Memoirs of a Porcupine (10 page)

 

 

Amédée went out at dawn for his morning walk in the bush, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, whistling as he walked down to the river bank, where he dipped his feet in the water, stretched out on the bank and began reading his books full of lies, my master had told me to spy on him, see what he was getting up to all alone there, make sure the young man didn't also have a double who could make trouble for us while we were seeing to him, it was an unnecessary precaution, dear Baobab, they get so narrow-minded for porcupine's sake, all those guys who go off to Europe, they think stories of doubles only exist in African novels, which, instead of setting them thinking, just makes them laugh, they would rather think rationally, as the white men's science teaches them, and the rational thoughts they've been taught say that every phenomenon has a scientific explanation, and when Amédée saw me coming out from a clump of bushes near the river, for porcupine's sake, he yelled furiously, ‘out of my sight, filthy beast, ball of prickles, before I turn you into pâté and eat you with chili and manioc', I ballooned till I was ten times my normal size, I was almost exploding, my eyes were popping out of my head, I rattled my quills, whirled round in circles, saw him grab a piece of wood, meaning to smack me on the head, which reminded me of Papa Mationgo back when my master was his apprentice, I did an
about turn, looked for escape from impending slaughter, shot off into the bushes I'd emerged from, Amédée stepped towards me, I knew these bushes better than he did, so I rolled all the way down on some dead leaves and found myself at the bottom of the hill, he threw the stick of wood, it landed a few inches from my snout, and when I found my master half an hour later, I told him how the fellow had insulted us, had almost killed us with his piece of wood, Kibandi kept his cool, ‘don't worry about it' he reassured me, ‘there's nothing he can to do harm us, I haven't been to Europe myself, but I'm not ignorant, with the
mayamvumbi
you don't need to go to school to learn to read and write, it opens your mind, channels the intelligence, he won't be getting his plane back to Europe, that's for sure, he's ours now, his grave's as good as dug, as far as I'm concerned he's been dead a long while, but he doesn't realise, because the Whites don't teach that kind of thing in their schools'

at midnight, in heavy rain, we made our way to Amédée's little hut, next to his parents', we had left my master's other self stretched out on the last mat Mama Kibandi ever wove, blinding streaks of lightning flashed across the sky, Kibandi sat down under a tree, signalled to me to go on ahead while he took a good glug of
mayamvumbi
, I didn't take much bidding, I was angry with our little genius myself, I went and scrabbled furiously at the earth under the door of his hovel, to make a way in, and the rain, which by now was falling in torrents, made my task easier, so that in no time I managed to dig a hole so deep that even two fat, idle porcupines could get through without any problem, and once I was inside I saw a lighted candle, the fool had forgotten to blow it out, he was sleeping on his belly, I crept silently forward, came level with the bamboo bed, I don't know why, I suddenly felt afraid, but I managed to control it, I stood up on two legs and clutched at the side of the bed, I was between his two spread legs now, I tensed, so as to find the strongest quill from among the tens of thousands I might have used at that moment, and zap, I released it, it landed right in the back of his neck, the quill almost penetrated all the way into the brain which had so annoyed my master, and as a result, annoyed me also, Amédée had no time
to wake up, he was seized with a series of spasms and hiccups while I fell upon his body to remove the quill with my incisors, I took it out, I licked the blood till no trace of my act remained, I saw the little hole close again, just like when I had seen to Papa Louboto's daughter, the lovely young Kimouni, I jumped down onto the ground, but before I left I went up close to the candle because I wanted to burn down his hut, and then I said to myself there was no point doing that, I shouldn't exceed the limits of my mission, Kibandi would have been angry with me, I glanced out of curiosity at the title of the last book the bookworm had been reading before going to bed,
Extraordinary Stories
, sleep had pulled him into the world of these stories, it was another one of those books he took his lies from, to tell the village girls, now he could go and tell them to the phantoms, it's another world there, another universe, they never believe anything, to start with they don't believe in the end of their physical bodies, they resent us for going on living, the Earth for going on turning, and that's why, instead of going up to heaven, they wander the earth, restless shades, hoping to live again, I mean phantoms won't just swallow whatever you tell them

 

 

Amédée's funeral was one of the most moving ever seen in Séképembé, in marked contrast to that of the late lamented Mama Kibandi, the crowd around his mortal remains seemed to consist entirely of young girls, they had all summoned their girlfriends from neighboring villages to come and pay due homage to this exceptional being, the pride of Séképembé, of the entire region, not to say country, and everyone wanted to know what had happened to our resident intellectual, some
said he'd read too many books brought from Europe, others demanded we carry out the ritual whereby the corpse identifies the criminal, Amédée's parents opposed this idea because, as they recalled, their son didn't believe in such things, it would be an offence to parade his corpse around the village, so they accepted his death, they buried the young man with two boxes of books, some of them were still in their wrappings, with prices in the currency they use in Europe, and in the funeral speech, made this time by the priest from the town, and not by one of the village sorcerers, whom they suspected couldn't speak Latin, the man of God recalled how this young man of letters had pushed back the tide of ignorance, demonstrating that the pages of a book offer a new freedom, restore our humanity, he spoke in Latin, read out a few pages of
Extraordinary Stories
, put the book to one side, picked up a brand new Bible, placed it on the coffin and concluded, in a bleating voice, ‘may this book, dear Amédée, guide you along the unfathomable way of the Lord, that you may at last come to see that the most extraordinary story of all is that of the creation of Man by God, a story contained in the pages of the Holy Book I give you now, for your journey to the other world, amen'

