Wet Pagnes A short story by Marie-Léontine Tsibinda 1997

Translated and annotated by Kathleen McGovern, Goucher College (2005)

Prière de lire la notice sur la protection des droits d'auteur

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I turn the dial of my radio to take the pulse of the city before going out. The music laughs with life. This deceitful laugh makes my heart beat faster. Next, sadness comes to take laughter's place. It's the obituary list. No one I know. I breathe and the laughing music returns. I try to dance a few steps. My heart lags minutes behind. So I leave my room, take a bucket, and fill it with water. I wash quickly — why drag it out ? I'll take my time under the hot-water's caress tonight, before bed. Quickly knotting a cloth around my chest, I go back to my room: a bed and an armoire with a mirror that reveals my curvy image. A belly button set in the hollow of my satiny stomach, black eyes with curly lashes, long thin legs — a pleasing reflection winks back at me knowingly.

I moan. A dam bursts within me. I'd told myself not to think of him. Don't think of him anymore. Does a body ever forget the hand that warmed it for so long ? His wild fingers on my back strike up a wild song. They are the limkémbé[1] and I — the dancer.

I don't want you, memories. Get out of my sight, go on — go. I beg you, set me free. Wait for tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, a month from now, or a year. I beg you: don't overwhelm me now. Let me think clear thoughts. Memories — go away !

One finger, wilder than the rest, nestles in the hollow of my navel and my temperature begins to rise. I hear his voice whispering words of love in my ear. I laugh — the carefree laugh of happiness. Slowly my skin meets his, my mouth his mouth. I'm burning and my body aches. He has drowned me in his smile.

I reason with my memories. Putting on jeans and a shirt, I sling a bag over my shoulder and I go out. I practically flee. Once I'm out on the street, life finally becomes life again. The leaves on the trees gleam with a special shimmer. The streets are full of crevasses, but it doesn't matter to me. My steps lead me to the forest on the water's edge where I lie down, my head resting on his chest. The memories await me.

The sun makes its bed as night draws near. On the water its golden blush sets the ripples ablaze. I must have fallen asleep. When I awake night has already fallen. The moon has unfurled her bluish mat. Surrounded by her children, she tells them tales of times gone by. My fear vanished then and there. Since then, I have walked down the streets in the neighbourhoods devastated by the wild hatred that haunted the hearts of men. Numb sadness can still be seen deep in people's eyes. Deeper still is the shame of having wronged their blood brothers, their soul sisters. How many broken lives ! How many marriages breaking apart ! How many canon-blasts, how many gunshots heard under the Kalashnikovs' terror ! Why all this sudden killing ? Silence, the colony's busy exploiting.

Those who could not shoot pulled out machetes or assegais[2]. They slit throats, they scalped, they cut off limbs, they took the intestines out of the corpses and they wore them like hideous necklaces. Women and children met the same end, the same savage destiny, barbaric and cruel.

Life is stubborn: it returns to tell me that you are not near. I walk in the devastated neighbourhoods, wanting to dominate my fear at all cost. It seems to me that at any moment someone will come up to me and say: "I was born right here. I grew up but hate stole away the life God had given me."

Do you remember my panic after we passed by the bakery ? On that day, because of the repeated gunfire, I didn't send the children out to get bread. I walked all the way to the neighbourhood bakery, fear heavy in my heart. Armed children were patrolling the street. They're the same age as my cousin's children: just kids who need love. Their pupils were dilated with drugs. One misstep, one misspoken word, and it's all over, finished. Running — unthinkable ! You'd get yourself lynched. One less soul in the world — who would remember that soul ? I think of the parents who tried in vain to keep them from taking up arms. Sadly, some are no longer of this world. They were eliminated by their own children burning with the fever of combat and the thirst for money.

They were promised everything under the sun: study abroad, admission into the army, positions as executives or even international diplomats once victory resounds. Today, parents still cry for their children who died for causes that were not their own. Silence ! This is what the fatherland wants !

The pavement on the street is completely gone. You have to jump over the gutters at the risk of breaking your leg. The trees have been cut into pieces too, and the city streams have vomited up old carcasses sleeping in their beds.

A crowd before the bakery is crying: "We want bread ! We want bread !" At what price ! The swarm drags me left and right. I come out of the building sweating; the strap of my sandal has given out. Bread in hand, I start home with the women chance has thrown in my way. Suddenly, gunfire breaks out. Canon fire too. Quick now, we must find shelter. A dilapidated house serves as our refuge. God is great: He will know how to pull us out of this hell into which such cynical hearts have hurled us. Separation is inevitable.

Later that night I find the children under the bed. They throw themselves into my arms: They're shooting again Auntie. Yes, my little one ! Is that war ? Yes, war.

Hey ! — hey — neighbour, I've wet my pagnes.[3] I feel the wetness of her urine on me. Poor woman ! Did she ever make it home ?

