The Desert Shore: Literatures of the Sahel 9781626373310

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THE DESERT SHORE l

A Three Continents Book

THE DESERT SHORE l Literatures of the Sahel

edited by

Christopher Wise

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com

and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU

© 2001 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The desert shore : literatures of the Sahel / edited by Christopher Wise. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-89410-867-0 (h.c. : alk. paper) 1. African literature—Sahel—History and criticism. 2. Sahel—In literature. I. Wise, Christopher, 1961– PL8021.S24 D47 2001 896'.210—dc66 00-045984

British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

∞

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

5 4 3 2 1

To the memory of Norbert Zongo July 31, 1949–December 13, 1998 Le courage, le premier et le vrai c’est de dire ce qu’on a sur le coeur, d’en débattre. —Norbert Zongo

Contents l

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Acknowledgments 1

2

3 4

5

6

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Introduction: The Land of the Blood-Boiling Sun Christopher Wise and Joseph Paré

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PART 1 LITERATURE AND “SAHELITY”

The Origins of the Fulani al-Hajj Sékou Tall

The Word Beyond the Word: Pacéré’s Theory of Talking Drums Christopher Wise

Saglego, or Drum Poem (for the Sahel) Titinga Frédéric Pacéré

Bendrology in Question Albert Ouédraogo

Animism, Syncretism, and Hardness: The Epic of Askia Mohammed Sean Kilpatrick

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73 87

PART 2 RACE, POLITICS, AND WRITING IN THE SAHEL ZONE

Tuareg (Tamazight) Literature and Resistance: The Case of Hawad Georg M. Gugelberger vii

101

viii

8

9

10 11

12

13

14 15

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CONTENTS

Anarchy’s Delirious Trek: A Tuareg Epic Hawad

The Black and the White: Race and Oral Poetry in Mauritania Lisa McNee Literature as a Form of Intellectual Ascent: The Writings of Patrick G. Ilboudo Salaka Sanou Norbert Zongo: The Committed Writer Michel Tinguiri The Mobutuization of Burkina Faso Norbert Zongo

113 127 139

151

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PART 3 RETHINKING SAHELIAN TRAVEL WRITING

Writing Timbuktu: Park’s Hat, Laing’s Hand Christopher Wise

The Bello-Clapperton Exchange: The Sokoto Jihad and the Transatlantic Slave Trade Paul E. Lovejoy Wanderings: Bamako, Moscow, Delhi al-Hajj Sékou Tall

201

229

PART 4 CONCLUSION

Reflections in Conclusion: Bridging the Shore Christopher Wise

Works Cited The Contributors Index About the Book

175

251 253 265 267 273

Acknowledgments l

A great number of people participated in the development of this project. Jean Hay supported the idea of a volume on Sahelian literature while she was an editor at Lynne Rienner Publishers. At Western Washington University, Dean Moheb Ghali, Geri Walker, and the Bureau of Faculty Research offered substantial financial support, for which I am very grateful. Dean Peter Elich, also at Western Washington University, contributed significant funding that enabled the publication of Littératures du Sahel, a French-language journal mainly distributed in West Africa (among RÉLIS-allied universities). (RÉLIS is the acronym for Réseau d’Etudes Littéraires Sahéliennes or Network for the Study of Sahelian Literatures.) The publication of Littératures du Sahel for RÉLIS was instrumental in bringing the present project to fruition. Similarly, The Desert Shore’s publication would not have been possible without the Fulbright Award that brought me to Burkina Faso during the 1996–1997 academic year. While teaching at the University of Ouagadougou, I was generously welcomed by faculty from FLASH (Faculté des langues, des lettres, des arts, des sciences humaines et sociales), especially Joseph Paré, Albert Ouédraogo, Sanou Salaka, Jean-Claude Naba, Ute Fendler, and Jean Zida. In the fall of 1996, Dean Sanou Salaka invited me to deliver a paper at the fifth biannual RÉLIS conference, “Langue(s), Langage(s), Parole(s) dans les littératures du Sahel.” From the beginning, my participation in RÉLIS activities was received with true warmth and hospitality. I would also like to acknowledge here the help of Ann Elizabeth Willey, who secured permissions and contributed to this project in other ways while on a Fulbright award at the University of Ouagadougou in 1998–1999. Michel Tinguiri also contributed much of his time during the early days of this project’s development. Most ix

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

important, however, I would like to thank Lynne Rienner for her belief and support as well as her long-standing commitment to the development of African society through its literature. —Christopher Wise

1 Introduction: The Land of the Blood-Boiling Sun l

Christopher Wise and Joseph Paré The Sahel is one of the least-known African regions, its very definition remaining ambiguous for most people. North African travel writers of centuries past used the Arabic term sahel to designate the southern rim of the Sahara, or the grassy lands of “the desert shore.” Historically, “the Sahel” meant those territories that played a significant role in bridging North Africa and the centralized kingdoms of the savannah. Ecologically, it is now used to refer to a region united by the crises of drought, deforestation, and desertification. Politically, it encompasses part or all of the following countries: Mauritania, Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, Nigeria, Guinea-Bissau, Gambia, Chad, Cameroon, Côte d’Ivoire, Ghana, Togo, Benin, and even Cape Verde. For the purposes of this book, we largely draw upon the findings of writers from nations closely associated with the Network for Research in Sahelian Literatures (RÉLIS, or Réseau d’Etudes Littéraires Sahéliennes). Though no consensus exists on the precise boundaries that constitute the Sahel, RÉLIS’s emergence followed the establishment of the International Committee for Combating Drought in the Sahel (CILSS, or Le Comité Inter-États de Lutte contre Secheresse au Sahel), an organization made up of nine Sahelian nations: Mauritania, Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, Cape Verde, Guinea-Bissau, Gambia, and Chad. CILSS was created in 1976 during the terrible years of drought in the 1970s, which united the countries of this geographic region. Since 1988, Sahelian scholars have cooperatively gathered information on literary production from nearly every sector in the Sahel zone. Much of this research has been coordinated at the University of Ouagadougou, which currently houses RÉLIS and accounts for its emphasis on francophone writings (despite the linguistic variety of Sahelian peoples). 1

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THE DESERT SHORE

In response to a growing dissatisfaction with concepts of national literatures (e.g., an Ivoirian, Burkinabè, or Malian literature), RÉLIS scholars have maintained that a common experience of sahelité may be said to subsume the various ethnic and regional groupings within the Sahel, revealing itself in shared sociocultural realities that transcend national borders.1 For these scholars, the mere existence of a legislative body does not sufficiently justify the assumption of any particular cultural identity, especially in light of the arbitrary nature of most borders in this region.2 The term sahelity, which was coined by Joseph Paré in 1994, has met with little dissent among RÉLIS scholars, no doubt because the Sahel is indeed a geophysical as well as cultural reality shared by various countries. Though all agree that geo-climatic similarities among states like Mali, Niger, and Burkina Faso reveal obvious geographic aspects of the Sahel, RÉLIS members have been cautious about identifying specific cultural constants that may be said to determine the cultural practices of each specific Sahelian group. For instance, few would accept that Tuareg specificity should be subsumed by any unified concept of Sahelian culture. (The Tuareg poet Hawad, who is not associated with RÉLIS but is published here, would vehemently deny this idea.) Nevertheless, RÉLIS’s very existence hinges on the belief that such a concept is desirable not only for immediate political reasons but because it reflects an actual reality for Sahelian peoples. What should be clear in any event is that RÉLIS was created primarily to address concrete social, economic, environmental, and political problems, to reach beyond the failed nationalisms and pan-Africanisms of the past in imagining a better future for all Sahelian peoples. In fact, few climates anywhere pose more challenges to human survival than the Sahel, a key factor in accounting for its great economic poverty (e.g., the lowest gross national product [GNP] averages in the world).3 Western scholarship on this region, however, has seldom linked elemental issues of human survival with larger and more universal questions of religion, art, myth, and philosophy. In contrast, Sahelian authors such as Idé Oumarou, Makan Diabaté, Jacques P. Bazié, and Titinga Pacéré depict an environment marked by distinct Sahelian characteristics of aridity, heat, and austerity. In Oumarou’s Gross Plan, for example, above and beyond the trials that the hero Tahirou and other characters must face, the harshness of existence is manifested by the hostility of nature, most notably during the Harmattan, which exposes the book’s characters to the harshness of the Sahelian environment. In his preface to Refrains sous le Sahel, Joseph Ki-Zerbo observes that “[t]he universe of Titinga Pacéré is a world that is harsh, terrible, almost

INTRODUCTION

3

horrible, almost homicidal; a world where an indifferent sky seems to reign over a cruel earth. An earth of red termite mounds, thorn bushes, and blood-boiling sun” (pp. 5–6). Authors of the Sahel emphasize an experience of nature as a pitiless, even “homicidal” force, ever prepared to eradicate human existence. In such a context, no concept of Sahelian literature is imaginable apart from the prior and more urgent crisis of perpetual scarcity. As Walter Benjamin might put it, Sahelian literature is first and foremost an “emergency literature” (Illuminations, p. 257), a human technology for resolving the dilemmas of a harsh environment.4 Nevertheless, RÉLIS scholars have deliberately opted for an abstract concept of sahelity, indefinitely deferring its more precise articulation so that it may remain broad enough to encompass hundreds of distinct living cultures, respecting each in its particularity or irreducible difference. It must also accommodate the complex and pragmatic needs of scholarly dialogue throughout the Sahel. In a context in which economic development has seldom meant cultural development, RÉLIS members uniformly insist that there can be no fully satisfying development of the Sahelian region unless the cultural specificity of that area is first understood and appreciated. Perhaps the most challenging task that has confronted RÉLIS has been convincing political, governmental, and relief organizations that any development inattentive to this region’s underlying sahelity will necessarily result in the ultimate alienation of Sahelian peoples.

