Alain Mabanckou - The Lights of Pointe-Noire

‘It’ll be OK,’ I murmured, ‘don’t forget she’s your twin, the two of you are one body… If you believe your strength can pull her through, then it will.’

These words consoled my cousin, and as he hung up I heard him give a sigh of relief…

The day before she went into hospital, Bienvenüe was showing me another photo of when she was young. Deep down I knew she had only one thought in her mind: to throw off the thin body she had today, and catapult me back to the time when she was a beautiful young woman who turned the heads of the boys. She seemed to be apologising for what she had become. Which was not surprising, since it is common for sick people to take refuge in self-justification, whatever their state. Was there any particular reason she should act like this with me, who had known her when she was a beautiful young woman full of joy? Back then — she must have been around twelve — she, Gilbert and I all slept in the same bed. My presence between the twins evened things out in some way: I was a partition wall between them, a façade encouraging each of them to take their first steps towards independence, instead of seeing the world always from the point of view of their twinness. We made an inseparable trio, day and night. Gilbert, who was considered a bit of a spoiled child and an incurable egoist, nevertheless appreciated me sufficiently to lend me his favourite toys — in particular an electric train which, in our eyes, was the best toy on earth. You could travel the world with it, cross bridges, encounter Indian tribes, fight epic battles on the forecourts of deserted railway stations. Gilbert could also use me as a shield to hide his worst eccentricities. I remember, for instance, his fear of the dark. Uncle Albert often switched out the light to save energy, which did little to soothe my cousin’s fears. He trembled in his bed, convinced that a monster with three heads, who, according to him, lived in the sewers of the rue du Louboulou, would come in the middle of the night and eat us all up. He described this creature using images taken from Gidrah, the Three-headed Monster , which his big brothers, Jean de Dieu, Firmin and Abeille, had shown on a projector in the yard, using a machine bought for them by their father. In this film, a prophetess from another planet comes down to earth to announce the imminent arrival of a three-headed dragon known as King Ghidorah. The only people who could possibly save us were Rodan and Godzilla, who had also returned, and would join forces with Mothra to defeat the terrifying creature. And since Gilbert was sure that Rodan and Godzilla wouldn’t be turning up in the rue du Louboulou to offer their protection — because our street didn’t feature on any map known to man — he asked to sleep in the middle, and would hide under the cover till first light. He was so frightened, he refused to use the little pot that was left out by my uncle at the entrance to the room for us to pee into. If he ventured out of his hiding place he might fall into the jaws of the three-headed monster. He sprayed the bed with quantities of hot urine and I got the blame in the morning, with no support from his sister, as Uncle Albert lectured me, and my own silence condemned me. In case I said anything, Gilbert would threaten to stop lending me his train, or still worse, to stop me sleeping with them…

Uncle Albert lavished every attention on the girl twin, setting her apart from the rest. This annoyed Gilbert, who would grumble in private, but calmed down once his sister handed over half the presents she had received from my uncle. My mother, too, had a special fondness for Bienvenüe. Whenever she visited Uncle Albert she would ask straight away:

‘Where’s my girl Bienvenüe?’

Bienvenüe would come out of her room and run to Maman Pauline, who would then ask Aunt Ma Ngudi if she could take her along with her to the Grand Marché for the day.

‘But Pauline, Bienvenüe’s your daughter! Why are you asking me permission to take her with you?’

Bienvenüe would come home in the evening with armloads of presents. I was secretly jealous of her, particularly since my mother had never taken me with her to the market, where I could have watched as she talked to customers while I nibbled a few peanuts, ate a ripe banana with Beninese doughnuts and drank ginger juice.

The fact was, we were scared of Bienvenüe, not because of her tempestuous, unpredictable character, but because of the belief in our tribe that a female twin was more powerful than the male. As such, the minute Bienvenüe got angry, we dashed off, till she came to find us, and reassured us:

‘Come back, both of you, I won’t put a curse on you, I’m not angry now…’

The reason Gilbert and I ran off to hide in Grandma Hélène’s yard was because there was another belief that when a female twin got angry she could block up your ears for an hour or more.

So what about Gilbert? What powers did he have? No one knew, he had probably passed them to his sister as was said to happen between non-identical twins, opposition of the sexes always being, it was said, to the advantage of the girl.

Anyway, Bienvenüe was pleased to see me, and to show me her photos, but her brother had omitted to tell me that he would be taking her to the hospital the next day. While I was there he just stood by and watched his sister’s display of euphoria as she wallowed in nostalgia, her eyes shining bright.

‘What you been doing these twenty-three years abroad, then? I’d even forgotten you were a bit taller than Gilbert!’

As though she didn’t believe the photos I had seen would be enough to remind me how beautiful she’d been, she asked her brother to go and take down from the wall another of her favourite photos.

‘I want to be photographed with that photo!’

She sat down in the green armchair in the living room, with the photo placed in clear view on her knees, allowing herself to be photographed with the circumspect smile that convinced me she did still have sufficient energy to battle with the illness, which was getting worse by the day.

I looked her straight in the eyes:

‘You’re going to be OK, I promise you…’

She batted off the flies that had tried to settle on her swollen feet, and began to offer excuses:

‘It’s my blood… it’s stopped circulating properly and my kidneys are a bit blocked… The flies like that…’

I looked up at the living room ceiling, showing the marks of rainwater, of imminent collapse, perhaps.

‘I need to do some repairs,’ Gilbert murmured, a little embarrassed by my inspection.

The light was beginning to fade. I kissed Bienvenüe and the children. Gilbert wanted to come with me as far as the Avenue of Independence, where I would pick up a taxi. Bienvenüe stood at the entrance to the plot with her daughter, her nephews, her nieces, and watched us grow smaller, and no doubt thought to herself that this was the last time we would see each other…

A crow has just come to settle on the roof of the hospital. I don’t think it brings bad news. Because something tells me Bienvenüe will recover from her illness. And yet the bird is looking over this way and is spreading its wings, as though preparing to come over to me. The road past the Institut Français is empty of traffic now. I suddenly feel terribly anxious. I drink my coffee in one gulp, and come back into the living room, to read through the notes I’ve taken so far, and continue writing this book…

I have a lot of ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’ now. A small group gathers round me in Uncle Albert’s yard, devouring me with their huge eyes, pulling at my shirt with their little hands. If I move, the whole buzzing little cluster follows me; I stop, and they stop too, afraid, I think, that I might disappear. For these kids I’m like an apparition, a shadow that will vanish with the setting sun. In their minds I’m just a character, artfully constructed by their parents, to the point where the poor kids actually think I can heal the lame and restore sight to the blind. One of them — the tallest — sniffs at me like a dog trying to identify his master after a long absence. They all want to be the first to speak. One wants sandals, and embarks on a series of elaborate explanations: