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iy6612a · 5 years ago

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Let freedom ring!

“Sure.” And Kate hung up abruptly, knowing she would neither call nor see Nicely ever again. She was sick and tired of his clinginess. In the last twenty-four hours he had called her countless times to make sure of their next encounter. Now he resorted to baiting her with a surprise she didn’t care for. Nicely was in for a big surprise if he thought he was going to replace Morie in her life. Having settled Nicely’s case, Kate watched her baby boy busy feeding himself, and she went on musing the things that would have to be discussed with Phyllis. It went without saying that if she was to the right thing by Morie based on her conversation with Kevin, the terms of her friendship with Phyllis also needed be revised. Such assessment entailed for her to be true to herself and follow her heart by coming home to her true beliefs rooted in the social, political, and cultural debates that built on and even surpassed the era of Kennedy and King. She had to get back in the urgent activism, particularly in the working-class communities that absorbed so many of the decade’s economic and cultural shocks. Kevin had been right about the dumpiness of the two-story, two-family house, next door to the corner store. She remembered a number of manufacturing plants in the neighborhood, Con Edison, Kodak, the old paper mill—all of which had relocated elsewhere, leaving the neighborhood bare like other middling urban areas ripe in exclusion, unemployment and disappointment. This had prompted Kate to leave the family house by the time she turned nineteen, determined to make a life of her own and not turn out stagnant the way her father did. So she went to college and got a job and then got married. Although she wasn’t as bright as was Kevin, Kate had been much like him at school, a loner who resented the stagnation at home, without the benefit of getting along with schoolmates. So she, too, ended up not participating in extracurricular activities. Hooking up with Phyllis was only meant for Kate to fit in but she seldom felt like she belonged neither with her nor with other members of their circle of friends. Now she was faced with the option of either remaining a single mother for the rest of her life, finding a new husband amongst her own kind, or working out her broken marriage with Morie. It dawned on her that above all her priority should be identifying a passion of her own. And in this regard she envied Morie who had been doing steadfastly that which he truly liked regardless of what others thought of him. She had resented him precisely for doing that which he wanted to do. Kate wanted that sort of courage and commitment to one’s purpose in life. She certainly couldn’t find her purpose in life by keeping her husband locked up because he had discovered the purpose of his life—just so that the world would be blaming him and not her for the destruction of their marriage. “Everybody will think you’re a fool if you drop charges,” had been Phyllis’ unforgettable line. Now Kate thought, so what if everybody thinks she was a fool? Would it matter were she to lose the respect of her circle of so-called friends, or that of her family members? Did she ever have any of their respect in reality to begin with? The longer Kate mused, the clearer her mind got, the lighter she felt, and the freer. What mattered was the support of the one person who truly cared for her—brother Kevin.

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iy6612a · 5 years ago

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Estranged Father & Son

At the time we were on our first month of marital life, and aside from sixteen-year old Molai, we were without children of our own. I would have stopped a futureless marriage. I would have peacefully given Kirdie a divorce so she could be with the other man, the one she loved, Nyengè.

However, I went on with Kirdie, brought her all the way from Africa only to realize that I’d only been a gateway to America for her. That realization hurt more than a hot wedge driven in my heart. I put up with her game for nearly ten years before giving up. When I got fed up with Kirdie’s uncooperative behavior, I left and slept in my car for a few days before landing in shelter in Arlington, Northern Virginia, until such time as a friend of mine, sixty-year old Latoya, offered that I share a room in her father’s house for two-hundred and fifty dollars per month. That led me to occupy a small room on the first floor of a raw house in the Petworth neighborhood north west of the District. Moving in with old man Lenoir was like trading the frying pan for the fire.

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iy6612a · 9 years ago

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Damocles Sword

This story is excerpted from the first chapter of my upcoming novel titled “The Order of Protection”

