Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? by Maryse Condé Read Free Book Online

twice about colonization and came to the conclusion that the Africans should join forces to kick the French out as quickly as possible and take their place. During his games of chess with Hakim, he laid out his plans. Since Hakim lent his fervent support, he offered him a job in his factories. The wages he proposed were three times higher than the mission’s. Hakim couldn’t believe his ears. To be rid of that mud-brick school, suffocating during the dry season, flooded during the rainy season! Of his dim-witted, fingers-all-thumbs pupils! Say good-bye to those hypocritical and finicky missionaries. Moreover, his cohabitation with Kwame Aniedo was becoming unbearable. He could no longer put up with hearing the prince noisily take his pleasure with his mistresses or bumping into him, quite naked, his pipe stuffed with Bahia tobacco wedged between his teeth. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Koffi Ndizi seemed to have lapsed into second childhood. Ever since he had set eyes on her at the wake for Senanou and Dabla, he had become infatuated with Celanire. He now only had one idea in his head: to invite her to his house. But when he looked around, he was ashamed at what he saw. He would never dare entertain someone so sophisticated in such a place. So he endeavored to imitate Betti Bouah and ordered armchairs, beds, dishes, glasses, and even a set of kitchen utensils from Grand-Bassam. Since Hakim had spoken highly of the Muslim art of living, he had rugs and wall coverings shipped from Tiassalé. Oh, how he would have liked to speak French, a language that up till then had always stuck in his throat! One afternoon, Hakim paid Koffi Ndizi a visit. The king had just received four crates of dishes from Grand-Bassam. He was inspecting plates and blue-stemmed glasses identical to his cousin’s, and frantically inquired of his visitor, What did he think? Would Celanire be impressed? At a time when the atmosphere in the colony was loaded with tension, such fickleness exasperated Hakim. He ran to Kwame Aniedo’s, collected his meager belongings, and took his leave without saying good-bye to anyone.
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    Hakim’s new life gradually settled into place.
    Betti Bouah was in the business of palm oil. He bought it from the Akouri and Alladian villages or even farther afield. His men filled the casks supplied by the companies in Bordeaux and Nantes, and transported them along the Ebrié lagoon with a fleet of dugout canoes. They then rolled them overland and loaded them onto whaling boats that set out for the ships lying offshore behind the line of breakers. He also sold timber for dyes, ivory and skins that he purchased on the markets in the interior in exchange for gunpowder, guns, spirits, leaf tobacco from Virginia, cutlery, and knives. In short, he seemed a treasure trove for anyone who wanted to do business with him. Under his orders, Hakim no longer had time even to think about eating his bellyful. Up before sunrise, the noise of his little outboard would frighten the caymans wallowing lazily in the mud. Standing under the glare of the midday sun, he would quickly swallow a meatball of akassan reddened with palm oil. He dashed from one plantation to another, overseeing the loading. At first he did everything possible in the evening to keep up appearances. Once he had shaved and cologned, he went up and joined his host, who as a rule was sitting in a European-style armchair. Betti Bouah was very fond of chocolate and drank it by the cupful. While sipping this newly discovered drink, the two men would comment on what the French called “pacification” and what they themselves called quite simply “the war.” There seemed to be no end to the bloody massacres in the northern territories. How many dead had they already buried? How many more were they going to bury? Yes, Africa had got off to a bad start, and the white man’s sun illuminated nothing but misfortune. Sometimes, though, their