“If all the killers wanted was 30,000 CFA, why was the Rolex watch still here? Maybe Aunty Mariame was wrong… or maybe they didn’t care about time,” she thought.
In the Sahel, time seemed to have frozen ever since the crusting soil’s gaps became so wide, one could smell lucifer’s dinner from the pits of hell. Cows collapsed along with acacia leaves, and vultures gained weight. Since it only rained guns these days, herd boys buried their cows and befriended the machine guns from the sky.
Despite the light harmattan wind blowing over their cracked lips, the weight of their words kept their mouths sealed. The words on Bintou’s mind were like polychromatic music notes soaked in homemade date wine. On good days, she loved getting tipsy from the aroma of fermented dates, keeping the words on her tongue eager for attention. On windy days like this one, her mouth was dry, humid, then numb. Bintou knew Benewende had something to say. She always did. She saw the light in her sister’s brown eyes slowly darken when Andrew started cracking jokes about terrorism during dinner. It was past curfew time and the streets were eerie, with only a few working streetlights interspersed along the road.
Benewende was driving as fast as she could. Getting home safe was the number one priority. After Brother Aliou died on his way back from the northern mines, nothing was ever the same. For the first time, terrorists weren’t in some faraway land challenging the US government. This time, it wasn’t Jack Bauer in “24” against the Middle East. It wasn’t an Islamophobic American show. It was closer. It was real. The killers were at their doorsteps, sometimes sharing mats, playing ludo, and eating soumbala rice with their future victims. Once, Bintou overheard Aunty Mariame at the corner shop talking about the power-starved Fulani boys in the north. Apparently, they were paid 30,000 CFA for every head they cut. 30,000 CFA. The price of their brother’s head. The reason why they never got to kiss Aliou goodbye.
On that day, after hearing rumours of an attack, Benewende kept calling Aliou’s phone every two minutes, hoping that he would pick up. She denied his death until she faced his remains at the mortuary. His head was gone, but he still had the watch she gave him for his birthday. Benewende had won it as a prize at a debate competition a few months before the first terrorist attacks. As she slowly removed the watch from his rigid arm, she secretly prayed that Aliou would miraculously wake up and joke about how the debate organisers expected the winner’s wrist to be bigger than hers. She would give him a gentle tap on his arm to feign anger and they would laugh, reminiscing about the judges’ astonishment each time she made a compelling argument during the competition, as though the brilliance came from the wrong body. She despised that aspect of her world and always took pleasure in challenging anyone that would dare reduce her to her tiny olive skinned body. Sometimes though, when she was alone with her thoughts, she would secretly fantasise about a quiet life with an abusive husband, basking in the joys of conformity, mourning her Self. Her ex lover, Oumarou, was way too far from the norm and just not close enough to what she dreamed of, something she could not forgive. She was a lover of extremes. It was always either, or. Settling somewhere in the middle felt like a failure. But lately, with everything that was happening, she wondered about the “and”, the possibilities beyond black and white, peace and war.
“If all the killers wanted was 30,000 CFA, why was the Rolex watch still here? Maybe Aunty Mariame was wrong… or maybe they didn’t care about time,” she thought.
In the Sahel, time seemed to have frozen ever since the crusting soil’s gaps became so wide, one could smell lucifer’s dinner from the pits of hell. Cows collapsed along with acacia leaves, and vultures gained weight. Since it only rained guns these days, herd boys buried their cows and befriended the machine guns from the sky.
Just like Sahelian vultures, doors became thicker after Aliou’s death. People stopped smiling at each other for fear of giving away free smiles to a murderer. But there were also new opportunities arising. This growing industry was the reason why Benewende and Bintou met with Andrew, a US diplomat and conflict resolution expert. He was what Mamadou, their father, called a “war vulture”.
“If those vultures have started appearing in our country, it means dead bodies have become the new currency,” he said to Bintou as he peeled his boiled groundnuts. “My friend, you must try to get a job with them. At least, we will also get some small coins out of all this craziness before the country burns to ashes. But I must warn you. Be careful not to prey on anyone. Nobody rests peacefully after eating their own flesh,” he added.
When Andrew invited Bintou to dinner, she knew it wasn’t exactly to discuss a potential job offer. These expats, they always thought they could do or have anything and anyone they wanted in the country, simply because of their euros, pounds, or dollars.
There was a job offer for an assistant position on the peace building project he was working on, and they needed a “local person” who could help conduct workshops and community-based interventions.
What did “local” mean? Only they knew. One thing that was certain was that if anyone knew how to end the war in the Sahel, it was the Sahelians. After all, “The French have nothing to do with this war!” Andrew had said, laughing out loud, when Bintou told him the French government needed to withdraw their military troops from Lumbila.
Andrew was an international expert on conflict resolution from the US. Everything he said was legitimate and incontestable before the global court of reason.
Bintou’s earliest memory of Americans in Loumbila was at the American Centre in the capital. She was about 6 years old. Their mother had taken her and Benewende there for a swim. The American Centre had one of the biggest pools in the city and it was extremely expensive to use it. They ended up not swimming as they were told they needed to be members of the centre. She remembered the rude cashier at the centre telling her mother without looking up from her computer screen, that there was no way they could swim as they weren’t diplomats or friends of diplomats. Swimming was a privilege reserved for those whose pockets were deep, heavy and without holes.