Damocles’ Sword

Kate was a product of white working class America. At twenty-six in the mid 1970’s she had lived through the worse events that punctuated the decade. Among other majors events she had seen on TV president Nixon resign in tears; she kept memories of the fierce workers opposition to management and sometimes union leadership; she remembered the rise of heroes like Ed Sadlowski, the 38-year old director of the United steel Workers’ largest district who ran as a reform candidate to the presidency of his union; her family was impacted by the brutal combination of commodity supply shocks, loose monetary policy, and federal deficits induced by the Vietnam War; she occasionally read pieces pundits wrote about the phenomenon which economist dubbed ‘stagflation’; she witnessed the staggering frequency of workers on strike. She remembered her father’s word as he commented the United Auto Workers’ dramatic walkout against General Motors in 1970, and the striking postal workers, saying that the blue-collar Americans demonstrated a degree of militancy unseen since the end of World War II. Moreover as recently as October of the year 1975, local papers were filled news of New York City’s four hundred and fifty-three million dollars debts becoming due, while there was only thirty-four million dollars on hand. Kate was thankful to her college degree—she didn’t have to follow up on her father’s footstep and settle for any of those disappearing blue-collar jobs. Had she only been blessed with the right life partner she wouldn’t be in her present predicament. Perhaps she might have been better off with a white husband, but she married a black immigrant who appeared to be educated; she married him precisely to make up for the lack of dependable, gainfully employed local men in her community. However, with her marriage to Morie suffering from the turbulances of the decade, Kate found herself taking lovers such as Totobo Nicely, another immigrant, albeit a blue-collar worker, to whose demand she gave into not only to punish her husband but also because she could no longer deny him that for which he had courted her with remarquable steadfastness of purpose.

Last spring, when Kate moved out of Staten Island Dockyard apartment to Manhattan 39th Street Studio with her huband, the frequency of her encounters with Nicely had decreased to the point of becoming sporadic. Now she was thinking of him the way a drawning person thought of a lifejacket because her glamorous husband had become mean ever since he returned from Africa. Kate had enough of Morie’s arrogance, his despicable silences, and his selfishness. She had sought a companion to share her life with, Morie turned out to be arrogant and selfish. She was positive that none of the women who had preceded her could boast of having been unique in his life. How could it be otherwise with a man who loved nobody? Morie most likely had never loved anyone. He had married her for the benefit of a green-card that should lead him to citizenship within a few years. Every other motivation he had put forward had been pure conjecture, sophistry. She remembered how Monique had told her long ago that Morie had polygamy in his blood. Her conversation with Temba and other acquaintances had confirmed Kate’s suspicion that Morie only sought a green-card period. Temba had gone as far as drawing Kate attention to the unthinkable: her husband had gone to Africa to select his future African wife. Temba had argued that people from his village, the moris were somewhat akin to the Amish of Pennsylvania since they only married amongst their own kind.

Kate had been infuriated by these revelations, she confided her concerns to a number of her girlfriends, notably Phyllis, Sheila, and Leah; and to men like her first husband, Trinidadien Ernest and, definitely Totobo Nicely.

In his eagerness to console Kate, Nicely had taken advantage of her tears and slept with her. She came out of his bed promising herself that she would never do it again, but Nicely turned out to be of such invaluable moral support she found it hard to resist his advances. She saw him nearly every other day after Morie departed to Africa last summer. She called him to warn that her husband was coming back, expressing confusion and guilt and anger. Nicely gently coaxed her to meet and talk. She dropped off Matt to her mother’s house and went to meet him in the same Motel room on Staten Island I-178. The moment she entered the room, she broke in tears in Nicely’s arms. He fed her pizzas and they drank several beers before falling into each other’s arms. She told Nicely all about how her husband had not only cheated her with a number of New York mistresses, she argued that he must have also picked an Africa spouse in his country, and now he might be on his way back in September to further making her miserable. What was she to do if he left her?

Kate was so tired mentally, emotionally and phychologically! She could hardly work the vacuum cleaner in the living room. From time to time, she threw a glance at Matt, born in March last years and now ten months old. The little boy sat in his crib with his toys, including a telephone, a stuffed monkey, a wooden dog with wheel at its feet, a bell that rang every time the baby hit it, and a series of multicored plastic rings. It seemed to Kate that Matt was indifferent to his set of toys as he stood in the crib saying “dadada,” while his tiny hands waved in her direction in search for mommy’s affection. But Kate kept passing the vacuum clearner on the rug; she applied herself with fervor, intent on getting rid of the frustrations that troubled her heart. She was not chewing gum today, neither did she seem to be into a tune aired by WBLS, a new hit she normally enjoyed: “Do it anyway you want.”

