Cruel City - Mongo Beti Global African Voices

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saying that there was no public lighting in Tanga. The numerous local thugs took advantage of this to transform the streets into a place where scores could be settled. That is why the darkness constantly echoed with the sound of heavy steps, frenetic chases, and blows that popped like a Browning pistol. These episodes of brutality, by force of habit, had come to be of interest only to those they directly impacted; the rest of the population remained completely indifferent. Because good fiscal management and a sense of prudence dictated a total absence of policing in this part of town, to a stranger, these fights could last a disconcertingly long time.

      So, how many souls called North Tanga home? Sixty, eighty, one hundred thousand, how could you tell? No census had ever been taken. Besides, the population was in a constant state of flux. Men left the forest for financial or sentimental reasons; or often out of a need for change. They stayed for a while, testing out the city. A few decided that it was unthinkable to dance in one hut while the neighboring house was mourning someone whose body remained unburied, and, disgusted, they simply returned to their village, where they spoke of the city with sadness, wondering what the world was coming to. Others, convinced it would just take time to get used to such odd customs, settled down for good. These men sent for their wives and children or, if they were young and single, brought their younger brother or sister along as a constant and living reminder of the village they might never see again, and then, little by little, as the years went by, they forgot it, instead focusing on problems of an entirely different nature. Some, deciding that they couldn’t fulfill their ambitions in Tanga, moved on to another city.

      All the same, this instability couldn’t justify the absence of a census, since the administration was completely unaware of these movements. It was equally unaware of this semi-humanity’s joys, its sufferings, or its aspirations, all things, which, no doubt, it would have found confusing. It had never tried to discern, to understand, or to account for any of this. When it did finally deign to pay any attention to these people, two categories appeared to be particularly sought after. First, those who, having made it past innumerable stumbling blocks, had somehow achieved a semblance of social ascendance: the treasury suddenly decided that for this group a little taxation might be appropriate. Second, those who, from close or afar, consciously or unconsciously, by deed or by word, threatened the order of things, a particular conception of the world deemed necessary for certain reasons, or for that matter a particular group’s interests; in the case of this latter type, things were simple: they were given full room and board somewhere and all would be back to normal, for the greater glory of humanity.

      Tanga, North Tanga that is, was a true child of Africa. It had barely been born when it found itself alone in the great wilderness. It grew and developed too rapidly. It moved and evolved at random, its inhabitants like children abandoned to their own devices. Like them, the city didn’t question its own fate, even when confused. No one could say what the city would become, not the geographers, not the journalists, and even less the explorers.

      3

      One February morning in 193 in a low hut on the outskirts of Moko, one of the neighborhoods of North Tanga, two young people, two children really, were getting ready to face the new day. They had faced many before, just as they hoped to face many more. They didn’t look like each other, even though they were brother and sister. He was young, rather tall, and somewhat stocky. With his long arms, his long trunk, his slightly short legs, he was one of the more common physical types around these parts. What distinguished him was his ever so slightly reddish complexion. His hair revealed a similar tint that a stranger would have thought unexpected. Even so, up close, there was not doubt that he was a child of this land. His slightly too light and disconcertingly darting eyes finally revealed the truth of this mystery: he had albino blood.

      She, for her part, gave an immediate and overwhelming impression of radiant beauty. She was well proportioned, strong-boned but supple, with a slightly prominent backside. Her ample chest stretched the poorly cut cotton dress that signaled “village girl.” She had the smooth dark skin of a girl who bathes every day, slightly chubby cheeks, large sad eyes, and abundant hair woven into braids that fell toward her neck. The sum of her movements seemed a compendium of maternal promise.

      After having donned his once-khaki mechanic’s uniform that had become oily, dirty, and black, he came into the little common room and rested his elbows on the sill of the small opening that served as a window: he kept his back to his sister and seemingly paid her no attention. He whistled girls’ songs as he watched the women going to market on the dusty roadway in compact and talkative clusters. From time to time he would call one out, always a pretty one, giving her the name of the color dress she was wearing: “Blue Poplin.” When she turned toward him, he would say something with suggestive undertones; she would come back with the conventional retort and both would burst out laughing. Sometimes, he would stop joking and even cease whistling and then his gaze would become lost in the distance. But this would only last an instant before he would catch himself, knowing that his sister was watching.

      A siren sounded in the distance. He turned around nonchalantly, walked toward the little wooden table to pick up his old hat, and noted that it had been set. His sister, now leaning against the wall, watched him from the corner of her eye, questioningly. He took the lead:

      “Odilia, my sister!”

      “Hmm,” she grudgingly said.

      Perhaps he was going to talk about some inane topic in order to hide his true feelings?

      “Odilia,” he started again, “how am I to understand this? It’s been ages since we had any money and yet we eat. How do you do it, little sister?” He was laughing heartily.

      “The surrounding villages are full of good people,” she answered, deliberately avoiding the question.

      “One has to believe that some divine providence is watching over the poor Black folks,” he noted in lieu of a comment, as he ate. “Of course food isn’t really a problem: you could always go back to the village to get it. Besides, I don’t give a damn; I’ve gone weeks without chewing on a thing, just drinking water. You, on the other hand, have to eat and eat well . . .” He paused, perhaps because he ate fast in order not to be late and his mouth was too full, or perhaps because he was scared of saying too much. She looked at him suspiciously. That dream! Did he really look as if he were going to die today? She tried to picture his face frozen in a death mask—she couldn’t do it. No, it wasn’t possible, she told herself. There was nothing resembling a dead body in him! What silliness to believe in dreams. Still, though she could tell herself it was stupid, her mind drifted back to the idea anyway. She felt like crying until her heart broke, as she had last night in her dream . . .

      “I’ll soon find work with someone nicer than that T. . . . But I just can’t leave him like that.”

      “And why not?” she begged, with tears in her eyes.

      “No! Never!” he cried out banging his fists against the table. “If people start paying us only when and if they feel like it, how, I ask you, are we going to live? Oh, he’ll pay! He’ll have to show up. Oh, heck! Why talk about this here? . . .”

      She leaned deliberately against the wall, facing her brother. One could make out a glow of defiance in her gaze.

      “Beware, Koumé,” she warned. “You’ve never been prudent. You think you’ll always make do as you have in the past, isn’t that right? I’m not so sure. Be careful! Your Mr. T. is friends with the police commissioner . . .”

      “I know. But don’t forget that I have my own friends.”

      He had gotten up. He put on the old hat that gave him an impersonal look, made him look just like millions of his compatriots.

      “My little Odilia, know this: we have the numbers and we are in the right.”

      “Others before you have had those things. Don’t you have eyes?”

      He was kidding. He loved to tease his “kid sister,” as he called her. He was smiling, relaxed.

      One couldn’t have guessed that he was working out various plans in his mind.

      “Are

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