Love of convenience

Yakpo, Kofi. 2004. Love of convenience. In Peggy Piesche, Michael Küppers, Ekpenyong Ani & Angela Alagiyawanna-Kadalie (eds.), May Ayim Award 2004. Erster internationaler schwarzer deutscher Literaturpreis, 29–36. Berlin: Orlanda. Kofi »Linguist« Yakpo Love of Convenience The train door slid open with a hissing sound as he stiffened in preparation for the dash out. The conductors had just begun checking tickets in the first rows of the cabin. Fortunately. he already stood waiting in the passageway. As he rushed out onto the dimly-lit platform, a cold gust of air seared his face. He put up his collar and tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Faustin and Boye were waiting for him in the small entrance-hall of the tion. Their full voices pleasantly filled the void that he encountered everywhere he went. A silence that had begun to numb his senses. As he approached them, they both smiled at him. »Gommandant Momango est a la chasse,«l Boye called out to him in acknowledgement of his neat appearance, »crouched behind the bush ready to strike.« Momango fell into a swinging stride until he came to a smooth halt in front of Boye. »I1's from you that 1 received my doctorate degree in hunting. Professor Boye,« he retorted. »Momango, we know we're no match for Faustin said with amusement, »today we've only come as your body-guards.« The three of them burst out laughing. Momango felt the tension fan offhiro. A few people timidly turned their heads in the direction of the three men while hurriedly walking past. Like shadows. they disappeared into the dusk outside. • »How is your asylum application going?« Boye enquired as they walked out of the station building together. Momango felt a sudden surge of anguish. »It doesn't look too good,« he replied. »1 was called in for another hearing last week and the man in charge was asking me a whole lot of stupid questions. In the beginning, he tried to outwit me. Wanted to find out whether I was from another country. But he had his mind set anyway. You know what he asked me? He said, »why didn't you go to a peaceful neighbouring country?« They talk about peace as if they knew what war was.« He feIt his temples throb and opened the top button of his coat. Boye put his arm around Momango's shoulder. He looked at him sternly and lowered his voice. »Momango, how many times do I have to tell you that there is only one way? Find yourself a woman, turn her head around. marry her. It's the only way if you don't want to have your big bum returned to that village of yours. What was the name of it again?« Momango smiled, »Bafwabalinga,« he said. »)No wonder they don't want to give you asylum,« Faustin added. »How can a 29 normal human-being be from a place with such a name, and be proud of it on top?« »Thank God, that place of yours is nowhere to be found on the map, other'Wise they would have parachuted you there long since,« Boye said ly. Momango had to laugh. Faustin and Boye joined in. Faustin took his hand. After a brief silence he said. »don't worry, Momango. God will provide.« The three men turned into a darker side street. The sillhouettes of one or two pedestrians wound themselves past them. As they walked along. the soft purr of a car engine in low gear made Momango turn around. He saw a polIce car creep along the narrow road behind them with the headlights turned off. »The police,« he said with a muffled voice. »If they get me, I'm cooked. I'm not supposed to leave the town where the refugee home is.« »rust keep on walking normally.« Boye whispered. The police car slowed down as it came to a level with them. The officer in the front seat glanced at the three men on the pavement. Momango began walk· ing faster, taking large strides, eyes fixed ahead. By the time the car had come to a standstill, he could feel his legs taking him away. Momango had nearly reached the main road when he looked back. At the far end of the alley, he saw Boye go down as one of the police men kicked him in the crotch. Faustin was lying on the pavement, face downwards, his arm twisted behind his back. A third officer was pointing in Momango's direction. The crackling of walkictalkies was carried over to Momango by the wind. Reinforcements would soon arrive. He jumped the low fence that separated the main road from an adjoining park. He ran past trees and one or tvvo people. A woman shrieked with fright when he brushed her while trying to avoid an oncoming cyclist. His heart was throbhing in his throat, his breath resounded in his ears, sweat was dripping from his eye-brows. He hegan to feel a stinging pain in his thigh, where the bullet stuck. He pushed himself to run harder. The path winding through the park before him in the twilight of the late evening gives way to the reddish brown of an untorred road stretchmg out under a sky. The dark shapes of the surrounding trees turn into dense and exuberant green. The rustling of leaves becomes the staccato of machine ringing out behind him. He pulls his grandmother closer to him and drags her with him as they run along the rood closely on hisjather's and sisters« heels. Suddenly, grandmother's feet give way beneath her and her weight pulls him down. She is lying in the dust, bleeding. . »Run. my boy. Leave me here.