Kate was exhausted and unhappy. She hated the touch-typing sounds as much as her husband detested the vacuum cleaner’s loud engine. The crackling of the typewriter came from the study where Morie spent the greater part of his time ever since he returned from Africa. Another Saturday! A Saturday Kate will spend by herself. She felt alone even when her husband was inside the apartment. Besides, she said to herself, Morie was virtually never in. All he cared about was his machine; he thinks he had become a celebrated author ever since one of his pieces got into the Times. He was definitely rude and verbally abusive whenever Kate broke him away from what he called his work, as if writing a book at home could be designated as work. She had had it up to there—being rejected, ignored and abused. She was sick and tired of the endless cycle of arguments, bickerings, and fragile reconcilliations. Morie’s uncompromising behavior about the way he spent his time had not yet escalated to physical violence; he was unlikely to hit her but Nicely had warned that her husband might turn violent. Violence was part of the things that degrading relationships could yield, especially the violence men deal to women, Phyllis had said. Phyllis warned that at some point Morie might resort to violence and strongly advised that Kate should prevent such a thing. Kate knew about the violence men dealt women even though she remained in denial of the way her father occasionaly hit her mother when he came home drunk and frustrated by the stagnation that characterized his lifestyle. To heed her girlfriend’s advice, she agreed to get a Court order of protection from her husband. On the strength of her order of protection, she knew that she could bring in the police and expel Morie from the apartment the moment she tired of hearing the crackling of his typewriter. The order of protection was an extreme step to take and it made Kate fairly nervous. She wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Why did she feel guilty? Why it necessary that she sets up her husband? Did Morie deserve the kind of set up that was likely to speed up his downfall and ruin his life?

To these questions, Nicely had been categorical as he supported the order of protection: “The dude could kill you!” He warned.

That warning brought back to Kate’s mind the story her husband had shared about the way his father used to mercilessly beat him. She wondered to what extent the saying would be verified, if ever in her case, that violence begets violence. Was it possible that Morie might one day take out on her the violence his father had dealt him in his boyhood?

Kate wondered how would her husband react when he learns of the existence of an order of protection from him? In Court, a clerck had advised that the effectiveness of the order was predicated on her husband not being made privy of its existence. But Kate could not bear to imagine Morie peacefully seated before his typewriter and happy at her expenses! Morie had to be happy in the study because his joyful little laughter came to her attentive ears from time to time. He never laughed like that with Kate. Not anymore. It was not fair that he should be so happy and free at her expenses.

She put away the vacuum cleaner and resolutely walked into the study. She stood behind her husband, both hands joined before her, weighing her thoughts, searching for the right word to translate them, and pouting with her entire body.

Moriba Laye Bainaka stopped working the moment he saw the reflection of his wife in the glass frame of the Mandingo Girl Dressed In Pearls. The portrait was fastened against the wall behind the typewriter facing him. On his guard, motionless, eyes focused on Kate’s reflection visible in the portrait before him, Morie waited, deliberately refusing to turn to her.

“You’re so cruel!” She started.

Morie did not answer.

“You won’t even daign look at me, least talk to me.” She stopped.

Morie did not answer.

“Now I agree with those who call you arrogant,” she paused, wondering what more she could say to provoke him to anger. Obviously, her intrusion in the study was not so unwelcome this time? “How about going to Queens this afternoon, humm. Do you care to come along?” Kate demanded.

“I don’t feel like it,” Morie said in the same old monotone that had the power to infuriate his wife. It was his self-control, his soft-spoken words akin to a submissive woman’s that drove her insane.

“Hadn’t we agreed to visit with Sheila this week end?”

“I changed my mind.”

“I changed my mind!” Kate parodied her husband in a voice loaded with the most sarcastic tone. “Like a woman! Women are the ones that change their mind.”

Morie ignored his wife’s demeaning, sexist observation, and persisted in holding his tongue. He knew since he read Louis L’Amour that no man failed by holding his tongue.

“So then you changed your mind!” Kate said, naguing.

“I just don’t feel like Queen today, that’s all.” Morie said and stopped.

Kate could wait no longer to dangle her Sword of Damocles. “I have an order of protection from you—you know.” She nodded her head up and down, to emphasize her words.

“An order of what?” Morie finally turned to his wife, looked in her stern face.

“An order of protection from you,” Kate confirmed.

“I have no idea what that is. May I see it?”

Kate withdrew the document from the cabinet and handed it to her husband. “I’m not supposed to show it to you, the Court suggested to me.”

