
Vera Wülfing-Leckei received an M.A. Classics and Modern Languages from Oxford University. She has translated numerous works from English to German, including an abridged version of Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom. Currently, she is translating “Parole chantée et communication social chez les Wolof du Sénégal” by Momar Cissé.
El Hadji Moustapha Diop has translated several published works, including those of Boubacar Boris Diop and Ousmane Sembène. Currently, he is a Ph.D. student of French Studies at the University of Western Ontario, focusing on Francophone postcolonial studies.
Read an Excerpt
Doomi Golo
The Hidden Notebooks
By Boubacar Boris Diop, Vera Wülfing-Leckie, El Hadji Moustapha Diop
Michigan State University Press
Copyright © 2016 Boubacar Boris DiopAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62895-274-2
CHAPTER 1
THE TALE OF THE ASHES
For generations, the farewell ritual in our family has remained the same: one by one, we enter the room where the dearly departed has been laid out on a mat, and there we each say our silent prayers for the peace of his soul. The faces are grave and the bodies solemn, as befits the occasion. But almost without fail there will be someone — often the closest friend of the one who has passed away — more devastated than the rest, and he will try to brighten up the atmosphere a little. He will gently tease the deceased who thought it so clever to make a quick getaway from our trivial worries here on earth. And he will tell him, "You are mistaken, old chap, if you think it's all over between you and me. I am never going to leave you in peace. I'm already on my way, in fact, and I promise I will give you so much hell in heaven that you'll regret ever having gone there!" And when he implores him to keep a cozy little spot for him in Paradise, some of the others manage to flash a quick smile, gone in an instant.
Such moments are precious, Badou.
We do need to remind ourselves from time to time that life isn't really such a big deal, even if we all make a huge fuss about it, this flickering little flame that the wind can snuff out at any moment.
But don't get me wrong: I haven't opened the first of my seven Notebooks with these slightly somber, doleful words to fill you with disgust for life.
It's quite the opposite. When it comes to living life, I, for one, have never been shy.
Right now, for example, as I write these lines to you, a piece of music that was very popular some sixty years ago is rising up in my memory. Àddina amul solo ndeysaan / Ku ci dee yaa ñàkk sa bakkan ndeysaan. And so it went on, this joyous and exuberant song, so rich in its flamboyant colors, if I can put it like that. It's about the time we spend on this earth, about these days and nights, so empty and uncertain that one has to be really dumb to put up with dying in the end without even having been happy! We really loved that tune. And then there were the pachangas ... In those days, we used to play a lot of Cuban music at our soirées in the Plateau district. Sizzling hot it was, and the drink was flowing. I can still see us all, a mass of wriggling bodies under a sweltering and dusty hangar. Imagine dozens of girls and boys gyrating like crazy lunatics and making enough noise to drown out the tumbas and the maracas!
I was — and I say this in all modesty — one of the most popular dancers of my time and, I must confess, a fiendish womanizer. Girls were always chitchatting about me, and the name Nguirane Faye was on their lips from sunrise to sunset. Yes, there were certain young ladies, slightly older than myself, who hadn't remained entirely indifferent to me. They never missed a chance to badger me in the street, "Hey, Nguirane, you're such a show-off! Who do you think you are? May the Almighty fling you into the flames of Hell!"
I wasn't lost for words, I assure you, and when I was certain we were out of earshot I would notify the naughty lady I was going to make her clitoris sing loud and clear, adding, "You'll love that kind of music, hehe!" Then she would cover her mouth with her hand in mock indignation, calling on all the saints in Heaven.
Yes, we were the Niarela Boys! Everyone knew our little gang of hooligans. We used to go completely wild from time to time.
I had my heroes, of course, such as Grand Makhou — you will come across him again later on in these Notebooks. But adults, quite frankly, I didn't really trust them. All they ever did was give advice or orders. Seriously, that was all they were capable of doing, giving advice and issuing orders. Such a path was a bit too narrow for a young man who had fallen in love with freedom; you quite simply couldn't get away from it, and you couldn't just say to them, "Hey listen, hold on a moment, I don't agree!" which ought to be the easiest thing in the world. If you just wanted to have a normal conversation with these people, it never worked. They hardly ever agreed among themselves and I thought they wanted to hoodwink me, not only regarding the small, petty things in life, but also when we started talking about God, Destiny and the Speed of Light. They invariably got caught up in endless contradictions, something I actually found quite amusing.
I was then, roughly like you are now, in my late twenties. If you read these seven Notebooks, you will see that I haven't been keeping my mouth shut later on either.
So, all in all, I have lived a good life, and I wouldn't hold it against you if you did the same.
Now I am old and quietly waiting for the end, right here in the courtyard of our house in this part of Niarela you know so well.
I'm not in perfect health, that I know — and how could I be at the age of nearly eighty? — but I am pleased to say that so far at least, my body is not a total wreck. I certainly don't relish the thought of becoming completely decrepit.
And you, Badou, the child of my deceased son, are now the focus of my life.