I have six children, four by my husband. But he's never around. I'm all out of money these days and I don't know what to do. My bank's been closed for months now. The youngest is sick. Because of the barricades I can't get to the hospital. The day he had his last fit, I found some kids patrolling the neighbourhood. They helped us to get through the first roadblocks, but at the others they left me to fend for myself. It wasn't in their zone.

This woman is still in her youth. The scars of life have not spared her. Bitterness can be seen on her face. She is crying.

So, she got past the first roadblocks. At the next ones, they asked her for money, they went through her bag. While her child struggled against death they asked her for a pass and without a pass, where can she go, anyway ? The roads are closed. Go back home !

My child is sick. He could die.

Here we are, freezing to death to protect you and you talk to me of a child ! Turn around. The child starts convulsing. How can she stop it ? She begs in vain. The grace period has passed. The convulsions come one after the other at a pace the mother can no longer keep track of, then they stop. Her screams could pierce a deaf man's ears. They tell her to shut up. She ends up burying her son. Her husband is still not around. She tells me the story of her life as the gunshots argue. Hey — hey, neighbour, I've wet my pagnes. Don't be ashamed neighbour, go back home and change. She's crying. I've wet my pagnes, wet my pagnes. Don't cry neighbour. Don't cry... We were still lying down. A woman came towards us. She is losing it too. She wants our company. Her whole body is shaking. Her teeth are chattering. We try to comfort her. Speak, neighbour, speak, you'll feel less alone.

I'm going to die because of the wife of my father's nephew.

Only God can put an end to your life, not the wife of your father's nephew.

A man who can't even read marrying a moundelé[4] ! The world's turned upside down, I'm telling you. Regardless, she always wants bread and I'm the one that has to go out and buy it for her. She's from Wanda and she doesn't even speak French ! My uncle had three sons. The youngest went to Wanda for his studies. When he returned, he brought back a moundelé with his diplomas. With time his family grew. The moundelé had six kids. Who'd have thought it ! A moundelé with six kids these days, it's unbelievable ! The kids grew up just like villagers: salted fish, manioc leaves, bush meat, manioc. They learned how to fish and hunt. They almost never went on vacation to their mother's country. But unfortunately time was not kind to the couple. The husband died of a mysterious disease. Way before they even buried his mortal body the arrangements were made: the possessions would go to the paternal family — the wife and children to my father's nephew. What a scandal in the village ! A moundelé forced to marry a husband chosen by the family — they'd never seen that before ! Times are certainly changing ! And now here I am: dodging bullets to buy bread for the moundelé.

And the other woman, as though she's completely lost her mind, keeps repeating: Hey — hey, neighbour, I've wet my pagnes !

We told each other these things to keep fear from taking over, invading us.

My husband and I don't come from the same region. My parents gave me an ultimatum: him or them. How could I tell him that our ethnic gap would become our common grave ? I left the children in his care while we waited for better times.

When going outside the house was still possible, one night I went out to get some food for the family. I heard a "who goes there ?" that chilled me to the bone. I looked left, then right, and I saw them. Three soldiers. But these days anyone can get hold of a uniform. All you have to do is give your name to the neighbourhood militia leaders. That's how captains, colonels, even generals come to stand before you. In short, I stopped. One of them took my bag and searched through it. Could he even read ? I had only found a few cans of preserves. He took them and threw the bag at my feet. I waited till they got far away before bending to pick it up. My poor kids, what would they eat that night ?

You were very lucky. They could have raped you and left you with the seed of AIDS.

God help us ! Misery, I said to myself, corrosive misery is taking over the heart, the body, the very spirit of man. Hey — hey neighbour, I've wet my pagnes...

Afterwards ? Peace returned and I met you. I told you these stories. We cried with spite and shame, with anger and helplessness too. We did not leave each other's side right up to the day you said to me: I'm going on a trip. My father's a diplomat and we have to go to Vunda. Will you come home with me to my country ? I cried again. I was your prisoner even then. Hand in hand we walked, laughed, and joked together a long while. We drank barbadine[5] juice. You changed my life. You said to me the sacred words, I love you. I didn't dare believe you. All the same, I felt my heart melting like honey in the sun. I love you. And one night, you brought me home and found a rented house. My parents died in the swell of hatred that swept over the country. You met my cousin's children. I felt no hostility from your parents. Do you remember ? We ate grilled fish and fried bananas, drank water and were drunk with happiness. I was your woman and you were my man.

I cried for a long time after you. I knew I would see you again. The memory of you has never left me. I love you too...Here life gives birth, again, to life...I love you...oh, yes, I love you too...hey ! — hey neighbour, I've wet my pagnes. Yes, neighbour, my wet pagnes...

© Marie-Léontine Tsibinda, 1997