Morie briefly read Kate’s complaints as filed in the Court document. Among other things, she claimed that her husband was beating her. The document directed Morie to curtail such unlawful treatment toward his wife. He handed the order of protection back to her.

“So then I have been beating you?” He asked in disbelief, but in the back of his mind he was imagining the type of reaction that Lucie, Monique and Elizabeth, among other Frenchwomen, would have were they to learn of the mess in which he had finally landed himself.

“I don’t mean to hurt,” Kate said, justifying her action. “But no one sees the end of our problems. I’m so exhausted.” She stopped and let her rolling tears continue the talking. “I can’t take it no more. I know I’m about to lose my mind.” Her tears, far from leaving her husband indifferent, still awakened his compassion.

Morie rose to his feet and let his words come through his teeth so as not to sound paternalistic like a lecturer. “Kate, stop this circus,” He said and went on for another five minutes attempting to appease her. “You’re not the only one suffering. Everything is going to be all right. I’m convinced that we’ll soon find a viable arrangement; meanwhile we must stay together because we can’t separate or divorce as easily as we once obtained a marriage certificate from the City Clerk. We must use our heads now, and not our emotions, and plan a decent separation if that’s what you’re aiming at. It’s the wrong time for us to fall apart. We’ve come from afar. We need not publish our problems with this Order of Protection.” He stopped and thought of Lucie whose parents decided they wanted to go their separate ways the very week of her birth but had to wait eighteen years to implement a decent separation. Kate resumed speaking, she said:

“There’s going to be a Court hearing, though.”

“What for?”

“Don’t you worry, the Court doesn’t intend to separate us. We might receive some kind of assistance in connection to Immigration, so that you can find a job.”

“What jurisdiction is it?”

“The hearing is scheduled in the Family Court.”

“When is it scheduled?”

“February second.”

There was a long silence during which Morie bitterly wondered how come his wife was so naïve? Had she been this impressed by the advices of some insincere friends? If so who were they? Did she get advice from the single or the married ones? He sat back down, looking away from her, and back at his muse, the portrait of the Mandingo Girl Dressed In Pearls.

“The Family Court processes hundreds of cases similar to ours daily,” Morie reflected. “The Court has no time to devote us special treatment with regard to immigrant status. That’s INS’ job.” He stopped, held his breath for a moment, and then went on arguing that Kate should wake up to learn that she lived in an administrative state. Her country was a well-organized one, and managed by specialized agencies. He made a case of why she should cancel the scheduled February 2nd hearing, arguing that all it would achieve is get them to waste their most precious asset—Time. “Besides, why should we offer ourselves in spectacle to a bunch of strangers?”

Kate blew her nose in a tissu, she was not sure she had heard, or understood her husband’s discourse.

“Are you hearing me?”

“Sure! I’ll cancel the hearing on Monday. But then I want you to stop making promesses you can’t keep.”

“What did I promise?”

“We were supposed to go to Queens today.”

“When did I promise this?”

“Last night!”

“Am I going senile at 25?”

“Of course ! You mind is so focused on typing you hardly remember your own name.”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Kate. I do not wish to see Phyllis.”

“It’s not Phyllis but Sheila, she’s my co-worker, the black woman with the white boyfriend.”

Morie kept some not so attractive memories of the last visit at Sheila’s unassertive building in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. He had initially attempted, not without enthousiasm, to talk about Public Office. But then he had smoked marijuana there, and the weed had immediately sickened him, and he had been disgusted with himself. He did not experience the emphoria that had characterized his first hit months ago in the Dockyard apartment. Now, marijuana made him literally sick.

“I would rather stay home.”

“But—she’s expecting us?”

“Tell her that I’m not feeling well.”

“Why should I tell her such a lie since you’re not sick?”

“I don’t want to sm—”

“No one will force it on you.”

“Sure, and I can single myself out like a cop or some kind of idiot!”

“I promise you, Morie, no one will be smoking.”

“My word! You’re saying that as if I don’t know that most of our social relations are drug users. You go ahead on to Queens—I mean Brooklyn. I’ll stay here with Matt.”

There was a silence loaded with electricity during which Kate was looking at the portrait of the Mandingo Girl Dressed In Pearls. She knew the reason why she resented the portrait; she was positive that it had to be the woman her husband had picked out to be his wife during his trip to Africa. Several times she had questioned the origin of this portrait that Morie literally worshipped, and he had said that it was a donation from a friend who wanted him to keep it saying it would bring him luck.