The following pages offer a diverse sampling of contemporary Sahelian writings that have been translated into English, as well as scholarly and contextualizing articles from critics on three continents: Europe, Africa, and North America. The reader is invited to listen in on a fascinating and ever-widening conversation among some of the Sahel’s finest writers, a dialogue that is nonetheless open to interlocutors from the West. The Desert Shore has been divided into three sections, each addressing a crucial dimension of contemporary Sahelian writing. In the first section, “Literature and ‘Sahelity,’” authors al-Hajj Sékou Tall and Titinga Frédéric Pacéré provide fascinating glimpses into how Sahelian peoples define themselves today, after more than two centuries of distorted representations from the West. Offering his own perspective on the controversial topic of Fulani origins in Chapter 2, Tall refutes Western and “scientific” theories that have harmed basic Fulani beliefs about self and community. Building on his extensive knowledge of oral and written sources, Tall shows the complexity and diversity of Fulani culture as it has flourished throughout the Sahel. As a leader and spokesperson of the Umarian Tidjaniya of Northern Mali

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THE DESERT SHORE

and Burkina Faso, Tall shows that both Arab and Islamic elements in the Sahel are inseparable from how contemporary Fulani peoples define themselves. Given the necessity of building a common future, Tall cautions against any definition of regional or national identity that would marginalize “black Arab” or Islamic peoples as “upstarts” or newcomers to the area. Far from functioning as a “destabilizing” element, Islamo-Arabic culture is for Tall integral to any coherent or working concept of sahelity. The three chapters that follow Tall’s “Origins of the Fulani” are centered on the question of “bendrology,” or the language of the talking drums of the Mossé in Burkina Faso. In Chapter 3, “The Word Within the Word,” Christopher Wise introduces anglophone readers to Pacéré’s revolutionary theory of bendrology, briefly surveying its essential elements and then summarizing its critical reception in both academic and nonacademic arenas. In Chapter 4, Pacéré offers a recent example of “drum poetry” performed especially for him by Mossé elders and “bendrologists.” Pacéré introduces the poem and provides copious notes for those readers who are “illiterate” in drum culture. Both Wise and Pacéré emphasize the epistemological implications of drum language, showing how it offers a uniquely Afrocentric theory of human language. In his controversial essay “Bendrology in Question,” translated herein as Chapter 5, the Burkinabè critic Albert Ouédraogo challenges many of the philosophical underpinnings of Pacéré’s theory from Ouédraogo’s perspective as Mossé academic. Although skeptical of Pacéré’s claims to offer an empirical science of drum language, Ouédraogo nonetheless affirms the historical importance of Pacéré’s greater project, which for him represents a tremendous advance in Sahelian cultural studies. In the final chapter of this section, Sean Kilpatrick offers an extensive discussion of Thomas Hale and Nouhou Malio’s The Epic of Askia Mohammed. Kilpatrick seeks to historicize the Songhay griot epic in light of Hale and Paul Stoller’s thesis regarding the existence of a “deep Sahelian culture.” However, in opposition to descriptions of Islam as a “superficial” or “disruptive” force, Kilpatrick emphasizes syncretic aspects of the Sahelian experience, the harmonious synthesis of Islam and “animist” spirituality (the latter being not a stigmatized but a valorized term). For Kilpatrick, The Epic of Askia Mohammed’s importance resides in its ability to successfully negotiate conflicts between pre-Islamic and Islamic beliefs, especially the value of “hardness” (in the epic’s main figures, Askia Mohammed and Sonni Ali Ber). The syncretizing impulse within the griot tradition suggests for Kilpatrick the practical impossibility of circumventing Islamic influences in defining the “deeper foundations” of contemporary Sahelian culture.

INTRODUCTION

5

In the second section of The Desert Shore, contributors explore intersections of race, politics, and writing in the Sahel. In Chapter 7, Georg M. Gugelberger introduces the poetry of Hawad to the anglophone world. Hawad, a Tuareg poet from the central Saharan and Aïr Mountains region, adopts an anarchist approach in his writings, rejecting nationalist affiliations that would deny the nomadic integrity of Tuareg life. In fact, Hawad unavoidably disrupts paradigms of cultural sahelity despite his geographic origins. Instead, Hawad’s poetry rides “on the Sahel’s lean shoulders,” within a context of cultural oppression and, more ominously, the possible demise of an entire way of life. Gugelberger and Wise translate portions of Hawad’s epic poem “Anarchy’s Delirious Trek: A Tuareg Epic” in Chapter 8, thus making the first English-language translation of Hawad’s writings. Hawad’s poem is an “hallucinatingly beautiful trance epic of idealism,” as Gugelberger puts it, “aris[ing] out of the present chaos of Tuareg existence.” Like Tall’s insistence upon the Arabic and Islamic dimensions of Fulani identity, Hawad’s poetry of emphatic anti-affiliation warns against any easy conceptualization of this region’s cultural homogeneity. Lisa McNee further demonstrates the complexity of racial and ethnic affiliation in the Sahel in Chapter 9, in which she examines the oral poetry of “black” and/or Wolof women who were exiled from Mauritania to Senegal during the terrible ethnic “pogroms” of the late 1980s. Drawing from her fieldwork conducted in 1993, McNee shows how women’s poems (or public performances) offer support for her thesis that “the mere fact of cultural hybridity or métissage does not imply that a positive, democratic process is [necessarily] at work.” Racial oppression and slavery in Mauritania, an “apartheid” regime privileging bidan, or Beydane (white Arabo-Berber) peoples over sudan, or black peoples, continue to be one of the most disturbing chapters in contemporary African history. In the case of Mauritania, McNee finds that although Beydane and Sudanese cultural elements are fused, they remain visibly distinct from one another; that is, if Mauritanian identity is “hybrid,” Mauritanians seldom accept it as such, and then only in brief moments of poetic performances. If McNee is correct, her findings imply that it is not enough to articulate a common experience of sahelity: a common ethics must be hammered out so that the deadly binaries of oppressive Manichaean systems may be transcended in more hopeful directions. Chapters 10 and 11 by the Burkinabè critics Salaka Sanou and Michel Tinguiri, respectively, show how writing in the Sahel can be a powerful vehicle for transforming society, for articulating a common

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ethics based in sacrifice, self-discipline, the rights and responsibilities of free speech, and concern for the poor. Salaka evokes the example of Patrick G. Ilboudo as an impassioned spokesman against “the exploitation and repression of the most disadvantaged members of society.” Most dear to Ilboudo was the notion of toilettage, or the cleaning up of society. Ilboudo argued that the historical legacies of European colonialism and neo-imperialism had left Sahelian peoples with cultural and political debris that required immediate and vigorous action on the part of the writer, who should strive to be a “moral custodian” in the greater, collective effort to rebuild Sahelian society. “Because society has been dirtied,” Salaka writes, “it must [for Ilboudo] be purified not only on the level of personal ethics, but also in its outward or external appearance.” For Michel Tinguiri, the Burkinabè novelist and journalist Norbert Zongo was the embodiment of Ilboudo’s “moral custodian” or exemplary writer. “Zongo represents the new breed of the postindependence African intellectual,” Tinguiri writes. “He remains a reference, a teacher, a guide, and an inspiration.” Unfortunately, Zongo’s life was cut short when he was assassinated along with three companions in a car bombing in 1998. His assassination has led to a period of extreme civil unrest and destabilization in Burkina Faso, especially among students and young people who admired him as a writer who was committed to truth telling, no matter what the personal cost. Samples of Zongo’s journalism are included herein as Chapter 12, and they demonstrate his wit, moral integrity, and talent as a writer and political commentator. In the final section of The Desert Shore, readers will find three contributions that call for a wide-ranging reevaluation of the European travelogue and its role in defining and evaluating contemporary Sahelian culture. In Chapter 13 Christopher Wise examines Mungo Park’s Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa (1799) and “The Letters of Major Alexander Gordon Laing, 1824–1826” to delineate the specific “pretext” of these writings. Wise suggests that both Park’s and Laing’s writings offer us fascinating images of deep Sahelian culture, especially its ancient basis in what Marcel Jousse calls “verbomotor orality.” Wise concludes that the cultural misrecognition that occurs between European and Sahelian peoples is a result of differing attitudes about writing, literacy, and books in two parallel but separate universes; before any authentic dialogue between the West and the Sahel can be achieved, Western peoples must become more conscious of their own biases about literacy and its relative value. Paul Lovejoy, one of the foremost scholars of African history and

