Tram 83 by Fiston Mwanza Mujila Read Free Book Online Page A

embarrassment to us, with your wallowing in art history!”
    â€œI’ll throw myself onto the tracks if dad insists I study history and stuff,” exclaimed a kid, barely ten years old, who was with his father.
    He returned to his table and half mouthed an apology at Lucien,who still didn’t understand what had just befallen him.
    â€œI couldn’t help it. I just didn’t imagine there were any brainy people left in the City-State. This country’s been knocked flat, it’s all got to be rebuilt: roads, schools, hospitals, the station, even men. We need doctors, mechanics, carpenters, and garbage collectors, but certainly not dreamers!”
    â€œDo you have the time?”
    The music had resumed with even greater intensity. Lucien had lost the courage to give the man who had just humiliated him a withering look. He did, however, wish to get himself off the hook.
    â€œYou can’t do anything about a passion. But I’m not just a historian. I’m also a writer.”
    A guy at a neighboring table butted in:
    â€œWriter or historian, same difference.”
    â€œI’m in writing, he insisted.”
    â€œWriting. Writing. Writing.”
    His interlocutor pronounced this word in a guttural voice. He remained circumspect, as if victim of an apparition. Lucien remained on his guard, for fear of being made a fool of a second time.
    â€œI’m a writer but …”
    â€œYoung man, you are looking at Ferdinand Malingeau, director of Joy Train Publications.”
    Lucien was speechless. He felt a kind of relief. The busgirls and the waitresses balked at bringing them their blasted beer, which, by the way, remained in the mixed facilities — RULE NUMBER 94: reality of life, when you drink, you piss, and when you piss, it remains your beer in your toilet. Lucien recalled Requiem’s“I prefer to piss at home.” He wanted to order a beer but not a single pair of eyes fell on him. It required the direct intervention of Joy Train Publications to resolve the situation. Finally, the first beer. The busgirl came over, vexed. Slammed the drink down. Stood back, bottle-opener in hand. Several seconds. Made up her mind, and opened the merchandise. A single verse:
    â€œTip!”
    Lucien took out a bill.
    â€œHere.”
    She snatched the money and turned her back without a word. The traffic grew thicker. Our Indian friends, performing an anthem against global warming, child labor in the mines, deforestation, and the poaching of tilapia, pythons, piranhas, and white rhinoceroses, sowed panic among the common people. The women dissolved into tears. The men — tourists and other dropouts taken unawares by the sad saga of existence — shook their heads in repentance.
    Lucien swiveled his head in the hope of glimpsing Requiem.
    â€œHow long you been in the writing game?”
    â€œDo you have the time?”
    â€œTen years.”
    â€œWhat or who do you write about? Got a target audience? Expectations? How many copies? Any literary prizes? What genre?”
    He felt trapped. Questions shooting from all sides. He hadn’t even taken a sip!
    â€œAnything you’re working on?”
    He had to answer in the hope of getting published by Joy Train.
    â€œLet’s just say a stage-tale that considers this country from ahistorical perspective. The Africa of Possibility: Lumumba, the Fall of an Angel, or the Pestle-Mortar Years . It is highly likely that this text will be performed in Europe. Characters include Che Guevara, Sékou Touré, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Lumumba, Martin Luther King, Ceauşescu, not forgetting the dissident General.”
    The publisher ordered a glass of rum and some ice cubes. Comings and goings to the restrooms: single-mamas, baby-chicks, students, office workers, tourists, musicians, Pentecostal preachers, jugglers, ex-convicts …
    â€œI’m no communist. I don’t buy it. I know Lumumba is an emblematic figure