« she says to him. »1 am old. but you must bve. You must live to protect your sisters.« He hesitates. 30 »Go!.« she commands in her mother-tongue ChiIuba. He runs, without looking back. He made a turn at the corner of the street that led to the club. Passing one Kebab snack-bar after the other. avoiding broken bottles and steering past groups of drunken youth, he finally found himself in front of the »Club Sodade«. The windows facing the street were open. He recognised the thump- ing baseline. forceful rhythm and high-pitched guitars of a song that had rocked the streets back home a few years ago. He greeted the doorman. }}Ton visage me rapelle quelqu·un.«2 the doorman said to him. His French accent sounded familiar. »Like somebody from home.« he continued. }}Unatoka wapi, mwenzangu?«:! he asked Momango. Momango replied and the doorman's face lit up with a broad smile. »1 am from Bafwasende,« he said. Momango took a close look at the doorman. His neatly kept afro underlined his fine features. His broad jaws narrowed down into a strongly contoured chin. He had large eyes under heavy eye-brows. The symmetry of his face was accentuated by his wide. evenly-shaped nose. A short-sleeved batik shirt revealed his arms. He was the colour of his younger sister. }>The little red one.« they used to call her. because of the saturated brown of her skin. The queue behind Momango had grown longer and he reached into his pocket. »No. my brother. Please.« The doorman beckoned him to walk through the door. »Wc will talk more later. when things have calmed down a bit.« The doorman turned around and called out to the bartender on his right. He pointed to Momango and made a short gesture. The bartender nodded. »You are my guest tonight.« Momango smiled and stretched out his hand to the doorman. They shook hands. There were already a few people he knew inside, some of them he had shared a room with at the refugee home. others he had greeted in passing. on the streets. He made his way through the thick crowd around the bar and ordered a lemonade. It occurred to him how fresh the bartender was. She felt his gaze and threw a smile at him as she stretched out her arm in order to give him his glass. Someone had told him that she was from Russia. »Those people are the Africans of Europe.« the person had said. Momango could recall that one of them had also lived in his home town. She had started by selling fried plantain in the streets. Later she had opened up a restaurant. He walked down the stairs. The gloomily lit dance-floor was packed with couples dancing to a wobbly rumba baseline and mellow falsetto voice. His room-mate Ousman was rub-- binghis hips againstthose of a chubby white woman and was mumbling something into her ear. A man whom he remembered having seen before leaned against the bar with a beer in his hand. He had intercepted a woman on the way back from the ladies« room and was now engaging her in what appeared to be a pleasant conversation. Three women were dancing facing each other in the far corner of the floor. eyes half-closed, unperturbed by the men behind them who were trying to attract their attention with extravagant side-steps and hip-swings. The man next to Momango was dancing with a large white woman who had difficulties to keep in sync v.rith the beat. He was trying to counter her inertia by swinging her around forcefully at each syncopation. He was wearing a large smile that exposed his teeth. Momango recognised his friend Bokiso on the far-left of the dance-floor. He was dancing with Hilda, his Angolan girl-friend. While gyrating his buttocks towards the floor Bokiso saw Momango and smiled, pulling up both eyebrows with a short upward jerk of his head in recognition of his presence. The DJ announced the next song. »Gette chanson est pour les freres ivoriens qui sont avec nous ce soir.«4 The music gained momentum. The Ivorians rushed towards the centre of the floor, formed a loose circle and began chanting. »Aie, ton aloko-la c'est trap doux, mi1le six cents francs c'est trop cher, mamie donne-moi ma monnaie. system gaze 0.«<1 Momango felt his feet move to the rhythm and It was getting hot. He took a sip of his lemonade. »Nzembo oyo ezall na yo,«' Bokiso said. »1 told the Dj to play it for you.« His resonated soothingly in Momango's ears. It crossed his mind that Bokiso's voice was similar to his father's. deep and warm. Sweet voices began to sing, »Mama hukubali na mimi, huko niliko. napata taabu sana.