INTRODUCTION

7

the transatlantic slave trade, contributes in Chapter 14 a comparative reading of Hugh Clapperton’s travel writings and Caliph Muhammad Bello’s writings on the question of slavery in the Islamic Sahel. Lovejoy offers a historical analysis of this exchange, showing the legal complexity of African discourse on this question. He points out that previous Eurocentric debates on this issue tend “to marginalize slaves through the construction of an artificial dichotomy between the abolitionist actions of free Europeans and the resistance of enslaved Africans.” His chapter provides a more accurate and total understanding of this historical era and shows the importance of the Sahel’s lesser known Arabic-language writings, which, along with the European travelogue, must continue to inform evolving definitions of Sahelian society. In “Wanderings: Bamako, Moscow, Delhi,” Sékou Tall offers a brilliant parody of the European travelogue, satirizing the tyranny of the visual in the West and ironically assuming the position of the traveler who is “Master-of-all-I-see.” Tall’s repetition of the phrase “I saw” comically mocks the European proclivity for sight, especially at the expense of the aural word. Readers might also take note of Tall’s comic renditions of a common traveler’s illness, as he is cared for by the Australian woman, Mrs. Setty Collins. Down with a case of diarrhea, Tall writes that Mrs. Collins cared for him “like a mother cares for her child.” His descriptions here and elsewhere ironically parallel those of Park, Richard Lander, Heinrich Barth, and others, all under “the Negro’s care” at the hour of their greatest need. Such comic elements are nonetheless balanced by Tall’s humanistic philosophy and his broadminded views on the common fates shared by all peoples everywhere, his belief in a common path for all humanity. Tall’s narrative of adventures in the former Soviet Union and India not only parodies the travelogue of European imperialists (or “the anti-conquest” as Mary Louise Pratt puts it) but also points the way toward such a common path through Tall’s own personal example of humor, warmth, and graciousness.5

The Desert Shore attempts to depict various viewpoints that reveal the extraordinarily diverse nature of contemporary Sahelian society and its “literatures.” Although the book is grounded in the specific context of a particular geographic location, it is also aimed at readers outside the Sahel zone, especially those investigating other cultural and geographic horizons and their relations to larger contexts. In fact, the need to transcend the immediate concerns of the Sahel was the first impulse for most RÉLIS contributors to this book. We insist here that the Sahel

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or sahelity is at one with a more universal world being that is present everywhere. Perhaps this connection creates an uneasy, even disruptive paradigm, for it is materialist without ceasing to be ethical. We close with the words of al-Hajj Sékou Tall: “Traditional Africans believe in man. . . . To believe in man means to believe in a common road for all. . . . This road we share is wide. It can easily accommodate our idiosyncrasies and differences. We have no choice but to accept the universal” (Écritures, p. 21). NOTES

1. Recognizing the inadequacy of homogenizing concepts of “African” literature, the preamble to RÉLIS’s statute affirms that “the Sahel is not only a geographic but also a cultural reality.” 2. For example, Lord Salisbury of England quipped in 1890, in regard to northern Nigeria, “We have been engaged in drawing lines upon maps where no white man’s foot has ever trod; we have been giving away mountains and rivers and lakes to each other, only hindered by the small impediment that we never knew exactly where the mountains and rivers and lakes were” (Gramont, p. 286). 3. Burkina Faso, for instance, ranks among the four poorest nations in the world (170 out of 173), with a current per capita GNP of U.S.$320, up from U.S.$159 in 1979 (World Guide 1997/98, p. 104). 4. John Beverley offers a helpful analysis of Benjamin’s notion of “emergency literature” in similar contexts of extreme poverty, especially in Against Literature. 5. In Imperial Eyes, Pratt defines the “‘anti-conquest’ as [those] strategies of representation whereby European bourgeois subjects seek to secure their innocence in the same moment as they assert European hegemony” (p. 7).

2 The Origins of the Fulani l

al-Hajj Sékou Tall

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

While living in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, I made the acquaintance of al-Hajj Sékou Tall, the author of the following narrative. In August 1997, during our last meeting, Tall entrusted to me various papers that he had written throughout his career as a writer, speaker, and public educator in the former Upper Volta. I first met Tall when attempting to interview the reclusive Malian author Yambo Ouologuem for my book Yambo Ouologuem: Postcolonial Writer, Islamic Militant (1999). Tall and his son Mountaga traveled with me from Ouagadougou to MoptiSévaré, Mali, where they introduced me to Ouologuem. At the time, I was most impressed by the fact that Tall had once been a schoolmate of Ouologuem’s father, Boukary Yambo Ouologuem. However, in learning more about Tall and his many accomplishments, I realized that he was a remarkable man in his own right. In fact, before his death at the age of eighty-five in March 1998, Tall was one of the most important cultural figures in northern Mali and Burkina Faso. Tall was the retired inspector of education in the Upper Volta and former vice president of the Société des Écrivains du Faso (SEF). Besides his many professional accomplishments, Tall was also the nephew of Tierno Bokar Tall (otherwise known as “the Sage of Bandiagara”), the cousin of Amadou Hampâté Bâ, and next in line to become the Toucouleur Peulh and Dogon chief at Bandiagara, Mali; that is, Tall was a direct descendant of Reprinted from Tall, al-Hajj Sékou. “L’origine des peulh,” in Écritures d’El Hadjj Tall Sékou, Jean-Claude Naba and Christopher Wise (eds.). Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso: Sankofa, 2001. Translated from the French by Christopher Wise.

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LITERATURE AND “SAHELITY”

al-Hajj Umar Tall and, if he had lived longer, would have become shaikh of the Umarian Tidjaniya. My success in securing an interview with Yambo Ouologuem, who is also a Tidjaniya Muslim, was directly related to Tall’s illustrious position in his homeland. Tall was also an accomplished writer, frequently contributing to Burkinabè publications and, more important, reading on a variety of important occasions. One of Tall’s best-known addresses was delivered at an international conference held in May 1991 in Ouagadougou, on the Burkinabè poet and civil rights lawyer, Titinga Pacéré.1 In his paper “Mysticisme, conception africaine du monde,” Tall dexterously intervened on Pacéré’s behalf in the midst of rising controversies surrounding Pacéré’s theory of “bendrology” (or talking drums), defending traditional African values and the established gerontocratic order. As elsewhere, Tall’s writing style in the following essay is comparable to the approach of the West African griot, rich in genealogy, etymology, and cultural history: perhaps in no other case is Amadou Hampâté Bâ’s famous aphorism—that “the death of an old man in Africa is like a library burning down”—more astute, for Tall was indeed a remarkable reservoir of West African history.2 His recent death marks the passing of an entire era, a lost link to the Sahel’s precolonial past. THE FULANI: WHERE DO THEY COME FROM?

One says Poullo in the singular, Peulh or Fulbè in the plural.1 The Gourounsi say Feule; the Tuareg: Feul; the Jula: Foula or Fla; the Hauossa: Foulaani; the Gourmatché: Folga; the Bobo: Foulason; the Foulcé: A Filgan Nga. Only the Mossé use the word Sinimiiga or, more derisively, Silim-miougou (the wily red). The Fulani himself says with pride: Mi Pullo Fa A bada: “I am Fulani for all eternity.” Fulfulde is the Fulani language. Pulu is the Fulani philosophy; Pulaaku is the entire Fulani community. WHERE DOES ONE MEET THE FULANI?

In Africa, the Fulani’s habitat is linked with that of cattle. As a result of specialization, African societies, within the total realm of human activities, reserved stock farming to three ethnic groups: the Pullo (Fulani), the Moor, and the Targui (the plural of Tuareg). The Fulani specifically are linked to cattle. The Moor lives with sheep and goats, whereas the destiny of the camel was confined to the Targui.