Sometimes I close my eyes, trying to guess at least the name of the country where you are living now. But I always give up very quickly. It's so frustrating not even to have a vague idea.
Which sunrays caress your eyelids when you wake up in the morning, Badou Tall? Your friends in the area initially reacted very badly to the news that you had simply gone abroad one day, just like that, without saying a word. So I told them that even your mother Bigué Samb and I didn't know which country you went to after leaving Niarela. That calmed them down a little bit. They all shook their heads: That his mother Bigué didn't know, that we can believe! But you, Nguirane ... you were so close, you two ... How could he ...?
I am not sure what to reply to them, to be quite honest. Here in Niarela, people were never really able to work you out. We are simple folk, we stick together when the going gets tough, and we don't have a lot of time for those who make a big song and dance about things. But you used to be so reserved that some people decided you were selfish and arrogant. You may have been taciturn, secretive even, but you never hesitated to help those in need. To this day, people in Niarela haven't stopped talking to me about your integrity and your spirit of sacrifice. In order to help your mother Bigué Samb and me survive, you took on the sort of menial jobs most of your mates would have found humiliating. The girls here in Niarela have of course always been keener on young men who sit in air conditioned offices with two or three telephones positioned very visibly in front of them. They were brazen enough to make up horribly callous songs to tease you, these women, but you didn't seem to mind. Maybe it was your dream, too, to become a civil servant or an engineer one day. You never had the chance to go to university, and you weren't ashamed of washing cars at a petrol station in Ouagou-Niayes or working as a street-hawker on the big HLM market.
And now there are those who claim you have traveled east. Rumor has it that you are in Algeria, in Morocco, or perhaps even further away — in Lebanon. Everybody here is dreaming up places where you may be living in exile, without rhyme or reason. The other day, one of them actually had the audacity to say, "Mark my words, everybody! Badou Tall has answered the call of the blood. We all know blood is thicker than water. Sooner or later, someone will come and tell us he has seen this boy in France. Badou has followed in the footsteps of his father Assane Tall who passed away in Marseille! And on the day when we hear this news, don't forget that I was the one who said it first!"
Wherever you are, the only thing that really matters is that you are feeling well there. Someone with your degree of courage and staying power deserves a dignified existence. You are not the kind of person who would settle in a place where you're not wanted. And if there is one thing no one has even the slightest doubt about in Niarela, it is that one day, sooner or later, you will come back here to take your rightful place among us.
I, alas, shall no longer be on this earth by then. The thought that we will never see each other again is very hard for me to bear, I can't deny it. That is the reason why, for some time now, I have been talking to you so much through my Notebooks. Everything I write there is addressed to you. Initially, I merely wanted to compile a chronicle of everyday life in Niarela for you. You know, everybody here thinks I'm talking gibberish and that I am probably going senile. As a result, they're not really paying attention to me and they forget to put on their usual masks when I am around. When you are a man of nearly a hundred you barely count for more than a newborn baby in a cradle. That allows me to observe without being seen and to eavesdrop everywhere. And I pass it all on to you, so that when, on your return, you read through everything, it's as though you had never left Niarela.
There was just one small problem, quite difficult to resolve for an aged novice writer like myself. Since I cannot count myself among the famous poets our nation is so proud of — names like Serigne Moussa Kâ, Mabo Guissé or Cheik Aliou Ndao — I have felt totally at sea when, as the weeks went by, other events somehow demanded to be told as well. If I had to express myself in images, I might say they were banging on the door and making a hell of a noise, while at the same time trying to jump onto the pages of my Notebooks and staking their claim to a place in there. The end result was a huge shambles. Out of sheer battle-weariness, and undoubtedly once again due to my lack of experience, I decided to give in and let them have the last word.
One of these Notebooks I have called The Book of Secrets, and that is the one to which I would like to draw your special attention. You will easily recognize it by its red cover. There, I reveal things that must only be known to you and me, things that can often be downright embarrassing. Sometimes I feel like tossing those pages straight into the fire. What they contain isn't pretty, far from it — it's pure, unmitigated hatred, jealousy and slander, a snapshot of unadulterated life in the raw, if you like. I have heard neighbors malign you — you, who are so gentle — and I have repeated their malicious words back to you. I think I know you well enough to trust that you won't get too worked up about my silly gossip. You must watch out, when the time comes, that The Book of Secrets doesn't fall into the wrong hands. It could sow discord in Niarela.
I would have preferred to talk to you face-to-face, of course, like any storyteller worthy of that name. Then I could have made your heart beat faster and challenged you with my perplexing riddles. You would have had to look for clues buried deep under the ocean and spend many nights patiently searching for them to unlock their secrets.
But, I am writing to you, since that's my only option. I must confess that without that, I wouldn't give a damn whether I was alive or dead.