“I don’t trust you anymore,” Kate snapped. “And I want a separation.”

“You may go ahead and leave me.”

“You’re the one who will leave.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“I want you to leave.”

“No kidding?”

“And the sooner the better. As far as I’m concerned the game is over.”

#Excerpted from my novel The Order of Protection

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iy6612a · 9 years ago

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Mon professeur d’Anglais au College des Martyrs

Miss Perkins

Ses parents etaient des fermiers de l’Etat du Tennessee, mais la grande et rigoureuse miss Perkins avait grandi à Nashville dans la capitale à l’internat dès l’âge de l’école primaire. A l’université elle avait milité dans des mouvements politiques en faveur de l’avancement des minorités raciales de son grand pays au sein d’une organisation qui oeuvres dans ce sens—la NAACP[1]. Il souvient à Morie qu’Esther défendait la thèse selon laquelle miss Perkins aurait dû mentionner ses penchants féministes, mais au lieu de cela la professeur Américaine s’était bornée à déclarer son libéralisme ainsi que la force de ses convictions démocratiques. Miss Perkins affirmait aussi qu’elle était idéaliste et que son anticonformisme était à l’origine de son penchant pour l’Afrique. Elle avait choisi de venir au Syli, confiait-elle, parce que le pays représente un terrain probant à la poursuite de sa lutte pour l’avancement des minorités et des femmes. Tels sont, ainsi que s’en souvient Morie, les principaux traits par lesquels miss Perkins esquisse son profile personnel à l’attention de ses élèves au début de l’année scolaire. Hector avait posé des questions sur le sens exact de certains mots savants et expressions tels ‘probant’ ; ‘individualiste libéral’.

Morie avait bonne mémoire du commentaire d’Esther suivant le petit discours d’introduction de miss Perkins : « Celle-ci est une NON. Une parfaite wasp! » murmure t-elle dans l’oreille de Morie. Avec le sourire taquin dont elle avait le secret elle ajoute :

—Si tu sais ce que cela signifie !

—Okay, dis-moi ?

Toujours dans l’oreille de Morie, Esther énonce la définition de l’acronyme ‘wasp’.

Miss Perkins savait exactement ce qu’il fallait faire en pénétrant dans la salle de classe : elle expulse immédiatement les agitateurs. Son regard gris-acier se pose sur Morie et Esther pendant un moment ou deux. Elle va me mettre à la porte, songe Morie. Mais à sa grande surprise l’Américaine l’épargne. Miss Perkins est l’unique professeur qui ne se laisse pas intimider par ses élèves Syliens nouvellement investis d’un pouvoir politique qui leur donne la latitude de discipliner les professeurs ! D’où le pseudonyme Agrippine que les élèves lui attribuent.

Miss Perkins s’assied derrière son bureau et ordonne sentencieusement le silence dans son français pittoresque ponctué d’idiomes anglais. De son sac en cuir elle extirpe la pile de copie de la composition qu’elle avait corrigée. D’un œil critique, elle examine franchement les quarante-cinq étudiants qui lui font face. Morie s’amuse à soutenir le regard bleu-acier d’un air volontairement insolent, mais le défit n’impressionne pas miss Perkins. Elle porte ses verres de correction circulaires à monture d’écaille et feuillette les copies en répétant « silence ! ».

—Excuse me madame ? Demande Morie déterminé à faire le clown.

—Seriez-vous devenu sourd tout à coup monsieur Bainaka ? Demande miss Perkins.

Mais il se ravise aussitôt qu’il sent sur lui posé le regard scandalisé d’Esther qui avait horreur qu’il s’agite en classe, car si Morie ne craint pas miss Perkins il ne peut endurer le mépris d’Esther.

Miss Perkins devient consciente du ronflement d’un dormeur imaginaire qu’elle cherche du regard pour s’apercevoir qu’il s’agit de Bisry Koïta dont le manège avait pour but de se faire expulser de la classe puisque le cours d’anglais ne présente aucun attrait pour lui.

—Monsieur Koïta, je suggère que ce n’est pas drôle d’agir bêtement. Tu es libre de prendre la porte si tu le désires.

