Ayolee's Song A short story by Marie-Félicité Ebokea 2000 Translated into English by Maren Hill, Goucher College, 2003

Copyright notice

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Under the sun that beat down like the heel of an angry woman's shoe, Ayolée, her load on her head, painfully moved ahead on the path leading to her hut. She stopped a second and caught her breath. One hand on the calabash balanced on her head and the other on her round stomach, she inhaled a quick breath of dry air.

Ever since the relentless progression of the desert, countless years earlier, her village had been lacking water. The few women from here, those left behind by nature rather than by men, knew more than anyone else the price of this rare element. After the terrible Council Meeting , held by the Elders in the shade of the old baobab tree[1], it had been decided that, from that time on, women would give birth outside the village and would not come back to live there before their new born's first steps.

Ayolée held back the nausea rising up in her throat and tried to ease the anxiety that seemed to disturb the baby's sleep. At the thought of the close and inevitable trip, the child who was waiting its time jerked and distorted the tent formed by the skin of her belly now stretched to its limit.

Manilé, the one for whom her heart continued to dance, had escaped to the large city as fast as his legs had allowed him. She had not wanted to follow. "Not strong enough, my Gazelle!" Manilé had challenged.

Ayolée arrives in front of a low-roofed hut and unloaded her calabash of water, the ration for the day. Ayoléla, her little brother, heard her struggle and immediately ran up to her.

"How is my sister this morning? Your song informed me of your return and I ran out of the house to bring you this."

He handed her a piece of paper folded in half and glued at both ends. A letter! Ayolée's heart gave an uncontrollable jolt.

"Don't be scared, I believe it is from Manilé."

Ayolée lowered herself heavily onto the quilted mat and wiped her forehead absent- mindedly with the bottom of her skirt. She felt the folded paper, turned it one way then another, smelled it and finally gave it back to her brother.

"Here, open it and don't tell me anything if it is not good."

It was his turn to feel the paper.

"It has come a long way, he declares."

He slowly examined the page, creased and spotted in places. Listen to this...

Dear Gazelle

I hope that your burden hasn't become too heavy. Under the Elders" laws, only the old lions survive once they have evicted all the young wild animals whose teeth have yet to be dull. In short, my dear Ayolée, forgive my sudden departure far from your arms that always know how to contain and shape a man's dreams. My beautiful, my darling, the city is not the canvas that they have painted it to be. Matikin needs a young woman like you. Here, we will make a fortune. I spoke to the old King, Sapitiyé. He is ready to meet you and to acknowledge our future child as his own. Think before you refuse; think about the child's and our future. But don't wait too long. His Greatness is dying. After him, chaos will reign and I will risk being thrown into prison or worse.

I think about you each time the moon is seen over the hills. I imagine how your caresses will comfort my nights, better than honey can lessen the bitterness that I have felt under my tongue since we parted...

Your Manilé, your child's father.

Ayoléla folded the paper and waited for his sister's reaction.

"He knows full well that I will not go. Here is where my ancestors lived, here is the place of my story and of my unborn child."

Ayolée stretched her legs. Her eyes met those of her brother.

"Besides, It is time to take the path along the river, she said massaging her stomach with a dreamy expression."

Some days later, Ayolée and her brother picked a spot in the large forest to set up their camp. They chose a place near a small brook where some thick trees formed a dome. They kept busy before the delivery of Ayolée who was breathing fast. The young woman sang all day long, and at night she told her young brother pleasant stories. She was mindful that Ayoléla was still only a child who was devoted to her and had proved his bravery by accepting to be by her side.

The absence of the moon[2] behind the tall trees magnified the echoes of the forest. Ayolée gave birth to two infants by night's end. The little girl, Minalée, screamed non-stop. The little boy, Hohola, stared at his mother and smiled in a declaration of eternal love. Each glued to a breast, the children sucked greedily. The mother rested her head against a calabash filled with fresh water. Ayoléla left to go fishing.

The days came and went; the moon came and went; and the children grew older. For them, the forest was a vast playground. When their mother was busy, their uncle took over and led them on long walks. They learned to recognize the least savage animals. In the evenings, Ayolée sang her song and pieced together a story for them.

One fateful day, Minalée, the little girl, ventured to the river. Hohola, the little boy, crawled on his hands and knees around his mother. Minalée let out a long scream. Ayolée immediately dropped the mealie that she was about to wrap in the banana leaf. Terrified, Hohola tried to cling to his mother's legs as she ran to the muddy river. By the time she arrived there, she could only watch helplessly: three men on horseback were kidnapping her daughter, taking her wails with them forever.