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

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A famous saying vividly demonstrates this attachment; that is, the affinity of the Fulani for cattle. I cite, “The death of a cow breaks my heart. If I wasn’t afraid of being misunderstood, or taken for a stingy villain, I would go into mourning at the death of each cow, and my spirit would sing out a mournful dirge.” The Fulani, Moors, and Targui make up the white ethnic groups of West Africa. Physical identity: a clear hue, emaciated face, slender build, frail limbs, proud and languorous allure. Nomads and shepherds, the Fulani must, in obedience to the process of adaptation, dwell in a hut or a tent in the savanna or in regions near the desert, in places where tender herbs and thistles grow with which to feed their beasts; not far from saltpeter, needed for animal cures during transhumance; and finally, far from covered forests where the tsé-tsé live, vector agents of trypanosome and transmitters of the sleeping sickness. The limitless horizons of their world and the bareness of the earth upon which they dwell have instilled within them a spirit of reverie infusing their mannerisms, their dances, and their poems. The Fulani can be found in all the savannas of West Africa: Senegal, Guinea, Burkina Faso, Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, Togo, Chad, and I don’t know where else. Wherever they are found, with some exceptions, they remain themselves; that is, the Fulani, in their original authenticity keep their distance from indigenous peoples, with whom they will enter only into commercial relations: the sale of animal milk, milk barter, or animal barter put up for commodities, as well as the guardianship of animals for those indigenous peoples who might have brought animals to their place of keeping. I speak here about the Fulani shepherds. But throughout history, the Fulani have done far more than herd cattle. They have also been warriors, kings, chiefs, marabouts, emperors, shaikhs; that is, caliphs within Islamic brotherhoods. A FEW ASPECTS OF FULANI PHILOSOPHY

The complexity of Fulani philosophy is evident in the facts of history as they are orally rendered, which reveal three aspects of the Fulani soul. Guéladjo Bayo, also called Guélaadjo Ham Bodeejo, the great Fulani warrior, once came across a red Fulani while on an outing with one of his mounted troops. Wearing a belt of three leather thongs and

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carrying two javelins and a lance with an iron foliage, this red Fulani drove only one bull. Guélaadjo remarked to his men, “Here is a Fulani who sums up the three aspects of our race’s soul.” “How can you tell just by looking at him?” asked a horseman. “It’s quite simple,” Guélaadjo responded. “If there is any one among us who has no fear of death, let him step forward and gain by the experience. There is only one thing you must do. Ride over and try to steal this Fulani’s bull by force.” One presumptuous horseman needed no further prompting. He kicked in his heels and galloped straight for the shepherd. “Hey there, red ear!” he shouted. “Fulani with the stick! Guélaadjo orders you to turn over your bull for his horsemen!” “This bull,” said the Fulani, “does not belong to Guélaadjo, nor has he paid for it. It belongs to me by indisputable right.” “Since you seem a little hard of hearing,” said the warrior, “you can watch while I take it.” With that, he rushed for the bull. However, the Fulani, with a curse upon his lips, chased after him. The horseman, glancing back, saw that he was hotly pursued, a target for the shepherd’s lance. He tried to fend off the blow, but it was too late. The first javelin caught him in his thigh, and the Fulani, brandishing the second spear, cried out, “You’ve got one more chance. The wound you received was merely a warning. This other skewer is a fiery red one, and it’ll brand your hide just as easily as your horse’s. It’ll send you for a nice long rest under a quiet tombstone. This lance of mine’s pretty handy. It helps me show Guélaadjo how I manage the yokels of your little gang, even those following his orders.” The horseman, reeling from the defeat, staggered back to the troop of Guélaadjo, nearly dead. “Here, you see one aspect of the Fulani soul,” said Guélaadjo. “Believe me, no matter how large our number, the attacked Fulani would charge all of us, as long as any life remained in him. Come what may, he would not let us take his bull.” Guélaadjo turned toward his griot. “Follow after the Fulani,” he told him. “Sing the praises of his valiant race and then wait patiently for his response.” The griot executed the order. The Fulani, completely moved, trembled with all his limbs. Transported, he forgot everything that had happened and cried out, “Take the bull. I give it to you, having nothing other than my arms, which are indispensable to Guélaadjo’s rule, to whose messenger I gladly submit.” The griot returned to Guélaadjo and said, “How strange! The Fulani graciously offered me the animal out of love, when only a moment ago he was ready to massacre all of us.”

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

15

“This gesture,” replied Guélaadjo, “illustrates the second aspect of the Fulani soul, which only reveals itself to those who know how to speak or act in the proper way. Now, go back and say, ‘Fulani, we would like to hire you to look after your bull.’” Hesitating, the griot objected, “You can’t be serious, Guélaadjo! How would I dare to insult him in this way?” “Go and try to forget that it was the Fulani who gave you the animal!” Returning to the Fulani, the griot asked him, “Would you drive my bull to the village for a modest fee?” “Yes, of course. Why not?” the Fulani replied. Stupefied at such courage, generosity, and servility, one succeeding the other without transition, the griot returned to Guélaadjo, who added, “Here, you see the third aspect of the Fulani mentality. But this one reveals itself only in times of need.” At times chivalrous, great lords of incredible magnificence, and then beggars, even base and ignoble, the Fulani merge into one in these three ways, having little else in common outside physiognomy and language. Thus, there are • Fulani of the staff • Fulani of the spear • Fulani of the book

They are shepherds, warriors, and sages. ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

This subject is very controversial and has already caused enough ink to flow. This much is said to be certain: the Fulani are descended from white Semites on the Mediterranean coast. They are said to come from pharaonic families and are therefore of Egyptian origin. Alexandre Moret and G. Davy refer to these families in their work entitled Des clans aux empires.2 Ethnographic accounts have always occupied themselves with questions of the root words Feul, Foula, or Peulh, which became the means for investigations to research and determine the origins of the Fulani. Thus the Fulani’s origins have been situated sometimes in Egypt, sometimes in Abyssinia (Ethiopia), sometimes in Palestine, or they have been made to coincide with the exodus of those who wished to make the Fulani’s birth appear to happen

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in Bible times. Thus, the best-known researchers such as Boubou Hama, Herbert Palmer, and Letitia D. Jeffreys, have juggled these root words Feul, Foula, or Peulh. “Honorius,” Palmer remarked, “in the year 400 mentions that a people called Barzou Foulani were widely known as the eastern Jews throughout all the Maghreb. They made up part of the nomad tribes, disciples of Judas in North Africa, bearing the names of Philisti or Philisi, whereas the Berbers of Tlemcen call them Foulasans. The roots Foul and Poul serve to designate those with white skin, the semites, these Judaic folk.”3 A Bible dictionary indicates that the Philistion or Philisit were considered shepherd kings. Sometime after that, the Philistines or even the Poulasata or Foulista or Pourasata settled on the Levantian coast, which became Philistia, or Palestine. In the Old Testament, one calls the people of Abyssinia “Pout,” and the country of Abyssinia is called “Pount.” In general, Pount designates the people that one relies upon for mercenary reasons. The Greeks translated the word Philistine to mean all tribes in revolt against Israel. Pount, Peulh, or Foula signify “strangers” and have roots from which derive names given to the Fulani in order to link them with the Israelites and attribute to them a Jewish origin. However, the Fulani themselves refuse to be labeled as a people without origins, and they vehemently insist upon their ancestral lineage to Ougbata Ibn Yassirou. To the extent that they are white or brown and even baked black by the sun, we find differences among the Foutanké or Toucouleur; that is, those Fulani originally from Tékrour or the Senegalese Fouta; Dialloubé of the Fouta Djallon; Adama-ouanké of the Adamaoua in Cameroon; those who come from Bororo in Niger; the Macinanké of Mali; or the Pouloye of Passoré. In fact, all these groups share the same mother tongue of Fulfulde (the Fulani language), even if that language has suffered deformations from its original purity because of inflections, consonances, and borrowings from strangers that were later modified. Whatever the case, one always remains “Hal pular” (a Fulani speaker) or a full-fledged Fulani. According to the role that the Fulani play or once played in society, they divide themselves into clans and castes:

1. The Fulani believers are called Torodo. In Burkina Faso, they are grouped into two homogeneous districts in Yatenga: Todjam and Bossomnoné. Certain figures from these families have become legendary in African history. From the Fouta Toro, al-Hajj Umar overthrew

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

17

the Dénianké pagans and waged holy war from 1820 to 1864, across Senegal, Guinea, and present-day Mali. 2. In Guinea, the two Barri families sprang from Karamoko Alpha and Sory Ibrahim (Alfaya and Soriya). After subjugating the others, they governed under the name of Almamy, the Fulani of Fouta Djallon. 3. At Macina (Mali) in 1810, the marabout shaikh Amadou Barry, called Cissé, overthrew the warriors of the Ardo under the pretext that they were loyal to the Bambara of Ségou or the Tuareg of Timbuktu, and proclaimed the theocratic empire of the Macina. After that his religious influence spread among both the Macina and part of western Upper Volta. We will discuss later all the principalities and residences of the Ardo. 4. At Gober (Nigeria), the Fulani revolted against the indigenous population (Gobraoua). Aided by the Macina Fulani, by the Fouta Toura who came to their aid under the direction of the marabout Usman Dan Fodio, they overthrew nearly all the institutions of that country. Usman Dan Fodio became caliph under the name of Shaikh Usman Dan Fodio by founding the Hausa Empire of Sokoto, which had Kano for its capital. His lieutenant Adama furthered his empire as far as Cameroon, to that region that bears his name called “Adamaoua” (in the language of the Hausa, the region of Adama). 5. After the Ardo Fulani (warriors), Torodo (believers), and marabouts turned shaikhs and preaching holy war, we have the caste of Fulani farmers, given that they follow after the cattle, sheep, or goats and are called the Nayinkoobè, Balinkoobè, Beyinnkoobè, and so on. All of these, by virtue of their status as shepherds, are called “FoulbNbourouré,” or Fulani living in the bush (Sylvestre Fulani).