That day, they ended up sharing a $10 burger at the centre’s restaurant. This was peanuts for the Americans, but a little fortune in CFA francs for a piece of bread and meat.
Regardless, Bintou was excited to eat the kind of hamburgers she always saw on TV. Sitting next to them on the other table was an American family with a very excited little boy. He was telling his parents a story in a language Bintou could not understand. English. His English sounded as though he had eaten too much okra. She looked at the blue-eyed boy in his swimming costume and envied him with her entire soul. Why him? Why did he get all the nice things and not her? Why did he get to eat burgers and swim in the big pool? Why were they the only black people in the room? She knew she did not belong there. She saw it in people’s eyes and in her mother’s body language. The prices made her feel uncomfortable. This was no longer Lumbila. At least, not the Lumbila she knew. She was a foreigner in her home, and she wanted to disappear. That little boy was happier than she had ever been in her own home. She envied that, and so she spent the rest of her life aspiring to be a little white boy.
Before then, Benewende had already encountered Americans, as she was a little older than Bintou. She often spoke about her first encounter with whiteness in a movie theatre. One of the first few American films she watched was The Last King of Scotland. She was 11 years old then. She still vividly remembered Aunty Fatou bursting into tears when the Ugandan doctor said, “Go, tell them what is happening here. They will believe you, you are a white man.”
But Benewende never really understood her aunt’s tears until she faced a vulture with her naked eyes.
“The people of Lumbila need to take responsibility for everything that is happening in their country and stop blaming France with their conspiracy theories,” Andrew offered, sipping on his pinot noir. Bintou didn’t agree with what he said. She was also offended by his laughter. Andrew had this mocking look in his eyes whenever he spoke to her about the radio shows he’d listened to on his way to work. “You people keep blaming France. The obsession with France here is crazy. I am sure they blame France too for the dry and dusty harmattan winds!” he retorted, bursting into laughter. It wasn’t funny, but Bintou laughed with him. Benewende didn’t laugh.
Finally, Bintou decided to loosen her tongue and break the heavy silence in the car.
“I don’t regret laughing with Andrew, you know. I needed the job, and I needed him to like me. Now that Aliou is gone, someone has to pay the bills, even if it means laughing in pain.” Benewende looked straight at the road and took a deep breath.
“Benewende! Are you going to say something?”
For a few seconds, she kept quiet, still gazing at the narrow, tarred road unfolding before her seemingly blank eyes. She had packed her hair in a top knot, making her profile view seem like a tilted palm tree in a dimly lit moving machine.
Finally, she said pensively, “Bintou, when you walk out of the house in the morning, do you ever realise that you may not come back home alive ? It recently dawned on me. Before Aliou’s death, I never used to think about suicide bombings or any kind of terrorist attack. Now, every time I’m in a restaurant, especially a toubabou[i] restaurant, I think about it. I can’t tell you the number of times tonight I imagined a slender Fulani boy walking into the restaurant with the latest version of a machine gun. Would he have spared us because we speak Fulfulde? It’s crazy how much closer I feel to the people in Congo, to our brothers and sisters in Mali and Niger. I hope Andrew does a good job.” She paused for a moment, changed gear, took another deep breath, and continued. “I wonder what they want from us. At least, in Congo, they have diamonds. Here, all we have is dust and dry wind from the Sahara. Or have the toubabous found a secret way to make gold out of dust? I remember how mum used to say that if we could monetise dust, our country would be among the richest in the world. Ever since the attacks started, hunger is no longer the sole concern of the people. They must be wary of where they go and who they talk to. Now, they must always do their five prayers on an empty stomach in the morning and ask God for forgiveness as they leave their homes. Who knows? They might not come back. Astafourlaye!”
The car kept moving forward but it somehow felt timeless, heavy and light at once. How did the home they cherished so much turn into a land of terror? All they were left with were memories of a peaceful past. For a second, Bintou closes her eyes and remembers family vacations in the South West of the country, where the lush vegetation could trick one into believing that the Sahel is dead. Who would have thought travelling there today would be dangerous? She slowly opens her eyes, praying that her memories would escape time and replace the present. Disappointed, she swears under her breath and replies, “Hmmm. Benewende, People are like dried acacia leaves these days, easily shaken. The other day, I was at the market shopping for groceries, when someone’s car exhaust misfired on the road close by. You should have seen the general panic. I almost fell trying to run away. We all thought it was a bomb! Even the stingiest tomato sellers left their goods behind. But enough about the creepy thoughts. On the bright side, we got free meals tonight! I am glad Andrew paid for the food. God knows I only had 2,000 CFA floating in this huge purse of mine.”
Benewende chirps slowly. “Of course he paid because of all the chogobitage[ii] and the ass kissing you were doing. He is in favour of the French government. How could you laugh with him?”