Bisry se lève promptement et s’en va saisir la porte d’entrée en faisant mine de l’enlever. Le geste déclenche un concert de rire dans la salle. Sans s’énerver, car miss Perkins ne se laisse jamais emporter, elle ordonne à Bisry Koïta d’aller expliquer au censeur pourquoi il souhaite enlever la porte.

—Y-a-t-il quelqu’un d’autre qui souhaite suivre l’exemple de monsieur Koïta ? S’enquit le professeur d’anglais en toisant calmement la salle du regard. Mais le silence règne maintenant. Elle poursuit: il est remarquable que beaucoup d’entre vous admirent votre camarade de classe, Kantara. Des admirateurs de Kantara existent dans d’autres classes, notamment Conté et Diallo. Dans cette classe Bah, Barry et Fofana ont écrit sur Kantara. Elle s’arrête et décrète le silence encore une fois en disant : « Quiet ! Jésus, je vois qu’il est utopique de réclamer à la fois le silence et votre attention ». Elle observe Hector pendant un moment et ajoute, « Monsieur Camara m’entendez-vous ? »

Hector lève ses mains aux oreilles en disant : « What ? Er ! What ? »

—Je n’aime pas vot’attitude, déclare miss Perkins. L’exaspération empourpre momentanément ses joues.

—Ah, Miss Perkins, le genre de silence que vous souhaitez n’est passible que six-pieds sous terre, affirme Hector.

—Very well, tu peux, toi aussi aller répéter ta remarque impertinente au censeur. Out ! Now ! Ordonne miss Perkins.

Hector ne bouge pas.

—Now ! Insiste miss Perkins.

Hector sort lentement de la salle de classe.

—Monsieur Fofana, reprend miss Perkins en se redressant, parle-nous de Kantara en dix phrases.

Il s’appelait Alpha Fofana mais ses camarades le connaissaient mieux sous le nom de Diesto. Il avait emprunté le nom du chanteur cubain parce qu’il aimait la musique typique latino-américaine et qu’il était bon danseur. Diesto se lève en protestant.

—Mon essai est sur Bainaka, miss—

—Exprime-toi librement, commande le professeur d’anglais. Mais pour l’amour de Dieu rappelle-toi que nous sommes en classe de conversation anglaise.

—Ma famille et moi sommes des voisins des Kantara, commence Diesto en pausant à chaque mot. Kantara est aussi mon camarade de classe. Diesto se tait un moment pour rassembler ses idées. C’est un petit homme de teint clair. Il est Musulman, Kantara, bien que non pratiquant. Et il n’a qu’une seule maman. J’entends que son père n’a qu’une seule épouse et cela me plait. Diesto s’arrête et respire profondément.

—Not bad, commente le professeur. Allons. Développer davantage votre pensée.

—Well—Miss—

Diesto conserve un long silence visant à manifester sa réticence.

—Chercheriez-vous à faire preuve d’insubordination, monsieur Fofana ? Demande Miss Perkins.

—I guess not, répond Diesto.

—Vous devinez ? Vous n’êtes pas sûr ? Vous pourriez pousser l’honnêteté en répondant affirmativement. Miss Perkins n’éprouve pas de difficulté à motiver ses élèves Syliens en défiant leur ego monumental. Car elle sait que les Syliens, riches ou pauvres, Malinkés, Foulanis, Sossos et autres, sont imbus d’une fierté assez singulière qui est loin de les étouffer.

—Comme vous le savez, reprend Diesto dans son anglais hésitant, Kantara est plutôt calme, discret et bon travailleur. Wait a minute. Enfin assez bon travailleur ! C’est un beau gosse malgré son nez cassé, sa bouche tordue et ses yeux bridés. Ses copains se moquent de Kantara en l’appelant ‘chintoc’ mais il ne s’en formalise guère. Sa plus remarquable vertu, selon moi, c’est sa passion pour les maths. Kantara est faible en français quant à l’anglais n’en parlons pas, mais il pense que, je cite, « les mathématiques sont le langage par excellence des hommes rationnels. » Fin de citation. En conclusion je dirais qu’il convient de se méfier de Kantara parce qu’il est probablement dangereux !

De petits rires amusés fusent autour de Diesto.

—Good, déclare miss Perkins. Je vais me permettre de poser à monsieur Hamid Kantara une question ?

Toutes les figures se tournent vers le professeur.

