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

conversation turned to a lighter side. They talked about women. Betti Bouah explained he had not been impressed by Celanire. A real bag of bones! He preferred full-bodied women, like a good Bordeaux wine. Just look at his wives. And then that ribbon tied around her neck terrified him like a small child. No doubt about it, that’s where she hid the mark that indicated she was the “horse” of dangerous aawabo . He had once known a “horse” with the distinguishing mark of a wart on his chin. It had taken years to find him out. In themeantime, he had killed off a whole village. Deep down, without daring to contradict him, Hakim scoffed at these superstitions, okay for Africans, but which his father’s European education had rid him of.
    It wasn’t long, however, before he ached all over, and in the evening he would throw himself on his bed, fall fast asleep, and snore until morning. This extreme exhaustion naturally gave cause for thought. In fact, what had he gained by leaving the mission school? He was still a subaltern. He no longer had time to open a book. His hair was no longer combed or brilliantined. The people he kept company with were crude, the banknotes he handled were filthy, and he was no longer Mr. Philosophizer, phrasemonger of French French. It was that very moment Kwame Aniedo chose to ask Hakim to help him pass the colonial administration examination. Kwame Aniedo could no longer put up with the life of idleness dictated by Koffi Ndizi, and he could no longer bear to see him lapse into a second childhood because of his ridiculous passion for Celanire. So he had decided to leave the royal compound, which he considered a lost cause. He was prepared to leave the country for Dakar, the city where nobody ever dies. Apparently, the French were recruiting and paying for all sorts of clerks in their offices and administration. Kwame Aniedo could already see himself as a messenger in khaki uniform with gilt epaulettes pedaling his Motobécane. Hakim, never forgetting that Kwame had offered him a roof over his head when he needed one, saw himself obliged to calculate the square of the hypotenuse while in a state of exhaustion. What was worse, Kwame Aniedo’s presence still produced the same effect on him and upset him deep down: that smell of sweat and shea butter of his, that way he had of sucking greedily on his wooden penholder, that childlike expression of his whenever he no longer understood his lesson. Hakim despondently predicted that one day he would be unable to control himself and would throw himself on Kwame Aniedo. And that would be catastrophic. For the horrified Kwame would take out his Sheffield steel switchblade deep within the folds of his wrapper and stab him a fatal blow. Thus Bokar would get his revenge.
    On that particular day Hakim had been called to the Home to buy the harvest of palm kernels. As a precaution he had kept out of Celanire’s way since the day of the burial for Dabla and Senanou. The new palm groves were curling their hair over several acres plucked from the forest. A mountain of kernels was waiting under the trees. Celanire could be grateful: thanks to the Ebriés’ free labor and the work of the senior pupils, the harvest was rich, and it took over three hours to weigh it and load it into jute sacks that the porters lugged on their backs to the factory. Once the transaction was finally over, Hakim was about to turn on his heels when the widow Desrussie held him back. Celanire was asking for him. However hard he insisted he was in his work clothes and had been sweating since morning, the widow was so adamant, he felt obliged to follow her.
    Once he left the shade of the palm grove, the heat fell on his neck like a sharp blade. The sun was high in the sky, cooking the tall obelisks of the anthills. With persiennes lowered, the Home was taking its siesta. It had become a real jewel, nestling in its setting of trees and riot of flowers.