«' Had his parents crossed the border safely? What about his friend Nuhusi? Had the militia reached his home-town? Where was Elengi? His troubled thoughts mingled with the unfolding, mnlti-layered chorus of the song. He took a deep breath. He seesElengi in theyard on the other side of the wall that separates theircompounds. She is alone, and stooping over a bucket He calls her name, softly. Foam spurts up from the bucket onto her left cheek. She pauses for a moment to brush it off Then she continues washing, with vigorous strokes. »Elengi.« he calls outto her. gently. She wrings a pairofchildren's trousers and drops it into the second bucket. Slowly. she turns her head towards him. She straightens up. Facing him. she loosens the cloth around her waist, then reties the knot and rolls it up. She places her hands on her hips. Their eyes meet. »Elengi, come for a stroll with me tomorrow evening,« he says. 32 She remains silent. He feels a tickling in his stomach. »Why should 1?« she finally asks. »1 have a present for YOU,« he replies. »Please,« he pleads. She fixes him with her gaze. Then. gradually. the corners of her mouth twitch. her lips part. She is laughing. »Momango!« someone called out. He suppressed the burning sensation in his eyes. Mouhesine sent his hand fluffing into Momango's palm where it remained. He wrapped his left hand around Momango's right and held on to it while exchanging greetings with tvvo of his countrymen next to Momango. »Mlezi ananitesa sono. napata taabu sono mama e,«Hthe voices flowed with ease over the edgy rhythm. »On dit quoi?«(" Mouhesine's dreadlocks were shining and appeared to be reflecting streaks of red, yellow and green light. »1 am in trouble,«( Momango replied, »They have rejected my application. In two weeks. I will be sent back.« »Listen, we will see what we can do for you,« Mouhesine said confidently. He inclined his head towards Momango and lowered his voice. »You could cross the border by foot and do a new application in Holland. Do you have some money for a train ticket?«( )}Hata nguo sina mama aa. kulala kwangu chumba cha mbuzi.«'o What was the name of the group again? It had been one of his favourite records during his childhood. »Not really.« Momango replied. »At the home they don't give us any money. We buy our food with cards.« Mouhesine remained silent for a moment »Shu/e, hanipeleki, watoto wake ndio wanaosoma. «/I »1 know a man.« he continued, )}hut he's reliable, If you could organise some money, he would be able to help you. He can get you the right stamp in your passport. These people here are not different from those back home. Only the amounts are higher.« »Napata taabu sana ee, fanya uje, unichukue mama.«t;! Mother had loved danCing to this song. She would tell Momango and his sisters how father would pay the bands playing at Kwa Moustapha some extra money for them to play it for her. »Napata taabu sono e, fanya uje, unichukue mama.« »Think about it. Just bring the money, I'll take care of the rest.« A man said something to Mouhesine in passing. »I'll be back in a second. Don't despair, my brother,« he said, »things will turn out fine.« As the song faded away, Momango suddenly remembered the band's name. »Uda Jazz Band.« Momango caught a glimpse of the doorman descending the staircase. The doorman had spotted him in the crowd and walked towards him. i -/ I I »1 was looking for you.« He placed his hand on Momango's back and gave him a friendly look. »A beer?« He registered the warmth in the doorman's gesture. »Thank you, I'll have a lemonade,« Momango replied. »This is the first time I'm seeing you around.« The doorman said. »1 haven't been in the country for too long,« Momango explained. »I1's not easy in the beginning, but one has to keep hanging in.« The doorman nodded with acknowledgement. »The people of thls country are a strange breed,« he said. »they hardly talk to each other, yet they yearn for love and togetherness, they seem to be cold, but they simply don't know how to express their desire for warmth. They know so much, and possess endless wealth, yet they are poor in spirit. They want to break free, but they are not courageous enough to do so. They sail through life with eyes flXed on the horizon, without enjoying the play of waves and the taste of the salty breeze on their tongues.« »1 haven't had the chance to talk to many of them,« Momango admitted. »except for the police, and the people at the Office for Refugees.« He shrugged, »and I can't say that they've been very friendly. They have no respect for human beings.« He paused. »Because they don't know what suffering is,« he added. »How much time do you have left?« The doorman enquired. »1\vo, maybe three weeks,« Momango replied. »It took me four years to make my way to this place,« the doorman said. »And I travelled through nine countries. But since my ardval here, hardly a day goes by on which 1 do not ask myself whether I took the right decision to leave home.