my master may have been a quiet tempered man, but he was not someone to pick a quarrel with, I only saw him get into an argument once or twice, there was that time with old Moudiongui, the palm wine tapper, probably the best palm wine tapper in Séképembé, they knew each other very well, he and my master, I would never have imagined that one day I would find myself dealing with a loser like him, his whole life revolved around palm wine, he could draw
mwengué
, the finest wine to be got from a palm tree, the village women were crazy for it since it was sweeter than any other wine, but the bad thing about the
mwengué
is that you don't know you're getting drunk, you drink cup after cup and don't realize you're cackling like a hyena, and it's only when you try to get up you find you can't control your legs, you walk all crooked, like a crab, everyone busts out laughing, saying ‘there's another one who's been at Moudiongui's
mwengué
', and my master had got into the bad habit of mixing a bit of
mwengué
with his initiation drink, to make it less bitter, so now he would only drink it when it was mixed with old Moudiongui's palm wine, so every morning the old loser stopped by Kibandi's hut to drop off a pint of palm wine, he spoke fondly of Mama Kibandi and remarked how quickly time passed, in fact this was to make Kibandi feel sorry for him
so he'd give him more money, my master paid no attention, handed him a crumpled note, Kibandi was convinced that the palm wine added that extra something to his
mayamvumbi
, now old Moudiongui was becoming unreliable, he'd get into a sulk for nothing, sometimes Kibandi had to go and wake him to get him to go out into the bush and fetch the palm wine and, taking advantage of my master's dependence, the old man put up the price as he felt like it, take it or leave it, ‘if you don't like it, go and fetch your own
mwengué
, otherwise, pay my price, end of discussion', Moudiongui claimed that
mwengué
was getting increasingly hard to come by, that the palm trees in our region had stopped producing this special wine, that my master would have to make do with normal palm wine, and one day the old man brought back some
mwengué
, as usual, my master tasted it, he had a moment of doubt, he realized it wasn't real
mwengué
, the old man was tricking him, he said nothing, just called me one evening and said, ‘right, tomorrow at dawn when the plains grow bright, go follow that bastard palm wine tapper, he's acting strange, I can feel it, go and see how he works' and I followed him first thing next morning, I saw him vanish into the forest, till he reached a place where there's nothing but palm trees, as far as the eye can see, and I saw him climb to the top of a palm tree where he'd hung his gourds the day before, he took them down, they were full, he climbed down, he sat at the foot of the tree, took out a small bag from his pocket, I caught him pouring sugar into the palm wine he'd just drawn, and since he was mad at my master he even spat into the gourd, muttering angrily, and I reported this back to Kibandi later, so when the palm wine tapper turned up at Kibandi's house to offer him this nasty brew, he had the truth flung in his face, I heard them arguing, old Moudiongui was
desperate to sell his palm wine, my master replied that it wasn't real
mwengué
, they called each other all the names under the sun, old Moudiongui insulted my master, ‘nothing but a bag of bones, you are, you're dead already, you're jealous of my trade because you're only a poor carpenter, you couldn't even climb up a mango tree, you're a crazy guy, a
maniongi,
a
ngébé
, a
ngouba yak o pola
', all insults in
bembé
, Kibandi didn't answer, he just said to the palm wine tapper, ‘let's just see, shall we, who's the
maniongi
, the
ngébé
, the
ngouba yak o pola
around here', old Moudiongui said, just as he was leaving, ‘what will we see, then, you're a nobody you are, don't expect me to give you
mwengué
from now on, old dry bones, go join your mother in the graveyard'

 

 

I left my master with his other self, the two of them lying on the last mat Mama Kibandi ever wove, at break of day I returned to the foot of the same palm tree where I'd caught the palm wine tapper mixing sugar in the gourd and spitting into it, slowly I climbed to the top and hid there, a few centimeters from the hanging gourds, which were filled to overflowing with palm wine, the bees were already having a party up there, I saw Moudiongui arrive, he seemed quite anxious, his eyes darting about, he couldn't understand how my master had found out about his little fiddle, I saw him arranging the ropes he used to climb up to the top of the palm tree, up he climbed, up and up, but halfway up he paused to look about him, as though to make sure no one had spotted him, then, reassured, he went on climbing, he was almost at the gourds, and when he looked up, bless my quills, found himself looking into my dark, glistening eyes, it was too late for him, I'd already fired two of my quills, hitting him full in
the face, the old man slipped, tried in vain to grab the branch of a paradise tree just next to the palm tree, I heard him fall, and land like a sack of potatoes down below, his legs and arms spread wide, the villagers found him there a day later, eyes wide open, his face locked in a rictus, and everyone agreed he had grown too old to tap palm wine, he should really have retired long ago, and now a young person from Séképembé must be trained up to take over his work