Those who are neither shepherds, warriors, nor marabouts are grouped within society among the inferior and constitute the castes; that is, the society of workers which consists of the following: • • • • • • •

Waïloubè (singular, Baïlo) blacksmiths. Maâboubè (singular, Maâbo) weavers. Sakèbè (singular, Sakè) cobblers. Laoubè (singular, Labo) carpenters. Sebè (singular, Tieddo) fishermen. Rimaïbe (singular, Diamadio) former slaves, tillers of the soil. Gneibe (singular, Gneenyo) musicians, singers.

I mentioned earlier that the Fulani endorse the viewpoint of Ougbata Ibn Yassirou regarding their origins. These teachings can be

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found in the Tarikal Fattahi, named the Tarikh el-Fetach, written by the Arab chronicler Mahmoud Kâti in the sixteenth century. After the Prophet Mohammad’s death, religious leadership fell upon two of his apostles: Seydina Boubakar and Umar Ibn Khaddabi. These men, to propagate Islam beyond the Arabian frontier, dispatched envoys throughout the world. At Ougbata, Ibn Nafé took charge of the Islamization of Berber lands: Sousse, Kairouan, the entire Sudanese isle, south of the Sahara. Amir Ibn Assi was charged with Egypt’s conversion, taking his residence in Cairo. These teachings may be found in the Tanzir el Warakat of Abdoulaye Bello, brother of Shaikh Usman Dan Fodio, citing the Issabat by the writer Ibn Hadiart. Umar Ibn Khaddabi and Ougbata Ibn Yassirou were thus designated as delegates of the West. All the countries between Arabia and the Senegalese Fouta, later called Tekrour or Tekoror, were conquered and subjugated to the Islamic cause. Within Tekrour reigned a Marka or Sarakollé named Makan. Renouncing his pagan religion, he converted to Islam. Amir Ibn Assi returned to Arabia to report upon the success of his mission. His companion, Ougbata Ibn Yassirou, took matters into his own hands. He married the daughter of the Makan king. This girl took the name of Maâdjouma, a pagan name, and Binta, an Islamic name. From this union, four children were born: Issa, Yaya, Rahabou, Anissane. These were the names given to the children by their father Ougbata Ibn Yassirou. Their mother Maâdjouma, without delay, also gave these four children pagan names: (1) Dita or Diol or Diallo (Issa); (2) Oho Diagayeté or Diakité or Bâ (Yaya); (3) Sidibé or Sow (Rahabou); and (4) Sankaré or Barry (Anissane). The descendants from these lines are named Diallo, Diakité, Sidibé, or Sankaré. The other Fulani names are more or less related to these names. They are grafted onto one of these families, the children of Ougbata Ibn Yassirou. Ougbata comes from the family of Mohammad. His common ancestor with the latter is Mourâta. From Mourâta were born Kilabou, Salimou, Ousséiya, Foulani, Mounafi, Morissoa, Hassimi, Saïdou, Moutalibi, Mouazou, Abdoulaye, Yassirou, Mouhamadou (Mohammad), and Ougbata. The Fulani are thus, as indicated in the Tarikal Fattahi (the Tarikh el-Fetach), a mix of Arab and black. They are Negro-Arabs. APOLOGY FOR THE GREAT FAMILIES

The descendants of Issa are called Diol, Dial, or Dicko, Ka, or Kane— Diallo.

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

19

Ardo has the prefix ar designating its primacy. Ardo is the title given to a person within the Fulani family who by rights occupies the first place after which follow all others; such is the patriarchy (African gerontocracy). Following the Niger, between Diafarabé and Wouro N’guia, within Macina, one encounters them at Wouro Ardo (Wouro means the residence or village of Wouro Ardo, the residence of the Ardo). Wouro Ardo is divided into two principalities: Wouro-Ardo Togué, a little off the Niger River, and Wouro Ardo Mayo, along the coast of the Niger River. Then there is Sogonari, Komo N’galou, Koubi, Téra (residence of Silamaka Ardo Dicko, the indomitable warrior known by the Fulani nickname Ségou Bambara Kounari), which is to say, the Fulani of Ségou (among the Bambara) and the Bambara of Kounari (among the Fulani). Wouro Boubou, still called Néné, is the residence of Boubou Ardo Guélaadjo, chief of the Ardo clan. Continuing our course, we find the villages of Wouro N’guia, Wouro Attara, Wouro Makane, Wouro Aaly, Wouro Yéro, and Sébéra still called Saré Dina, or the town of Islam, which is the residence of the religious chiefs. The Fulani reside within one neighborhood called Soye, leaving the rest of the village to the blacks. At Kowa, in the Diougounou sector, can be found the Fulani chief (Ardo) and his tribe. The Fulani Clans of the Ardo-Dicko Warriors

These clans reside in the villages called “Wouro” of Wouro Alfaka, Wouro Dialloubé, Dialloubé Djenneri. Another Dialloubé family is further divided into two subclans, the Dialloubé called “Séougo”; that is, those of the restricted family of the Diallos living at Mayataké (the place where no one dies) and the Dialloubé Maougo (the grand family). After these follow the Dialloubé, those from Roundé, and those from Guéw and Thioubi. Among the other Dial families called “Djallube Maana” are those disseminated in the regions of Diankabou, Douentza, and Boni, with their outposts in Soum (Djibo-Tongomael-Baraboulé), in Yatenga (Ouahigouya-Ouagaye, Faougoudi, Hawreema); in Sanamtenga (Poully and Kalambaogo); in Gnagna (Koury); and in Oubritenga (Barkoundba and Kourgou). The descendants of Yaya or Diagayeté: Diakité, Bah or Bal, Mbalde, Bandé, Mbaké, Basse, Boly, and Sall. These comprise the Yalarbe or Wolarbe clans (Bolaaro in the singular): the clans Ouroube, Somnaabe, Tarnaabe, Natirbe, Wouro, Tikam, Ouroubbe, Doudde, Baabe, Wuro Maali, and Wuro Tenguela. These families are grouped in the regions of Niafunké along the coast of the Niger River. The Dial or Dialloubé or Dially Clan

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Near Dédougou and Nouna are the dwellings of the tribes called Mboboori (Bobo): Solenzo, Kouri (Mouhoun and Kossi). In Gourma, one encounters the Dial families intermixed with the descendants of Yaya in the regions of Diabo, near Diapaga; Mardaga; and Namouou, in Gomnangou. In Boulgou (Bitou and Tenkodogo) are the other Dials called the Diao. Then come the families called “Gouroungaabé” (Gourounsi) of the Sissili, of whom the patriarchs were Hamaciré Bidaani and Gourounga Bidaani. The descendants of Laarabou or Rahabou are called Sidibé or Sow, of whom one hero was Ouidi N’Diobo Sidibé. They have settled in Mali, in Macina and along the plains, bordering the escarpments of Bandiagara (Seeno Bankas), or in the region running from Konna to Bandiagara, passing through Séwaaré (Sewa Waaré) at 11 kilometers from Mopti: the Kounaari people. These are the families of Wuro-Diali, Falounfa, Lossoobe, Salsaabe, Guillé, Nguiiré, and Sounngoulbé. In Burkina, they populate the province of the Kossi. Then come the Hinguiraabé, the Hinguirankoobé, the families of Wuro-Adia, the Daboobé; those of Makane, of Goorouwel, and of Kounaari. Not far away, beyond Mopti, between the Bani and the Niger, skirting these two rivers, in the region of Tenenngou, reside the Diakité families, or Bah, who live in Wuro Guiiré, Sorinkoobé-Feroobé, Makane, Feroobé-Soobé. Along the plains of the regions of San (Sanaari) are the Sabagalé and Jallouraabé families. We note here the former presence within these regions of two illustrious personages known by their many exploits, who bring honor and pride to the Fulani race. (The Dial clans—Dicko—these are N’Duldy Bulkassoum and Tahirou Bulkassoum.) Death steered clear of them, though they themselves chased after it. The Dial clans reside at Yéronka, Korga, and Guettéré. The hero of the Dialloubé of Thiou was Mamadou al-Atchi, the youngest son of Kaaba-Koye. Those of the Guelgodji (Djibo) were N’Booldi Simbikoye, the Feroobé of the Liptako (Sidibé), and those of the Guelgodji. (The Diallo are called Dicko because they are warriors. Birmaandi Salaa Patè is the hero of the Sidibé of Liptako Feroobe.) One encounters these between Diafarabé and Mopti: Wuro-Moodi, Diafarabé-Wuro-Modibé-Wuro Dayeebe; within the circle of Mopti: Wuro-Boodi; near Niafunké: Wuro N’Doojiga-Dirna, Diaptoodji, Fittouga, and Sounngoudia. In the province of Yatenga are the The Descendants of Anissane: Sankaré-Barry

