by Louise
My armchair travels took me to the Republic of Congo in January 2017. There are 2 Congos: the Republic of Congo, with its capital in Brazzaville; and the Democratic Republic of Congo, with its capital in Kinshasa (known from 1971-1999 as Zaire).
The Lights of Pointe-Noire, by Alain Mabanckou
ISBN:978-1-62097-190-1
In this elegant and bittersweet memoir, Alain Mabanckou returns to his Congolese hometown after 25 years in Europe and the USA. Much has changed-- he, too, has changed-- and he must find a way to reconcile his past and present while "trampling on the kingdom of [his] childhood."
While reading, I mark passages that stand out to me. When I have finished the book, I re-read all the marked sections. These lines map out the thread in the book that resonated most strongly with me. I will share some of those passages from Alain Mabanckou's memoir with you below. Is there a thread here that speaks to you too?
"Ali boma yé!
It was the famous cry of the Zaireans at the "May 20th" Stadium during the legendary fight between Muhammed Ali and George Foreman. In both Congos, it had become customary to chant it at any brawl. (p.49)
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Yes, I used to sleep there. My dreams were less confined than the space we lived in. At least when I closed my eyes and sleep lent me wings to fly, I found myself in a vast kingdom, not in a shack that looks today like a fisherman's hut straight out of The Old Man and the Sea, or even The Old Man Who Read Love Stories. (p. 71)
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"These children aren't in a paradise of poverty. Here, look at the photo: that tyre, those flip-flops. . . that's what makes them happy. . . flip-flops to walk in, the tyre they can all climb aboard like a motorbike big enough to carry all their wildest dreams Every day my nephews and nieces walk out in a long line down the rue du Louboulou. Their childhood knits them together, they wouldn't swap it for all the world. They drink from a small glass, but it's their own. Your glass is big, but it's not yours, and each time you want to drink from it, you have to ask for permission. And alas, that permission is never granted. . . ." (p.95)
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When you're grown up, whatever bush you go into, remind yourself that spirits live there, and be respectful of fauna and flora, including objects that seem unimportant to you, like mushrooms, or the lowly little earthworm trying to crawl back on to the riverbank. In our family, we only hunt squirrels and anteaters, those are the prey given us by our ancestors, because the other animals, unless expressly told otherwise in our dreams, are members of our family who have left this world, but are still living in the next. Would you eat your mother, your father, or your brother? I think not. I know these things sound strange to you, you've grown up in the city, but they are simple truths that make us who we are. Now, you mustn't eat hind or stag meat, because even if it didn't kill you, a part of you would disappear, the part we call luck or, rather, blessing." (p. 119-120)
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"I don't know why I write, perhaps that's why I tear out pages I've already scribbled on, and throw them in the bin. I know I have no choice, I'll go and retrieve them the next morning and write them again. It doesn't matter how long it takes, as long as one day the book's finished."
They laughed at that, but I didn't. Particularly since my bin right now is filled with crumpled pages. . .(p. 126)
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This morning I open Dark Side of the Sun, a collection of poems by the most Pontenegrin of Congolese writers, Jean-Baptiste Tati-Loutard. (p. 127)
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"We've forgotten the true meaning of cinema, little brother! A film you watch at home doesn't affect you like a film you watch with a crowd at the cinema!" (p.139)
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Guy de Cars. . .without a doubt, had inspired a whole generation of Pontenegrins, not to say French-speaking Africans, with a taste for reading. (p. 135)
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"Don't forget: some philosophers only interpreted the world; what we have to do now is transform it. That's possibly the only thing I learned from Engels, for everything else you're better off with the philosophy of Antiquity. . ."(p.179)
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Of all francophone African writers, it is probably the Cameroonian novelist Eza Boto (Mongo Beti) who best describes a colonial town. In his novel Cruel City, the northern part of the city of Tanga is a "little France", imported into the tropics, with its sumptuous buildings, its streets in bloom, while the southern part rots in extreme poverty, without electricity and, when the town sleeps, terror is spread through the streets by criminal gangs. (p.189)
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That evening, I felt like getting drunk, to forget that I'd been trampling on the kingdom of my childhood.(p.197)
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There is always something enriching in the suffering of a creator who hopes his bottle thrown into the sea will one day reach its destination. (p. 198)
Congolese flag
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