the problem with Youla was he owed my master money, I think this must be one of our most heartbreaking episodes to date because now I really think about it, it was the thing which ultimately brought about Kibandi's downfall, but I need to tell you the whole thing more slowly, after completing this mission I felt uneasy, I kept seeing the victim's face, his innocence, I really felt Kibandi had gone a bit too far this time, but then did I have a right to tell him how I felt, it's not for a double to judge or argue, and certainly not let his own remorse get in the way of things, and as far as I was concerned this was one of the most gratuitous acts we had committed, Youla was father of a happy family, a modest peasant with no education and not much success, he had a wife who loved him and had just had a child by him, a baby whose eyes were barely yet open, and then, one day, I don't know why, this business of the debt between him and Kibandi cropped up, Youla had been to see him to borrow money, a ridiculously small sum which he said he'd pay back the next week, it seems he wanted to buy some medicine for his child and swore he would pay back the full sum by the agreed day, he grovelled, went down on bended knee, wept, because no one had been prepared to lend him this pitiful sum, Kibandi did him the favour, though his own finances were dwindling from
year to year now that he'd given up carpentry, and the notes he gave Youla were so dirty and crumpled, they looked like they'd come straight out of the bin, and a week went by, no visitor to the hut, another week, still Youla didn't show up, he'd dropped out of circulation, my master thought correctly that he must have done a runner, so he went to his home two months later, and told him if he didn't give him his money back things would get nasty between them, and as the man was drunk that day he began sniggering and insulting Kibandi, telling him to drag his skinny frame off someplace else, which of course did not please my master, who said ‘you can find the money to get yourself drunk but you can't pay your debts', and when Youla just laughed harder, Kibandi added dryly, out loud, ‘people with no money shouldn't have children', Youla indulged in the remark ‘ I'm not even sure I do owe you money, do I, maybe you've got the wrong person, now get out of my yard', his wife then joined in, telling him to get lost, or she'd summon an elder of the village, and when my master got back home, feeling vexed, I saw him talking aloud to himself, cursing, I knew then that things were going to go badly wrong for Youla, I had never seen Kibandi in such a state, not even when that young show-off Amédée had called him a sick hick, he summoned me straight away, this was urgent, he couldn't wait, Youla would soon see what my master was made of, and at midnight, after Kibandi had taken a giant dose of
mayamvumbi
, this time without mixing it with
mwengué
to sweeten it, we were all ready to go, my master's other self was coming with us for once, although I wasn't very clear what his role would be, we came to the peasant's compound, his house was so run down a donkey could have got in through the holes in the outside walls, my master sat down at the foot of a paradise tree, his other self was behind him,
with his back to us, as usual when he was moving about, I walked round the house, ending up in the bedroom, I saw Youla snoring on a mat, with his wife in bed at the far end of the room, I expect it was always like that when the husband was drunk, I crossed the room, went towards the child's room, as soon as I got close to the baby I felt a pang, I wished I could go back home, Kibandi's other self was behind me, I wondered why my master had decided to attack the little babe instead of the man who owed him money, or if it came to that, his wife, who had dared take sides in their argument, my quills grew heavy and reluctant, I told myself I wouldn't be able to shoot, I had never attacked a child before, I needed to find a reason, something to increase my determination and put some fight back into me, but what motive could there be, I couldn't think, then suddenly I said to myself that my master was right, actually, to remind this guy that when you have no money you've no business making children, and I also remembered that the old porcupine used to preach that all men were bad, including children, because ‘the tiger's young are born with claws' so we needed to pin some vice on him, find some fault with him that was beyond redemption, I told myself he was a drunkard, and in any case, the poor kid would have a terrible life with this uneducated peasant, I muttered these arguments to myself, in an attempt to sweep away the remorse, as though I could banish the pity which was making my quills wilt, suddenly they perked up, I could feel them starting to whirr, my master's anger was now my anger, as though it was me Youla owed money, and I lost the sense that the creature before me was just an poor innocent thing, I told myself that in fact our action would free him, relieve his suffering, Youla didn't deserve to be a father, being an alcoholic who broke his word, who perhaps owed money to the entire population, and at
that moment of reflection I tensed, a firm quill flew out of my back and into the poor child, my master's other self had gone from the room, perhaps he'd been there to give me the strength to do the deed, I quickly left myself, so I wouldn't get upset, what I really didn't want to do was watch the poor innocent child taking leave of this life just because of the stupidity and irresponsibility of his father, that I did not want to see, and yet something about it bothered me, I felt ashamed of my own reflection in the water, I went to the funeral, perhaps hoping for some kind of forgiveness, I heard the poor folk singing their funeral songs, and I wept