Sneak peek - Chapter 7

(English translation)

Hi Friend,

I hope you had a nice holiday season and eased into the new year. This year, like in the past year, I didn't receive any gift from anyone. I grew up catholic and poor, so gifts were never the focus of the holiday season for me, not a bad thing if you asked me. Besides, the good side is, I didn't have to gift anyone either. But today I want to give you a present in the form of the seventh chapter of my upcoming novel. There are almost 300 people here and when I think about all of you reading what I write in bed, during your commute to work, in your kitchen etc. It seems like a gigantic number to me. I’m truly grateful for every single one of you.Why the seventh chapter, you're probably asking yourself. Well, because it is a chapter I worked on as a stand-alone short story during a writing residency I did last year. It was supposed to come out as part of an anthology after the residency but almost a year later still nothing, so, if you know any publication that would publish such a short story, let me know. It was originally written in French with elements of Ivorian French, local languages and Nouchi (Slang). I made the proud African writer decision not to give a lexicon of the local terms because if I'm a good writer you should understand and if you still don't understand and you’re interested you would look for it, like you would do for any other book in any other language. However, I translated some Nouchi terms in Nigerian Pidgin. As a linguist, translating this short story has been a fun exercice. I will also publish it in French so if you read French, read it in French too, to compare. I hope you enjoy it and I hope it will make you want to read the whole book. The only thing I am asking you in return is a comment. Let me what you think, and make it constructive preferably.

Enjoy !

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Mousso Fariman

(Picture from Kingsley Osei-Abrah on Unsplash)

That morning I woke up with the feeling that I wasn't really there. As if a cloudy filter had been placed between me and the world. From the minute I opened my eyes, I knew it was going to be one of those days where there was nothing to do but wait for the next day and hope that it would be different. I tried to keep myself occupied as usual, but to no avail. All my attempts at distraction had been interspersed with waves of tears coming from who knows where, snarling behind my pupils. What's more, the nausea I'd been feeling since waking up and the sensation of carrying thirty kilos of hot stones in my gut didn't help matters.

I waited for the sun to start setting before deciding to walk from my father's house in Riviera Jardins to Bintou's new salon, in a last attempt to get out of my mental ruminations. I'd arrived a fortnight ago but hadn't told her because I wanted to surprise her. What's more, the faux locks on my head were begging to be undone. I was in a country of black people now, I couldn't keep prolonging the life of this hairstyle forever. I'd never set foot in Bintou's new salon, but through our regular conversations I'd followed the whole process of its creation from my cramped flat near Crack Hill. From the obstacle course involved in finding a premise in this increasingly expensive city, to choosing the colour of the walls - painters always had to be watched like a hawk if you didn't want to end up with an original creation on your walls - to paying the astronomical deposit; the owners had invented a new fee called 'doorstep fees' and if you didn't want to end up with a woman selling Gbofloto outside your shop, you had to pay it.

Extracting myself from the Parisian cold had nevertheless helped to reduce the unfortunately familiar sensation of having both feet caught in a vice tightened to the maximum, so I decided to take the longer route to get a minimum of physical exercise. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do, but "A little movement is better than no movement", the favourite quote of Doctor Kim, my algologist-acupuncturist, was ringing more loudly in my mind today. I'd chosen her at random on a website one day in a fit of rage and despair, after yet another doctor had told me that he couldn't see anything on the images and that the pain I was feeling must be in my head. Doctor Kim welcomed me, validated me and reassured me from the very first session. I owed her a quarter of my survival. The other three quarters were shared between Elise, my gynaecologist, Dayana, my psychologist and Oya Iansã, my Òrìṣà.

Abidjan not being a pedestrian-friendly city, I would have normally taken a Wôrô-Wôrô to drive the seven minutes from my father's house to Bintou’s salon. However, since I'd returned, Daniel had been driving me around the city in his grey Range Rover Sport. The pleasure of living out my passenger princess fantasies in a car of optimal comfort, escorted by a fine man, was multiplied by the relief of no longer having to contend with the crippling nature of the endless stairs and constantly broken-down lifts of the Parisian subway. After all these years of long-distance friendship, I really appreciated Daniel's presence and the long discussions we had at all times, but especially those we had in his car. At times like that, the welcomed coolness provided by the car's air conditioning, the slightly lemony scent of the car air freshener and Daniel's ever-successful music selection, cut us off from the outside world when the traffic jams, noise and heat threatened to give me a migraine. I also loved our silences. Silences usually made me uncomfortable, but Daniel was the only one who made them bearable.