Twenty years later, little Manilée had become the Queen of Matikin and she was bored. Serenity had returned after months of fratricide battles on the death of the old King, her husband. Manilée whistled a tune under her breath that flowed through her head and that often touched her tongue in moments of distress.

Nobody had yet managed to put lyrics to it. Each year, together with the team of the Grand Conservatoire, she opened a competition that attracted crowds of storytellers. To this day, no one had found the text that pleased the queen. Minalée paced back and forth in her large reception room. Why didn't she know more about her origins? She knew that she would not find peace within herself until her thirst for her memory was quenched. And the key to the enigma, she was certain, was to be found in this song whose lyrics no one could bring to her. Since the death of the King, Sapitiyé, she had managed to glean some information that he had preferred to keep from her, but she wanted to know more.

A soft knock at the door abruptly cut off the melody that lingered far away in the neighboring gardens.

"Who dares knock?" roars a broken-voiced Minalée.

"It is your spokesman", my Queen

"What is it, Manilé?"

"There is a prisoner here who asks for a meeting before he performs. A musician who..."

"OK, let him in."

"Very well, my Queen."

Manilé, grey-haired and dressed in white, opened the double doors and stepped aside to let in a young man dressed in rags. It was Hohola, barefooted, a strange instrument hanging from his scrawny neck. Manilé stared at the entering vagrant, the reflection of his own haunted face, but much younger. He delicately closed the door, pondering his own destiny. Brought to the service of the late King, Sapityé, Manilé had been able to earn his trust. Informed by Ayoléla of the site of their camp, he had organized the abduction of his own family. Believing that the three men would come back with Ayolée, her brother, and the two children, he welcomed their departure. The excitement reached its climax as he imagined breathing Ayolée's perfume again. Then, frfom a Prince he chanced upon in the corridors of the Palace, he learned the King's true objedctive: Sapitiyé was interested only in the little girl Minalée. The horsemen had a mission to bring back just her; they could do whatever they wanted with the others.

Since then, Manilé had never been able to quiet his own guilt. Admittedly, The King had appointed him 'Advisor and Spokesman for Life' in the service of the future Queen and when Ayoléla had arrived after Ayolée's death, he immediately became principal Chef in the service of the Queen. While mortified in his grief, he had the feeling of having paid, in partl, his debt to Ayolée. Today, he saw his son for the first time and felt that he was going to come to terms with his memory, his story, and his past, as well as his ambition. After all these years, the Queen was finally going to know that he was her father.

Ayoléla, aged but proud, entered silently.. Minalé discreetly signalled to him to join him in a corner where he was out of sight.

"It is time to reveal the truth to the Queen", Manilé whispered in Ayoléla's ear. The events were coming to a head. It was impossible to prevent her brother from seeing her. "We must act quickly, the Princes of royal blood are already grumbling because of spreading rumors"

"I leave the decision to you, Manilé. You understand power better than I do, but don't forget to tell her that I have never failed at my duties as her uncle. It was their mother's death alone that pushed me to look for you and find her."

A few moments later, Manilé came across a group of angry men, who asked to be seen at once. These young Princes, no longer very young, just found out that the Queen, their Queen, had allowed a stranger into her chambers.

Manilé opened his mouth to speak, but they didn't want to hear anything. To restrain the Princes he decided to tell them his story. He revealed to them that the Queen was his daughter. He revealed to them the fate of the twins separated before their first birthday and finally reunited. He promised them that the Queen would finally be calm and would choose a husband from among them. Matikin shall have a new power, he prophesied

As the old Manilé ended his story, a long song rose from the Palace. Their Queen's voice, clear and harmonious, supported by another, sad and torn, broke the silence behind the closed door. Like the rain that dances in the sun, the divine song attracted the people to front the Palace; meanwhile, far away in the village where Ayolée was buried, a torrential downpour swept the Elders from their Baobab tree. God forgive us, they think, while the deafening echoes of thunder cover the entire village. We shall have to hold a Council. The women shall no longer be sent outside the village to give birth;

Ayolée's dream had become reality.

© 2003 Marie-Félicité Ebokea

The moon could also represent the absence of the men in the village, like Minalé who has to find work in the city. The strength of the moon reflects the strength of women while the men are away. Each time the moon is introduced in the story, it is in the absence of Minalé who is not able to be with Ayolée and their children; the moon counts the time of their separation.

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