* * *
It was on a Thursday, if my memory doesn't deceive me. We were back from the airport with the mortal remains of your father, Assane Tall, who had died in Marseille a few days earlier. After the corpse was prepared for burial, Imam Keita invited you to go and say a final prayer before the body. You simply shook your head and declined, and immediately everybody started staring at you. Something like this was unheard of in Niarela, but no one made any comment. You somehow seemed so different from everyone else that people were always slightly unsure of you. News of the incident spread like wildfire, and a few minutes later, Ndeye Sylla planted herself in front of you with her massive body and said emphatically, but without raising her voice, "Badou Tall, there is no need for you to try so hard to convince us that you're not an ordinary human being like the rest of us. Now go and explain yourself to Imam Keita."
Everyone in the tents was eager to see how you would react. In your usual taciturn manner, you simply reiterated your refusal by gently shaking your head again.
Someone came up to me and complained, "Nguirane, this time, your grandson has really gone too far. Go and tell him that he simply won't get away with this. You are the one and only person he has always listened to."
I don't even remember who said this to me, but my reply was, "Just give Badou Tall a break, will you? If you don't know why he is behaving like this, then he certainly does."
Ndeye Sylla erupted, "I, Ndeye Sylla, am telling you that this boy is going straight to Hell! Who does he think he is, your Badou Tall? How can you let him publicly humiliate his father on a day like this?"
That was enough; now it was my turn, and I yelled back at Ndeye Sylla, "You are just a simple mortal, Ndeye, you can't send anybody to Hell! Badou Tall may be young, but I know him better than the whole lot of you, and I have never seen him do anything without good reason!"
But between you and me, Badou, I have to admit that even though I did my best to excuse your behavior that day, I was just as baffled as everyone else. Even I couldn't understand what this was all about. When it runs that deep, a son's hatred for his father becomes quite simply intolerable. And yet, when I think of that scene, which I do now and again, I feel you were right. After all, they asked you to go and look at your father, Assane Tall, for the first and the last time in your life, half an hour before he was to be taken to the cemetery ~ That really didn't make much sense.
This incident, I think, reminded all the friends and relatives present that our family has never quite fitted the mold.
Of course nobody had any idea at that point that your father's death would — years later — cause such serious trouble in Niarela and that it would even, in some way, shake up the entire country.
You were already abroad by then, which is why I am going to go now, to write a chronicle of these rather unusual events for you.
* * *
Visitors had to walk across a sandy courtyard and take a seat on the small veranda that served as a waiting room. Mbaye Lô, our master of Koranic studies, would then receive them in the dimly lit room where he lived like a recluse. People came from all over the country to seek his advice and his prayers, and he graciously obliged in exchange for a few coins, or a handful of biscuits. He used to spread out these offerings in front of him to show his gratitude, but we all knew that he didn't really care about the money. He was a man of great austerity who fasted for a large part of the year. Despite my tender age — I was five or six years old at the time — I understood perfectly that Mbaye Lô was unlike — actually very unlike — any of the other adults.
I just didn't know exactly why I found him so special.
Day after day, he opened our young hearts to the Word of the One and Only God. We would form a semicircle around him, and while I was reciting verses from the Koran with my classmates, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Although he was prematurely aged and slightly hunchbacked, Mbaye Lô's face was smooth and handsome. He always wore the same caftan, which must originally have been dark brown but was now so faded that the color had turned into a murky café au lait. He was probably not in the habit of spending his nights on his bed, because that was cluttered up with all sorts of objects, including pages from notebooks covered in Arabic texts he had copied out in his own hand. It happened that mice came out of their holes and scampered around between our legs before taking refuge under the bed, and whenever Mbaye Lô had squashed a cockroach with an old issue of Bingo — this seemed to be the only use for the dozens of copies of that once famous magazine lying piled up next to a wooden wardrobe — one of us had to go and drop the creature into the latrine. There was no denying that our master lived in filthy conditions and his lungs were in a parlous state. We often saw him spitting blood into a bowl reserved specifically for that purpose — in brief, Mbaye Lô was some sort of a human wreck.
His daara was in Rebeuss and if you had asked one of the notables who lived there, right next to Niarela, about him in those days, he would have pulled a scornful grimace and replied, "Oh hell, you should stop wasting time on this Mbaye Lô of yours, his life is worth about as much as a dead rat in a pile of rubbish."
I, Nguirane Faye, would never have said anything so outrageous about this man, anything so full of arrogance and foolish conceit. If I am telling you about Mbaye Lô today, it's because no Son of the Earth has made a more vivid impression on me in all the many days I have lived. Although I never saw him again after my childhood, I've been unable to forget him. He was one of those people whose impact on us is all the more indelible, the more fleeting our encounter with them. Someone may remain etched in our mind forever, even though we have crossed his path in the street but once. Looking into his eyes may make us feel, for a fraction of a second, that this stranger is somehow not of this world.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Doomi Golo by Boubacar Boris Diop, Vera Wülfing-Leckie, El Hadji Moustapha Diop. Copyright © 2016 Boubacar Boris Diop. Excerpted by permission of Michigan State University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.