Around 5.30pm I put on my trainers, my leggings and a white T-shirt with the words "I love NY" written in bold letters, which took me back two years, to the last trip my ex-best friend Leila had insisted we take together. Thinking of her as an 'ex' was a strange thing. If there was one person I imagined being in my life forever, it was Leila. Looking back, I realised that this trip had been the beginning of the end of our friendship. Without giving my brain time to release the bittersweet memories of the times I'd shared with her, I set off down the road towards the Elias neighbourhood. When we were children, Daniel, his little sister Affiba, my two little sisters, Nadré and Elina, and I formed a little troupe who loved to play with our friends on the little grassy hills in the neighbourhood. These hills, dotted with sandboxes, old-fashioned swings and little stone benches that had stood the test of time, were the favourite playground of our merry little band, led by Daniel and me. We used to explore the winding paths between the low buildings named after local plants and the tall towers named after the rivers stretching across our continent. The memories of our carefree childhood and the stark contrast with the life I was trying to leave behind swelled the tide of tears that had been waving its menacing spectre since the early hours of the day.

I soon arrived in Anono, one of the few Ebrié villages to have survived the development of the capital city. As I walked along the blackened wall of the cemetery, weaving around the cars parked on the pavements, I prayed that those cleverly skirting the potholes wouldn't squash me like a mosquito on the cemetery wall. I was already imagining the viral Facebook post:

A returnee woman crushed to death against the wall of the Anono cemetery. May her soul rest in peace.

Unless accidents were so frequent here that my sudden passing wouldn't move anyone. Between two worried glances at the cars coming up behind me, zigzagging slowly, I realized I no longer had the physical capacity to cope with the dubious urban planning of this town. It was then that I arrived at the crossroads of the Anono market, where the general cacophony didn't give me an instant headache, much to my surprise. It had been a good decision to go out at the end of the day when the heat and the bright light were fading. I spotted a Gnonmi seller flipping her doughnuts surrounded by a few people who were already waiting to feast on them and decided to join the semblance of a queue. The rest of the road would be a lot easier with something to nibble on.

Popping the last of the slightly acidic millet fritters into my mouth, I crossed the street in a hurry. The undisciplined cars entering and leaving the market left a brief gap in the traffic that I had to seize, unless I wanted to be stuck for too many minutes on the other side of the road. It was then that a beep from my phone caught my attention. I quickly wiped my fingers full of powdered milk on the crumpled handkerchief in my hand that had been used to wipe the large beads of sweat beading on my forehead, betraying the many years I'd spent away from this humid climate. Finally, I took my phone out of the 'wedding flowers' patterned Ankara tote bag that Daniel had gifted me on our last trip to the Cocody Centre craft market.

It was Mom.

Moyo, don't forget to go and see Marie-Anne at the market and give her the money Blandine gave you.

Marie-anne was my cousin Pierre’s wife, my aunt Blandine's first son. I hadn't seen her for three years, since the summer when her union with my cousin was celebrated. That day, when I saw her for the first time, resplendent with a thousand golden reflections in her Akan queen outfit, I sincerely wondered what such a beautiful, kind and resourceful girl was doing with my alcoholic of a cousin? How had he managed to nail her? It couldn't have been his wealth or his beauty that had attracted her, for he was sorely lacking in both. But there was nothing exceptional about this situation. This country, like the rest of the world, was full of warrior princesses who agreed to marry ugly, mean and broke toads, just so they could say they had a man at home. Personally, I was delighted not to have to submit to this societal pressure. Since the fateful surgery that had put the final nail in the coffin of my life as I'd known it before and nipped in the bud the future I'd imagined, the little energy that barely fuelled my body every day was precious and running after a man was therefore neither in my abilities nor in my plans. About a year earlier, my mother had told me that Marie-Anne had lost her baby at eight months’ gestation. The baby didn't survive its premature birth and my cousin preferred to let Marie-anne grieve and deal with her physical and psychological trauma on her own. But not for long. Barely three weeks after the fateful birth, Marie-Anne had to return to her job as a fruit and vegetable seller at her stall in the Anono market. There, at least, she was surrounded by other women who gave her moral support.