“La Samah Allah! I didn’t laugh with him. I laughed with his pocket. I need the dollars! Benewende can’t you see? Dad is retired. Aliou died in a terrorist attack. What else is there to do? The last time I checked, your music career was still stagnant. Debating will not take you anywhere. Would you rather prefer I become a pute[iii] or get a sugar daddy?”
“Fine, but did you have to speak in that manner during the dinner? You had a totally different voice. Why did you need to change your accent? What kind of chogobitage was that? Did you lose your tongue? Why were you pronouncing ‘r‘ from the throat instead of the tongue? Did you swallow too much okro? Why were you trying to sound like Edith Piaf[iv]?”
“You know those toubabous. They won’t understand me if I start adding all those local expressions. Can you imagine me speaking to Andrew and saying ‘entoucas deh’, or ‘baraka’? He would never take me seriously! That’s exactly why that waiter was so rude to you. If you’re gonna speak the toubabou’s language, do it well!”
“Do it well?? You and that waiter are the same. You’ve both sold your souls to the white man. Yes, it’s true that there was a linguistic genocide during colonisation. Some words were lost, along with meanings. We will never have the words to describe some things our ancestors experienced. But some words survived and have even found a way to colonise the coloniser’s language. This is the only dignity you and I have left. It’s the only way the Lumbila youths of today get to remind the toubabous that we still have an identity and that we are still humans with a history. It’s the only way we remember the past. And you, my sister Bintou, have rebuked the past tonight. Oh, how I wish Andrew was forced to speak Dioula or Moore[v] with us!” She sighed before she crawled back into the moving machine’s initial silence. Only this time, the air was slightly lighter.
Benewende was always straight talking. She could hardly hide her emotions. Ever since they were kids, she was never afraid to voice her opinion even though she often got in trouble for it. In Class 5, she stood up to the class teacher after he had unjustly punished a classmate. This small rebellion led to some caning, after which she got extra punishment for being rude. She also often got in trouble for speaking Moore instead of French. Eventually, Benewende dropped out of school after high school and joined the Democratic Youth Movement. As a result, she had no formal tertiary education and no job. Every youth in Lumbila had to choose between being recognised by post-colonial institutions or being relevant to the decoloniality project. Some chose neither, but Benewende chose the latter. Which was precisely why Bintou asked her to come to dinner with her and Andrew. Without Benewende in her life to constantly remind her of who she was, she was afraid she would forget to pray, and prey on her people instead. Eventually, her ancestors would rebuke her and her tongue would forget the taste of the past.
“You know, Benewende, sometimes I wonder if Aliou is sending me warnings about the future in my dreams. A few nights ago, I had an interesting one. I was alone, reading in an apartment I seemed to own. Suddenly, I heard gunshots and screams outside. The homes nearby were being attacked. “Find all the men!” I heard. I could hear gunshots from every direction. My place was surrounded. It wasn’t long before a young man barged through my door, armed with a huge machine gun that looked heavier than him. Weirdly enough, I felt ready. “So this is how I finally leave this world.” I said to myself. I had never felt so human, facing my potential death. For the first time, I didn’t need to resist or choose. There was no other option. I was going to die, and that was it. It was simple. I felt a tingling feeling of cold peace all over my body, and closed my eyes so I could hear the gunshots better, until less and less people screamed. I could feel the vibration of the motorbikes marking the compound outside, the pungent smell of death. Maybe it was just the smell of firing guns, but they smelt just like fireworks. Fireworks of terror. I hoped that somehow, you and Dad would know that I did not resist, that I was at peace. I stood up from my chair and let myself fall onto my knees, awaiting my fate. To my greatest dismay, the young man grabbed me by my braids and threw me on the sofa, tearing my cloth. He wanted me alive. He wanted me to witness my own death. He made me a guest of honour at my own funeral. Then, I heard the strident sound of church bells. It was my alarm.”
“Eish, my sister, this is horrible, even for a nightmare. Tonight, when you go to bed, I hope you see the things that remain behind your eyes. I hope the stars leave some dust when the sun is finally chased into darkness. Maybe this will help you remember how our great-grandparents threshed millet, maize and fonio to the rhythm of balafons. Then, you may see this scar whose history we do not know, and begin to heal. At night, when men who fear God indulge their inner worlds, when eyes are no longer enough to see, I also hear this wound inflicted without my knowledge… this wound that still hurts our parents in their grave. Maybe, if we become friends with them, we will escape the vultures.”
Now that Lumbila is at war, people must pray before stepping out, just in case they never come back. When they do come back, they have to thank God and ask their ancestors for forgiveness after dining with the very people who wounded their tongues. Bintou wondered if Andrew and the men who killed Aliou prayed before leaving their homes. They probably did. After all, it was God who created the vultures too.
THE END
Footnotes
1. White person in Dioula, a language spoken in Mali and Burkina Faso. 2. Term used in Burkina Faso and Ivory Coast to describe Africans mimicking a French Parisian accent and mannerism. 3. Pejorative way of calling a sex worker in French. 4. French singer. 5. Mossi, language spoken in Burkina Faso.
- The Vultures of Lumbila || Fanidh Sanogo - February 12, 2022