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

21

Foynnkoobe, clustered in Louroum (Banne). The hero is Demba Sidiki Tanna from Fittouga. Near Tougan (Sourou), at Bansagou, are the Diaptoobe. In the province of Bam (Kongoussi and Séguénéga) can be found the Bingaabé. In Mali, in the circle of Koutiala live the Minkaabe, called such because of their cohabitation with the Mianka, indigenous to that region. In Mouhoun (Dédougou) and San (in Mali) can be found the clusterings of Dokuy and the subclans of the Fittobé-Woronkoobe. Concerning the Fulani of Guinea, they are in the lineage of Karamogo Alpha and are called “Alphaya” or from Sory Ibrehima and are called “Sorya” for the former families of the Almamy. They split up between Anissane and are Barry, from Dita and are Diallo, or from Yaya and called N’Baldé or Bah. Near Labé and Timbo, they are Barry. ENGLISH SOURCES ON FULANI ORIGINS

In 1856, recalling his discussions with the Haoussa chief Sarkin, the Englishman Lord William Baikie wrote: The Fulani come from near Timbuktu in a country called “Mali,” no doubt the district of Melli to the south-west of that city. This account slightly differs from the version recounted at Sierra-Leone by the informant of Monsieur Koelle who located the cradle of the race in Fouta-Toro, north from Gambia. In the end, the difference is minuscule for the Melli of the Arab geographers includes the Fouta Toro. Within these regions, the Fulani emigrated towards the East to conserve their pastoral way of life, and it is there that one finds today the city of Sokoto; the marabout Fodio had a vision that inspired the measures he took which culminated in his gaining possession of the most beautiful province in Central Africa. Actually there are two major divisions in the Fulani race: one consists of the Occidental Fulani, those bearing the name of Foulata, given by the Bornouans. By their appearance, the members of these two groups resemble one another a great deal. Those that I met in the superior court of the Bénoué shared the same physiognomy and the same mannerisms of the Fulani of Timbo, as well as the neighboring towns of Sierra-Léone.4

In 1921, Taylor said,5

The question of Fulani origins is one of the most often discussed and interesting subjects for the ethnologues. Certain ethnologues have tried to link them to the Malays, or to the Polynesians, others to the gypsies who, chased by the Magyars, from their Indo-Germanic habitat would have passed through Egypt. (Delafosse, to the children of

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Israel who found themselves under the yoke of the pharaohs in Egypt.) The Pentateuch teaches us that these same Israelites returned to their fatherland, but Delafosse thinks that a certain number of these, led by a son of Joseph, took flight from Egypt by way of the Nile and then settled in Northern Africa. Barth identified them with the Leucoethiopians or the white Ethiopians of Pline and of Ptolemée, which are the earliest ancestors of the Berbers.

Doctor Charles Kingsley Meek (1925) said:

Ethnically speaking, the Fulani are an enigma and the hypotheses relative to their origins are numerous. According to tradition, the first of the Fulani chiefs was Ilo Falagui, son of Ham, and one could say a great deal in support of the thesis regarding the Hamitic origins of these people. The physical resemblance between the pure Fulani and representations of the Proto-Egyptians is remarkable. One finds among various Fulani the same formation of the head, the oval face, the slight build evoking femininity, the characteristic goatee, the absence of any mustache or the frizzy hair of blacks. The Fulani, according to tradition, are heirs of the Egyptian pharaohs, evident in their artistic way of braiding their hair as well as their traditional costume that distinguishes them. Chartre and Broca, for physical reasons, connect the Fulani of the Fellah to the Nile Valley. Muller, for linguistic reasons, groups them with the Naba of the Upper Nile. Other authors tie them to the Phoenicians, building their case on the fact that the Fulani have a copper complexion, and that the Greeks referred to the Phoenicians as the red men. It is also possible that they had some contact with Phyrgian peoples. They wear a Phrygian cap and style their hair in the shape of a helmet, according to the Phyrgian fashion. The Fulani are probably an ancient Libyan tribe whose earliest origin was in Egypt or Asia.6

Palmer (1936) wrote:

The Fulani or Peulh come from the Arabs and the Judaic Berbers who appeared in the Maghreb some 650 to 750 years before the time of Christ with Touaud and, remaining during the Roman and Byzantine eras, inhabited the region of Gamer or Tagant and the Adrar in Mauritania. After helping the Arabs destroy the Saracollé state, or Wakoré of Ghana, they were then expelled in their turn towards the south, by the Touaregs at Senegal and towards the Niger around 1050, and we hear them spoken of for the first time by El Berki, who describes them as a white ethnic group, poor and isolated, estranged from the surrounding population. In the books by the authors of Timbuktu, one finds an allusion which reveals that they were profoundly disliked by the Berbers (Tuareg) and the Blacks. They were victims of razzias and sold as slaves by Sonni Ali of the Songhay and the notables who refused to let their children intermarry with them.7

THE ORIGINS OF THE FULANI

CONCLUSION

23

At the end of this long exposé, it is no doubt obvious that the Fulani have been “taxed” with the charge of “homelessness” within certain settings, by those who are misinformed and have evil intentions, those spiteful and extreme xenophobes who thrive on the fringes of all communities by promulgating reports based on mere speculation. Similarly, in Moré and Jula we hear injurious, insipid, arrogant, and retrograde slogans that are always uttered at the worst possible moments, such as “Fo ba yiri Kaka,” “I faa soo te yan yé,” or “Gan ngab ga,” sayings that signify the Fulani are a homeless people. But in Burkina Faso, who can boast of not being homeless except the “Gnougnossé”?8 Objectively, if one were to take an inventory of the emigrant races here, many of the “irresponsible” ones that are grouped within the camps of the “isolationists” who seek to exclude and marginalize others would shamefully tuck their tails between their legs, in numbering many others but not themselves among those who are homeless in our country. We affirm that these thoughts, which proceed from objective and scientific observation regarding the movement of societies throughout the ages and upon this planet, possess a value beyond the realms of mere sociology and history. They reinvest in our eyes the great significance of our culture and its political forms. The movements of human communities, regardless if occasioned by immigration, migration, or conquest, are always motivated by vital need. These movements always occur when the natural environment becomes incompatible with the general well-being of a people, or social crises, politics, or economics oblige the members of such communities to seek another safe haven. Such occasions are thus attended by a multitude of different desires, realities, and specific motivating factors. The encounter that takes place in such circumstances is ineluctably marked on both sides by the instinct for preservation. Both partners therefore share legitimate rights, which are the right to live; the right to be and not merely appear; and the right to sovereignty, to live separately within one’s community according to its stature, its power, and its clans or tribes. Incomprehensible acts of hatred and a scornful attitude toward the other are not necessarily related to pride in cultural identity. When each culture will have extirpated the compulsion to always be in the right (dans le vrai), when the stranger is no longer received as an infidel but as a brother who is compelled by his own culture, the world will have then laid the first foundations toward a humanity finally at one. For uni-

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versality does not necessarily imply uniformity but cultural alliances for the well-being and happiness of man. The world seems to be engulfed in a vertigo of violence and intolerance. Is this some genetic fatality? We must nourish the hope that man will free himself from the obscure forces that push him toward his own destruction and the denial of differences. The inquiry into the question of the Fulani’s origins is therefore a lesson in intolerance. It teaches us that we must be vigilant against the cultural and racial discrimination preached by the great fools, those who traffic in hatred and abeyance, the prophets of misfortune, the malicious Gods who shame and plague us. There are two ways to get lost, a man once said, “By a walled segregation within the particular or by dilution within the universal.”9 In Burkina, we must refuse to wall ourselves in and to water ourselves down, for “if the little cock abandons the path of his fathers, the thorns from the underbrush will pierce his breast.” TRANSLATOR’S NOTES

1. This paper was later published in Albert Ouédraogo, Mélanges offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré, pp. 257–279. 2. Compare, for instance, Tall’s remarks on Pacéré with Christopher Wise’s “Interview with al-Hajj Sékou Tall,” pp. 231–241. CHAPTER NOTES

1. Throughout this chapter, I retain all of Tall’s spellings for names of people, towns, tribes, and so on, with two notable exceptions. Each time the words Peul or Peulh appeared in Tall’s original text, I replaced them with the anglophone rendering Fulani. The only other exception has been to render the wellknown city of Timbuktu by its English rather than its French spelling. 2. Moret and Davy, Des clans aux empires: l’organisation social chez les primitifs et dans l’orient ancien (1923). 3. Tall does not give page numbers in his citations, and most references are spelled phonetically. Here, he probably cites from a French translation of Sir Herbert Richmond Palmer’s The Bornu Sahara and Sudan (1936). It is possible also that Tall worked from an original, since he had a passing knowledge of English. 4. Baikie, Narrative of an Exploring Voyage Up the Rivers Kwóra and Bínue, Commonly Known as the Niger and Tsádda in 1854. 5. Tall is probably referring here to Louis Taxier, Le Noir du Soudan (1912) or Moeurs et histories des Peuls (1937), even though these are not English sources. 6. Meek, The Northern Tribes of Nigeria (1925). 7. Palmer, The Bornu Sahara and Sudan (1936).