— Moyo! Moyo!

I was about to cross the road in front of the service station at the Garage crossroads when I heard someone shouting the nickname that only members of my family used. I looked up at the purple and orange reflections on the horizon to see where the voice was coming from. I was only halfway along the path but already the wooded lanes were a distant memory. The greenery had been quickly replaced by an endless line of noisy cars framed by an equally endless line of shops selling all kinds of goods. At last, I spotted a woman who looked exactly like my mother. She was waving to me from the passenger seat of a car stuck in the traffic jam. Her car was next to the Saint Athanase pharmacy and her bright green boubou matched the pharmacy's lights, which came on in the setting sun. For a moment, I wondered if the tiredness caused by the walk had gone to my head too quickly for me to notice. Was I starting to hallucinate? Had my mother decided to follow me to Abidjan without telling me? That wouldn’t surprise me.

— Moyo ! Moyo! Here! It's Auntie Maryse!, continued the vision, waving her arms out of her car’s window, accompanied by the enthusiastic honking of her driver, which added to the ambient din and threatened to bring on the migraine I'd escaped until now.

I blinked and recognised her face. Auntie Maryse was eighteen years older than my mother and practically her twin, so similar were they. Married young in Abidjan, my mother had been sent to live with her at the age of fifteen, to continue her secondary education. Unsurprisingly, my mother had to face the bullying and physical and moral violence that came with being turned into the unpaid domestic employee of the house. This was the fate of countless young girls who were sent to live with relatives in the city in 1972, and today, unfortunately, not much has changed. At least my mother hadn't been domestically raped by her sister's husband, like so many others. In her misfortune she was lucky, I suppose. When my grandfather died about ten years ago, my mother found in his belongings the letters she had sent him, explaining what she was going through. When I read the words she had written to her father, I swore to hate that aunt for the rest of my life, and I intended to keep this promise.

Dad, I swear, she hits me. Yesterday she even tore my clothes, and she barely gives me money for food when I go to school.

I couldn't forget those words, repeated in many forms and in many letters sent over one too many years. I decided to continue on my way as if I'd neither seen nor heard this abusive witch. In any case, the traffic was moving again and her car would soon disappear into the distance. If she complained to my mother, the headphones that hadn't left my ears since I had left my father’s house would serve as an alibi.

Then, my phone began to ring. My aunt Eulalie's name appeared on the screen. I decided to let it ring and call her back later. At the Riviera 2 Allocodrome, I was immediately approached by a few women who wanted to direct me to their respective stalls; stalls lost in the middle of dozens of other stalls where a mass of women, blurred by the uniform of worn-out Ankara dress, greasy apron and worn scarf, were busy getting ready to light the fires to braise the chickens, fish and other animals that were going to delight the many residents of the neighbourhood and beyond. Baited by the smell of grilled meat, I decided to order a large braised fish which, that according to my calculations, should be ready by the time I left Bintou's salon.

The woman I ordered it from reminded me precisely of my aunt Eulalie. I hadn't seen her since she had gone back to her shameless cheater of a husband, an endemic species in this country. Some twenty years earlier, he had moved his wife and seven children near the Angré Hospital, to be closer to the house he had just bought for his younger mistress. Of course, when she found out, my aunt Eulalie went to make a scandal at the house of said mistress. However, our whole extended family, with the exception of my parents, sided with my uncle. As a child, I already knew that something was wrong. You'd have to be crazy, in denial or far too stupid to try to be in a relationship with an Ivorian man and expect any kind of intrinsic fidelity.