« The doorman paused for a moment before resuming. )}SO you want to stay here.« »1 have no choice,« Momango said. »The war has torn my family apart. My friends have either fled or are dead.« Momango swallowed and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He glanced over the doorman's shoulder. By now, the floor was densely packed. People were dancing at the foot of the staircase, beside the bathroom doors and in the small space in front of the cloakroom. Momango recognised the beautiful tune that was playing. »Do you see that woman over there?« With a short jerk of the head the doorman pointed his chin towards the far side of the room. »Today is the first time she is here.« Momango looked over to the left side of the dance-floor. He saw a white woman leaning against one of the pillars. She was swinging her head to the beat. lightly. Didier, a Cameroonian whom he had played football with once or twice in the summer, was standing next to her with a glass of beer in his hand. He abruptly leaned over and said something to her. She nodded. without looking at him, still gently moving to the music. With a broad, nervous smile, Didier began facing her, beckoning her to join him. With a slow shake of the head, she declined. Then she turned her head 34 a passing glance into Momango's direction. Her gaze halted briefly and when It reached the doorman. Then it wandered on and came to rest on Momango. He resisted the urge to turn his eyes away. Their eyes locked onto each other. His chest rose with a deep breath. Her gaze wavered and before she could note the faint smile on Momango's face, she had turned down her eyes. »Go and ask her for a dance,« the doorman whispered to Momango. The music had mellowed down. Entwined couples were moving to and fro to a melancholic zouk song. Momango began to walk around the dance floor. When he came to stand in front of her. he looked her straight into the eyes. This time she held out. He slowly stretched out his right hand towards her, palm He remamed lIke thIS. Barely visibly, her eyes probed his physique. U.nhI. after what seemed an eternity. she smiled and placed her left hand into hIS. He gently pulled her towards him and wound his right hand around her waist. Her left hand came to rest on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. He observes a shooting-star in the dotted sky above him. »Momango. my boy,« grandmother says to him. »Do you know how to conquer a woman's heart?«' The rustles as he raises his head from grandmother's lap and turns to lie on hIS stomach. »How do 1 conquer a woman's heart?« he asks her, eagerly. He can feel her smile in the dark. »Be generous with small tokens and beautiful words. but don 't give away your secrets. Be gentle, but not soft. Be daring. but let her decide. The chirping of crickets fills out the moment oj silence. »What ifshe stiJJ doesn't respond?« Grandmother runs her hand through his hair. »Wi[h lime. she wiJJ come forward. Ifshedoesn't, then you're notmadejoreach other. « Momango opened his eyes. He relaxed his grip on her waist. Her back softup to him. and said something into his ear in a language ened. She unknown to hIm. There was a trace of anxiety in her voice. »Don't be afraid.« he heard himself reply in Chiluba, »Save me and 1 will save you.« Appeased. she rested her head on his shoulder. While their dance blended into the rhythmical undulation of the surrounding crowd, Momango looked over to the bar. The doorman had disappeared. Outside. the night was giving way to dawn. Momango took a long breath and to face the woman whose hand he was holding. An oval-shaped face set In Jet-black hair. skin of a brightness he had never before seen. Gently curved lips. Freckles. Deep. brown eyes. »You are a beautiful woman« he said to her in Chiluba. »It is you who is beautiful,« she replied in her language. She raised her hand and touched his cheek. Momango looked up towards the silver-lined horizon. A cloud broke apart and let through a thin ray of sunlight. Notes Momango is out on the hunl« (French) »Your face reminds me of someone.« »Where do you come from my friend?« (Kiswahili) »This song is for the Ivorian brothers who 're here with us tonight.« »Ai, your plantain is so damned sweet, but 1600 francs is too expensive. baby. give me back. my money, your system suck.s.« 6 song is for you.« (Lingala) 7 »Mother, you would agree with me, I am suffering a lot here. where I am at the moment« (Kiswahili).« 8 »My caretaker is giving me a hard time here, I am suffering a lot.« 9 »How are tbings?« 10 »1 don't even have proper clothing, mother, and I sleep in a goatshed.« 11 »They don't send me to school, but their children learn.« 12 »1 am suffering a lot, mother. do everything in your might to come and get me out of here.« 1 2 3 4 5 36