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8. Gnougnossé (also spelled Younyounsé and Nyonyoosé) is Moré for “sons of the earth,” the inhabitants of the Burkina Faso region before the arrival of the Mossé in the ninth century C.E. 9. Tall probably cites Aimé Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism, from memory.

3 The Word Beyond the Word: Pacéré’s Theory of Talking Drums l

Christopher Wise Pour connaître l’histoire, il faut d’abord chanter, danser, ou être poète. —Titinga Frédéric Pacéré

Although not well known in the United States, Titinga Frédéric Pacéré has earned a reputation in Europe and Africa as a cultural figure of unique stature. In Burkina Faso (the former Upper Volta) where he was born, Pacéré is widely respected as a defender of African and Mossé tradition, both for his work as a poet and as a civil rights lawyer. In this chapter, I limit the discussion of Pacéré to his writings on talking drums (or bendrology) but note in passing that this area of inquiry by no means exhausts Pacéré’s many contributions to Burkinabè culture. Beyond adumbrating Pacéré’s actual theory of talking drums, I explore issues raised by the critical reception of Bendrn Gomde (1988) in Ouagadougou, especially following the publication of Albert Ouédraogo’s controversial essay “Bendrology in Question.”1 Recent debates about Pacéré’s theory may teach us a great deal about drum language’s importance to African culture, but they also reveal much about how contemporary Burkinabè people negotiate the demands of modernity with those of traditional culture. I offer here a cursory overview of Ouédraogo’s critique of Pacéré followed by a discussion of al-Hajj Sékou Tall’s response to Ouédraogo, entitled “Mysticisme, conception africaine du monde et similitudes dans l’oeuvre de Maître Pacéré” (Mysticism, the African Conception of the World, and Parallels in the Work of Maître Pacéré).2 Both these essays, along with Pacéré’s writings on bendrology, articulate key positions in an expanding dialogue that is centered at the University of Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. This dialogue not only testifies to the vitality of contemporary Sahelian cul27

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ture but may have far-ranging implications for African literary and cultural studies. PACÉRÉ AND BENDROLOGY

Pacéré’s monumental book Le langage des tam-tams et des masques en afrique (Language of the Drums and Masks in Africa, 1991), which is his French version of a prior eleven-volume study in Moré titled Bendr N’Gomde, comes as the culmination of a long development that can be traced to early in Pacéré’s career. Albert Ouédraogo, in an essay titled “La poésie des griots” (1996), shows how Pacéré had already grown uncomfortable with his established identity as a French-language poet during the late 1970s, gradually thinking of himself more as a “translator” than a “poet” as these terms are defined in the West.3 This shift in Pacéré’s perspective involved a growing awareness of the limitations of the French language to convey deeper Mossé realities; however, he also grew disenchanted with the unchallenged hegemony of writing practices in the West and the presumed superiority of the written word that invariably devalues “illiterate” cultural systems. Pacéré’s evolution as a writer is directly proportional to his rejection of deeply entrenched occidental definitions of writing and his search for more authentically African concepts to describe the Mossé experience. Beyond his dissatisfaction with European concepts of writing, Pacéré is motivated by his desire to preserve long-standing Mossé traditions and beliefs. He rejects the often cited aphorism of Amadou Hampâté Bâ that “the death of an old man in Africa is like a library burning down,”4 which suggests a process that cannot be forestalled or reversed (Le langage des tam-tams, p. 197). “It’s a cruel fact,” Pacéré has stated, “but there are even ‘living libraries’ who will die while still alive; ‘living libraries’ who are already dead” (p. 299). There is another important sense in which Pacéré’s theory of bendrology seeks to overturn death: the culture of the bendré, or the speaking drum, reverberates with the messages of ancestors who communicate with the living from beyond death. The language of the bendré, which is neither spoken nor written, defeats death by transmitting the words of generations past, so long as the ability to decipher its meaning remains intact. The cultural “reading” skills of future generations must be strengthened, Pacéré warns, if the memory of those long dead is to come alive within the present. For this reason, Pacéré takes the risk of writing about a subject that has traditionally been regarded as secret knowledge. There is a cer-

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tain urgency in the writings of the later Pacéré, a grim awareness of the enormity of what might be lost. The term bendrology is a deliberate hybrid of Moré and Greek words, a syncretism intended to denote both the specific and “universal” aspects of Pacéré’s neologism; that is, although this term is intimately connected to the lifeworld of the Mossé people, Pacéré hopes that it will prove useful to civilizations across Africa, especially in the larger struggle to decolonize concepts (p. 12). Bendré is the Moré word for a drum made from a calabash, which for Pacéré is fundamental to the Mossé experience. In fact, Pacéré claims that the bendré resides at the very foundation of all Mossé cultural and literary expressions, including the sacred language of the masks (p. 13). Pacéré’s singling out of the bendré rather than other important Mossé drums such as the lunga (armpit drum) or the ruudga (aged drum), is criticized by Ouédraogo in his essay “La Bendrologie en question.” Later, I return to this essay, which played a key role in the reception of Pacéré’s theory in Burkina Faso. For now, it must suffice to observe that Pacéré grants to the talking drum a status of unique importance: the bendré is the very soul of Mossé culture. The other half of the term bendrology, logie or the Greek logia, Pacéré designates to mean “theory” or simply “discourse,” implying the methodological nature of his undertaking. What Pacéré claims to offer is an “exact science” of drum culture or “the culture of African drum messages” (p. 12). The term bendrologue similarly designates any expert who interprets the language of drum culture. Pacéré describes such experts in the following terms: The drum message is always intended for a restricted circle; a circle of cultured people at the highest social levels; people who make important decisions for the benefit of everyone. It goes without saying that we are not talking about a circle of children; it should also be understood that, for the Mossé, being a “child” is never a question of one’s actual age but rather of one’s spiritual development. (p. 25)

Only those who belong to the “closed circle,” which includes men and women, can decode the message of the drum, Pacéré informs us.5 “The uninitiated cannot understand it” (p. 25). On the one hand, drum language is described as an “instrumental literature” and thus only one variety of what Pacéré calls “cultural literature,” a totalizing concept that subsumes every possible form of cultural expression. On the other hand, the language of the bendré exceeds all other cultural forms in its unique power as an autonomous force that may interpolate every living being within it. What is revolutionary in

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Pacéré’s theory is the autonomy he grants to drum language: he offers a concept of drum language that is both prior to the human voice and divested of human agency. Pacéré rejects the binary opposition of speech and writing in Western metaphysics, but his theory equally implies a rejection of the Derridean overturning of this binary. In other words, both speech and writing are degraded forms of drum language: the drum phrase precedes both the spoken and written phrase, and it is wholly independent of them. “In defining the non-written and non-spoken literature of the drum, we are confronted with a problematic of vast proportions,” Pacéré writes. “Does it not compel us to rethink the very concept of African literature?” (p. 76). If he does not entirely break free of binary thinking, Pacéré nonetheless offers a radically new way of theorizing African culture, sweeping aside all previous studies of drum language that have mechanically assumed its secondary status as a mere copy of the human voice. From the onset, it must be acknowledged that Pacéré paradoxically reinscribes the hegemony of the written word from his reflexive use of the term literature.6 He would have done better to coin yet new terms rather than rely upon contradictory ones like “la littérature non écrite” (nonwritten literature), “la littérature orale” (oral literature), and, more importantly, “la littérature culturelle” (cultural literature). Before proceeding, I must, therefore, pause to comment upon Pacéré’s use of the word literature, which tends to complicate without necessarily vitiating his approach. First, Pacéré shows how the French word orale (oral) comes from the Latin word oris, or “mouth” (p. 83). The term oral literature for Pacéré designates cultural transmissions of the human mouth. Pacéré does not employ the term orature, nor does he make any distinction between orature and écriture. Because drum messages are not transmitted by the mouth, Pacéré argues, references to them in terms of their orality are inappropriate; similarly, because drum messages are not transmitted in written form, references to them in terms of written literature (la littérature écrite) are also misleading: The literature of the drum is not a written literature; the absence of inscribed, material characters, fixed within an alphabetic system, prohibits us from conflating the two. However, it would equally be mistaken to conflate drum literature with oral literary traditions . . . The drum text, the literature of the drum, is neither a written nor a spoken literature; to be precise, we are talking about an instrumental literature. (Pacéré’s emphasis) (pp. 82–83)

Unfortunately, Pacéré does not trace the etymology of the term literature, which comes from the Latin word littera (letter), and would there-