—Hamid, demanda-elle, diriez-vous que Fofana vous a cité correctement ?

Kantara pense rapidement :

—I so think, confirme-t-il.

—Well, il me semble qu’il ya une erreur analytique dans votre raisonnement sur la théorie concernant les hommes rationnels. Est-ce que vous la voyez ? Le cas échéant pouvez-vous la corriger ?

—Ce n’est qu’une théorie, miss—propose Kantara pris au piège féministe du professeur.

—Eh bien, votre théorie souffre par manque d’harmonie. Elle n’est certainement pas inclusive, ne le voyez-vous pas ?

Kantara ne sachant que dire reste silencieux ; c’est bien fait pour moi, pense-t-il, ça m’apprendra à publier mes opinions à l’avenir. Cependant miss Perkins se tourne vers une des trois françaises de la classe.

—Mademoiselle Pradier pouvez-vous nous dire en quoi consiste l’erreur dans le raisonnement de Kantara?

—Il n’inclut pas les femmes! Laponie Pradier livre immédiatement sa réponse comme elle se débarrasserait d’un colis encombrant qu’elle transporte depuis trop longtemps.

Pendant un moment qui s’éternise il semble à miss Perkins que le silence règne enfin dans la salle. Le silence des garçons interdits par le coup porté à leur orgueil déclenche le sourire de satisfaction du professeure américaine ainsi que des murmures de la part des filles. Elle remercie Laponie Pradier et regarde Esther en disant :

—Maintenant je vais demander à Esther de nous faire le portrait d’un camarade de classe, disons—celui de Bainaka !

—Miss Perkins, mon essai porte sur feu le Président Kennedy! Proteste Esther. Mais le professeur objecte fermement de sa voix monocorde.

—D’abord vous parlez en anglais, ensuite je vous signale que vous n’avez pas connu Kennedy personnellement. J’ai bien noté votre copie. En contrepartie j’aimerais que vous me donniez le portrait de quelqu’un que vous connaissez personnellement.

—La s…! Pense Esther tout bas, tandis que son cœur bat la chamade et que son cerveau se vide graduellement. Elle sent monter en son sein une bouffée d’émotion qui barre la route au processus de sa pensée de telle sorte que sa tête devient aussi vide qu’une copie blanche. Ses pensées la fuient irrésistiblement pour laisser dans sa tête un grand vide qui s’épelle R-I-E-N.

—Eh bien ! Exhorte miss Perkins. D’ordinaire vous êtes plutôt éloquente. D’ailleurs vos parents sont anglophones !

Agrippine doit avoir deviné mes sentiments pour Bainaka! Esther en est sûre. Elle inspire un bon coup d’air, elle commence :

—Bainaka est grand ! Elle s’arrête et se mord la lèvre inférieure. Bainaka est mince. Un autre arrêt. Bainaka est—Hésitation—Nonchalant, insubordonné et doué d’une remarquable présence d’esprit. Son insolent regard vert et ses cheveux roux hirsutes lui donnent l’air d’un personnage—eh—sorti d’une brochure de dessins animés. Bainaka aime les aspects ruraux de son pays, notamment les pistes villageoises, les moissons, les marigots. Il est d’une grande loyauté envers les membres de sa famille et il adore ses copains. Esther pause longuement.

—Très intéressant, commente miss Perkins. Please go on.

Esther poursuit :

—Son caractère réservé, introverti peut-être—eh—le fait apparaître distant. Bainaka est profondément égoïste. Il ne veut rien faire pour rien. Il pense toujours—eh—à lui-même avant de—eh—penser aux autres. Ce qui lui permet, selon lui, de savoir ce que veulent les autres—la même chose que lui. Il n’a pas le sens de l’humour—eh—mais il est aussi persévérant que créatif. Bainaka me semble—eh—destiné à la vie d’une personne incomprise. Esther s’arrête. Elle se mord encore la lèvre inférieure et se laisse choir sur le banc, elle se sent nue d’embarras.

—Dites-nous ce que tout le monde veut selon Bainaka, demande miss Perkins.

—Il est là Bainaka, répond Esther. Il peut nous le dire en personne.

Miss Perkins roule ses yeux bleus-gris agrandis sur Morie d’un air interrogateur.

—Qu’est-ce donc que tout le monde veut Bainaka ? Demande t-elle.

