Alain Mabanckou - The Lights of Pointe-Noire

He imitates the flight of a helicopter with his arms, and the boss stares at us from behind the bar. My stranger realises this, and lowers his voice:

‘Mr Writer-man, believe me, the helicopters were hovering right over our heads now, only a few metres away. We thought: they’re going to throw us sacks of rice and sugar, bread and meat, which is what usually happens. We were all jostling to be first to lunge at the food. The oldest said we should let the women and children go first. And d’you know what happened? We saw the doors of the helicopters open, and it was the Angolans inside. Not the French! Not the Americans! The Angolans aimed their guns at us and opened fire, just like that! Even the birds were flying up in all directions, they couldn’t work out what the hell was going on either! All you could hear was gunfire, everywhere. People were falling, getting back on their feet, running, plunging into the river, sinking into the swamp. The soldiers chucked tear bombs at us, they mowed us down with machine guns. And the oldest among the refugees were shouting: “Take cover! It’s an ambush!”’

The customers sitting behind us heard him shouting ‘Take cover! It’s an ambush!’, but the stranger carried on regardless, caught up in his own tale:

‘Oh yes, I was a lucky bastard, I was. I ran like the devil. I never once looked back. I went into a cave and stayed there for days, like in prehistoric times. The country was under the control of the president from the north, thanks to his Angolan allies. Which meant the war was over, since now the old president was back in power, having kicked out the one the people had elected. They told us to come out of our caves, because it was a time for national unity and the president from the north was there for the whole country, not just for the northerners. Gradually people began to leave the bush and return to their homes. When I got back home, my beard was so long it touched the floor. When I walked I looked like a zombie who had lost his way back to his tomb. I had almost totally lost my bearings, because there are no streets or avenues in the forest, like here. You can’t say: “go straight on then take the next street you come to”, oh no! In the forest you just go past trees, mountains and streams that could lead anywhere, and you sleep wherever you’re sure there are no wild animals or Pygmy cannibals…’

Our neighbours at the table behind are more and more shocked. They’ve heard every word the man’s said. They get up to leave. The war hero stops for a moment as though worried they might come and have it out with him, they might be northerners.

‘Liar! Found another sucker to listen to you, have you?’ one of them yells, shaking his fist at the stranger.

And turning to me, the same customer says:

‘Monsieur, make sure this little mythomaniac pays for his own meal. He’s like the fox in La Fontaine’s fable: he lives off whoever listens to him! He’s done it with others, he’ll do it with you! He’ll tell you he was a refugee, he was in the bush, but did anyone actually see him there? He’s just a jerk, taking advantage of people who don’t know him! He’s never been in a civil war, except maybe in his own sick head!’

I expect the stranger to come back with an aggressive answer, but he just sits there, speechless, his chin sunk into his chest while the group walks past our table and out of the restaurant.

The stranger empties his glass straight off, then continues:

‘Did you see the way that northerner talks to me, because I’m a southerner? So he thinks I wasn’t in the war, does he? Great! And he thinks I can’t pay my own bill? Honestly! I’m going to pay it, just to show you what hypocrites these northerners are, how they go round stirring up trouble! They’re all the same! Just because they’re in power, they expect us all to keep silent! Well, I won’t be silenced, I will go on speaking the truth till the whole world knows what’s going on in this country! They killed us, all us lari people, there was a genocide, everywhere around the region of Pool!’

Realising I haven’t said a word up till now, he asks:

‘Anyway, what are you doing here, in this country that’s been ruined by the northerners?’

‘Doing some book events, seeing my family, writing…’

‘Hold on, hold on a minute, I should have asked you this first, because it really matters; are you from the north or the south?’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘OK, I’ll put it differently; did President Sassou Nguesso pay your ticket and put you up here?’

‘You said you wouldn’t name names!’

‘I don’t care! Answer my question, Mr Writer: did Sassou invite you?’

‘No, the French did, and…’

‘Same thing! What you don’t realise is, the president gave money to the French, and they used the money to pay for your visit! I know everything! And I’m certain you’re one of the Sassou clan!’

‘I admire you for your certainty, but that’s a pretty hasty assumption you’re making there!’

‘What do you mean, “hasty assumption”? I know everything! Were you in the war, then, like I was? Where were you when we were dying like cowboys? I was out there in the bush, and Sassou Nguesso was shooting at us with his Angolan and his French friends!’

He knows if he carries on like this I will get up and leave. He tones it down:

‘I apologise, my dear writer, I do tend to fly off the handle, but that’s all because of the war… What do I care, in the end, if you’re from the north or the south? What I really wanted to tell you was, I eventually came out of the bush because the war was finished and the northerners were back in power. The country seemed calm again. We started to live again. We went to bars, to the sea, wherever. Bit by bit we forgot what had happened to us. Five years later, we finally had some elections, and the northern president, the one with support from the French and the Angolans, got licked! We jumped for joy. He practically got hounded out of the country and he went off to live in exile, in France. Now our leader’s a southerner. And since he was angry with the French for supporting the northerner, he let the Americans exploit our oil. And the French didn’t like that, because after all, they’re our colonisers! So every day the French went to visit the ex-president from the north in his residence in Paris. They promised him they’d make sure he got back into power. But we couldn’t see how a northerner could become president of our country again. Our country was crawling with Americans. They tried to teach us to speak English, but that didn’t work because the French passed on their terrible accent to us during colonial rule. We told the Americans they could do what they liked with our oil, we weren’t going to learn their weird English, where you talk through your nose, like you’ve got flu. They didn’t care, they signed contracts with the president from the south, and he signed away, and didn’t realise he was actually selling them all the oil we already had, and any we might find in the future.’

Five people in military uniform come in and sit at the back. The stranger looks at them for a few seconds. He lowers his voice, knowing that if he talks loudly now we’ll both end up in prison.

‘Five years later we had new elections. The president from the south said he would stand a second time. But the ex-president from the north quickly came back from France to stand in the election too, with the support of the French. Unfortunately the elections never took place. The southern president claimed that the conditions for proceeding to the vote had not been met, and overran his mandate. The ex-president from the north said elections must be held. And that’s how we got into a second civil war, which the president from the south lost, and that’s how the northerners come to be back in power…’