That's why, on my return to Babi, I decided to embark on “Operation Chop life and Knack” rather than “Operation Chop life, Knack and Love matter”. Fed up with the humiliations, Auntie Eulalie had finally left her husband and returned to live alone with her children in Marcory, where she had her habits and her community. With the money she had saved during her years as a housewife, she opened a small Maquis there, which she baptized "Chez Tantie Oyiri", after her maiden name. Her Maquis did not remain small for long. People came from all over the city to eat at her place and the restaurant was never empty. Except that despite all the humiliations she had suffered, she had gone back to my uncle. I'd never understood where women got their endless reserves of pity for men who not only wouldn't spit on them if they were on fire, but who wouldn't hesitate for a second to light the fire themselves. I made a mental note to myself to pay her a visit soon and to take the opportunity to eat a nice, gooey Placali with Okra stew. Maybe she'll explain it to me then.

I continued to walk in an irregular line on the thin strip of tarmac between the cars, which were moving at the speed of an anaemic snail. The street vendors had invaded the pavements in the setting sun with their small and varied wares placed on cardboard boxes and other makeshift tables. The satisfaction of having at least moved my body a little today by setting off on this picturesque walk was beginning to fade. I made one last stop at a fruit stand by the side of the road when the whiteness of my T-shirt was already well stained with yellow sweat. I chose two large, juicy papayas and two small lemons that I was looking forward to sharing with my father on his terrace tomorrow morning. This new little ritual that had developed naturally between us gave me the impression that I was making up for lost time with him.

I finally arrived in front of Bintou's small salon, which was next to a pet grooming shop a few metres before the Riviera 2 junction. I stopped for a moment before entering and admired the shop's plain facade. Bintou was standing tall over a customer's head, shouting something to Etienne who was coming out of the back of the shop, balancing several large bottles of hair products in his hands. The small salon was deliberately minimalist, with beige-painted walls, light veneered wooden shelves, large simple mirrors surrounded by small bulbs giving off a warm light and a few artificial green plants as decoration. My heart filled with pride for my girl. She'd done it, she'd finally got her own hair salon. Admittedly, it was still small and plain, but one had to start somewhere, right? Such an intelligent girl, with a love for labour that was incomprehensible to me and the laziness that characterised me. A single mother who had to run to dodge the bullets of war with her nine-month-old belly. The last of ten children, born when her parents could no longer afford her education, making her the only one in the family who didn't make it past primary school. A woman who had never ceased to seek knowledge by any means necessary. "When I tell you to watch something other than Novelas TV, you don't listen", she used to say regularly to the other hairdressers in the salon where she used to work.

She was addicted to documentary channels and news programmes on every topic which surprised and intimidated the men who approached her, thinking they'd find a silly, docile, and manipulable woman. A girl who had worked with loyalty and integrity for twelve years for an ungrateful absent boss who didn't recognise her value and who sometimes didn't even pay her salary, even though the salon only functioned thanks to her. Wow! Bintou finally had her own salon.

I watched Bintou focus on her work, her haughty bearing supported by a beautiful plumply neck and her chubby fingers braiding her customer's hair with superhuman speed. As I looked at her, I thought to myself that I would have liked to have been born in a country where Bintou could have stayed at school, because her education would not have depended on her parents' income. I would also have liked to be born in a country where Marie-anne wouldn't have lost her baby at eight months for lack of proper hospital equipment; a country where Auntie Eulalie wouldn't have had to endure the humiliations caused by her cheating husband supported by his family; a country where my mother wouldn't have had to endure so much violence and deprivation at the hands of her sister and her sister's husband. Of course, they got through it, but how about the many others who never saw the light at the end of the tunnel? They all deserved better. I, too, deserved better than all the misfortunes that have befallen me in recent years. But in the end, if it hadn't killed me, I owed it to myself to try and live, didn't I? After all, "we're already born" as the Ivorians say. The tears that had been threatening to spill out for no reason since the start of the day became hard to hold back. They'd finally found a good reason to overwhelm the dam that I'd been trying so hard to keep up since the morning. My cheeks slowly began to wet in spite of myself, but I quickly put an end to this outpouring. No, not tonight. Tonight, we don't cry, tonight we celebrate.

—Surprise! I shouted as I burst open the salon main door, startling everyone. “Mousso fariman! Madam boss! What’s up !?”