—Une bonne glace à la vanille ou aux fraises avec plein de crème dessus ! Répond sérieusement Morie. Vrai ou faux ?

—Vrai, vrai, entonne le consensus dans la salle agrémenté d’un concert de rires joyeux.

Miss Perkins distribue enfin les copies du devoir d’anglais. Avant de quitter ses élèves elle leur assigne la lecture d’un texte de Francis Hackett sur le matérialisme pour le prochain cours. Morie trouve sa note médiocre. Il ne reçoit qu’un neuf sur vingt tandis qu’Esther récolte un quatorze. Hector se contente de son dix. La note de Bisry est ridicule : deux ! La cloche met fin au cours de conversation anglaise. « Tu étais géniale ! » Morie s’adresse à Esther. Tu penses vraiment tout ce que tu as dit sur mon égoïsme ? »

—Je ne t’aimerais pas si tu étais différent, répond t-elle.

—Alors là tu me perds un peu…

—Dis-moi, pourquoi m’aimes-tu ?

—J’ai une raison de t’aimer ?

—Un jour tu m’as dit que tu ne respectais pas les gens qui ne sont pas conscientes de leurs motivations. A prime abord cela m’a paru comme un manque de spontanéité mais après réflexion je t’ai compris.

—Je l’ai lu quelque part ! Maintenant tu me dis pourquoi je t’aime ?

—Tu m’aimes parce que tu admires mes charmes. Tu me l’as dis. Et parce que tu respectes mon intelligence. Tu m’as révélé cela aussi. Quant à moi je t’aime parce que j’attache de la valeur à tes idées, et j’admire ton courage, ton sens esthétique.

Morie réfléchit un moment puis il demande :

—Je suis détestable aussi ?

—Pas détestable mais distant. Dis-moi, qui t’aime vraiment en dehors de ta maman, nomme-moi quelqu’un qui t’aime vraiment.

Morie pense à feu son oncle Baraka, il pense aussi à Esther. Il pense enfin que Bisry et Bubba l’aiment bien. Après avoir nommé ses amis il demande à sa jeune camarade de lui expliquer qu’est-ce qui le rend détestable ?

—Tu n’as pas seulement un esprit rebelle, déclare Esther, tu as aussi une passion pour et recherche l’absolu. Tu me disais tantôt qu’une chose est ce qu’elle est. Tu insistes toujours sur le sens immuable des mots. Permets-moi de te citer : « Un chat n’est pas un chien mais un chat. Fonctionnaire n’est pas synonyme de concussionnaire. L’un est un nom l’autre un adjectif. » C’est vrai une chose est ce qu’elle est. Mais la frivolité des humains les amène souvent à corrompre la réalité des choses pour atteindre leur but. D’où le mensonge et les vices qu’ils engendrent. Ta recherche de l’absolu c’est la même chose qu’une recherche inconsciente de Dieu. Car Dieu seul est immuable. Il est la seule constante dans un monde en mutation permanente. On ne peut même pas commencer à décrire Dieu, car les phrases ont un début et une fin, tandis que Dieu est infini…

—Je ne dérange personne !

—C’est justement en cela que tu déranges les gens, tu ignores les gens ! Nous avons besoin d’attention. Tu agis comme si les gens n’existaient pas. Et c’est précisément ce que nous te reprochons. La plupart d’entre nous, hommes et femmes, sommes gonflés de vanité, nous avons soif de statut. Nous voulons exhiber nos jolis visages, nos connaissances empruntées, nos disques de musique populaire, nos posters d’artistes étrangers, nos vélos et nos voitures rutilantes… Toutes ces choses qui nous définissent visent à t’impressionner pour gonfler davantage notre vanité. Mais tu ignores les gens, Bainaka.

Dans sa tête Morie entend les battements du tam-tam de l’esprit. Il regarde Esther sans la voir. Au-delà de son visage aux traits fins ce qu’il voit c’est la face de Fatoma dont les motivations jadis obscures se clarifiaient enfin dans son esprit. C’est tellement plus simple d’exercer le pouvoir tout en rejetant les responsabilités.

—Penny for your thoughts, demande Esther.

—Je pense au plus grand des héros de ma famille, mais nous n’allons pas parler du diable ! Comment dis-ton en anglais je t’aime ?

[1] Association Nationale des Personnes de Couleur

#Excepted from my novel Le Collegien

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