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fore seem to be equally inappropriate for drum language.7 While effectively distancing drum language from orality, Pacéré fails to disentangle it entirely from écriture (or writing). The theoretical consequences of this contradiction are not really significant in terms of the greater implications of his theory of bendrology. They take nothing away from what is most revolutionary in his approach: the assertion of drum language’s unique priority for the Mossé (and, by implication, other Africans) as a cultural determinate, as well as its relative independence from speech and writing systems. However, whether or not we grant the language of the bendré the autonomy that Pacéré allows, it should be clear that drum language exists in closer proximity to orature than it does to writing. I do not refer to drum language’s unique ability to imitate tonal languages but rather to the more obvious fact that human beings experience both drum language and orature as temporal events within the world of sound, whereas we encounter the written text primarily as a material thing within the dimension of space. It is precisely this distinction that is lost in Pacéré’s retention of the term literature in describing the language of the drum (and also of the masks and other nonwritten forms of Mossé culture). This theoretical slip probably results from two factors. First, Pacéré deliberately declines to refer to outside literary studies in theorizing bendrology; and second, he feels extreme distaste for Western theories of language that have routinely degraded African culture as a site of illiteracy. In the case of the former, early in Le langage des tam-tams, Pacéré makes the surprising admission that he “will make no references to any exterior written sources, focusing instead upon [his] proper object of study” (p. 13). No doubt, Le langage des tam-tams could have gained in theoretical precision with greater reference to existing drum literature. However, even though Pacéré has been criticized by Ouédraogo (among others) for his “unscientific” refusal to rely upon exterior textual resources, what has perhaps not been sufficiently emphasized is the theoretical coherence of this gesture in terms of Pacéré’s larger objective: to suggest the secondary status of written texts themselves. 8 Regarding the latter, one can only speculate that Pacéré may have been motivated to restore the damaged prestige of Mossé culture by asserting the legitimacy of its “literature.” Pacéré’s considerable rancor against such theories comes through very clearly in passages like the following: Terms like “oral literature” in the West are loaded with partial, pejorative, simplistic, and iconoclastic meanings which commit great violence against the profound and nonwritten literature of Africa, pro-

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moting the false, unstated assumption that Africans lacked the ability to develop writing systems, and that writing itself is the alpha and omega of all things. This is something we’ve always deplored about the Occident, the so-called “civilized world,” which cannot transcend its deeply entrenched beliefs about speaking and writing. (p. 84)

Readers who come to Pacéré steeped in the work of critics like Walter Ong, Eric Havelock, and other theorists of orature may be frustrated by his repeated use of the term literature, but it would be a grave error to dismiss his approach on this basis . In fact, Pacéré’s Le langage des tam-tams may be said to offer an implicit critique of previous theorizations of orature that cannot escape their basis in Western assumptions about speech and writing. For instance, in his essay “African Talking Drums and Oral Noetics,” Walter Ong emphasizes that “[talking] drums belong, in a particularly intense way, to the oral world” (Interfaces of the Word, p. 118), and that they are interesting primarily because of what they reveal about human orality. “The drums are oral or oral-aural not merely in their sensory field of operation,” Ong states, “but even more basically in their idiom. Talking drums belong to the lifeworld of primary oral cultures” (p. 102). Once drum language is reduced to an “acoustic surrogate” for the human voice, Ong analyzes it for one purpose alone: “to throw light upon . . . the primary oral processes themselves” (p. 93). Another way to say this is that Ong hegemonically erases the difference of the talking drum as an epistemological expedient to further his views about speech and writing. Drum language is interesting because of what it reveals about “earlier sets of mind” (p. 112), before writing spoiled the “primary orality” of human consciousness (p. 117). For Pacéré, Ong’s essay on talking drums, in which drum language is not even on an equal footing with Morse code as an abstract sound system (pp. 93–94), would fail to adequately convey the radical otherness of drum language, the indifference of the talking drum to the human voice. In fact, Ong’s theory could be turned on its head by Pacéré, who might counter that it is the human voice that belongs to the lifeworld of primary drum cultures. Burkinabè critics such as Ouédraogo, Salaka Sanou, and Catherine Kéré have discussed the question of the drum phrase’s creative source or “authority” in Pacéré, but none has emphasized the fact that Pacéré never claims that the drum phrase is authorless in every instance. 9 Actually, Pacéré criticizes the oversimplifying view that there aren’t authentic “authors” of traditional literature in Africa, which can equally serve to denigrate the accomplishments of highly talented, individual creators (Le langage des tam-tams, p. 80). Instead, Pacéré insists upon

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the dialectical nature of the drum phrase, as an obvious and deliberate construction in some cases, though wholly independent of the individual “author” in others. “In Africa, it is not only the spoken word that determines drum literature,” Pacéré states, “but drum literature often determines the spoken word” (p. 84). The drum phrase itself consists of a highly complex juxtaposing of concepts and fixed phrases (p. 22), which Pacéré describes as a “jeu de puzzle.” Such a phrase is “ingeniously created” (savamment faite) by the drummer, whose “complex work” defies the rules of known grammar, especially as it is understood in the West (p. 24): The drum phase is not an ordinary [grammatical] phrase; that is, having a subject-verb-complement. The literature of the drum is no mere language, but a language of languages. Among specialists, the drum might only sound the beginning of the Zabyouya [a drum phrase signifying a program of action], the rest being understood. The phrase may emit a succession of subjects without verbs, or complements without subjects, or verbs without subjects or complements. (p. 24)

Pacéré further specifies that the drum phrase may involve a radical shifting of verb tenses, inhibiting its comprehension save by those most advanced in “reading” it. Even the most experienced bendrologues are not always able to differentiate between the “authored” drum phrase of the living individual and the “unauthored” drum phrase of the ancestors. Pacéré states: “The solution to this problem is not easy, requiring an analysis of each individual text in question. There are simple cases where the author is certain and the debate itself loses interest” (p. 80). In other cases, however, especially with regard to genealogical literature, it is nearly impossible to determine the text’s specific author. Often the drum phase will consist of a mixture of preexisting texts and original material, wherein the couplet will be improvised but the refrain unknown (p. 81). Pacéré describes an intense relationship between the human “author” of the drum phrase and the greater drum culture within which he or she is finally subsumed. If individual subjects are not the measure of all things, they remain powerful and creative participants in constant dialogue with Mossé tradition, the unspoken and unwritten words of the ancestors. Drum language is therefore no mere “acoustic surrogate,” or inferior and distorted copy of the human voice, but resides at the very heart of Mossé culture (p. 34): the human voice itself is not an appropriate vehicle by which this “language of languages” can be communicated (p. 17). “Oral literature is nothing but an abbreviated expression of certain constituents of a prior literature,” Pacéré states (p. 84, my

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emphasis). In fact, the transference of drum language into spoken or written systems always degrades it. “For the most important rites of human life,” we are told, “the drum alone can express this language” (pp. 17–18). Often, the phrases expressed by the drum are not invented by the poet; rather he employs “phrases already made and presented to him by those who precede him. . . . The man of tomorrow thus becomes a construction of today, in the presence of his ancestors” (p. 24). As an autonomous agent in the exterior world, drum language may be said to create its subjects or to “speak” them. It resides outside the corporeal human subject and is independent of ordinary speech, which it exceeds. “[This] literature is forged by the drum,” Pacéré states, “not by man who has no choice other than to accept it, to submit to it” (p. 84). Drum language is not a Husserlian language of pure inwardness sealed within the mind of the individual but a powerful interpolating force with the ability to harm or benefit every living thing within its range. The scene of the drum’s performance is “without limit and without orientation,” Pacéré writes. “All nearby elements assist it, becoming participants within it: men, animals, nature.” (p. 282). “[E]veryone finally becomes an actor,” Pacéré states. “There are no invisible spectators. . . . If passersby stop to watch, they too become actors, not spectators. Everything becomes incorporated into the scene” (p. 282). Among those Mossé who are also Muslims, even the language of the Quran may be subsumed within it, once the Quran is “recited” by the drum rather than the human voice (pp. 243–244). The high status of drum language in Mossé culture accounts for Pacéré’s ambivalence about transcribing it for publication, as well as his discomfort with his international reputation as a French-language poet. In sharp contrast to the marginalized poet of the modern West, the Bend-Naba (chief of drummers) occupies a position “at the center of public life” (p. 17), “on an equal footing with the Moro-Naba or King” (p. 34).10 He is “the FIRST MAN in society,” Pacéré emphasizes: Each morning he awakens before all others, and with his drum “invents” the day. He creates, provides meaning to the seasons for everyone. . . . Among the Mossé, the drummer is no mere accessory, or marginal figure, but the center of society. In certain instances, he dictates what must be done. His sacred instrument, the drum, presides over all rituals. (p. 33)

The Bend-Naba’s high status therefore comes with a tremendous responsibility: He is a “public servant” in the purest sense of the word, a man who “gives his life in the service of his people” (p. 33). In his role as “first man” in public life, the Bend-Naba attends to

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every possible dimension of Mossé experience, from the most mundane to the most significant. Drum language is above all a “language of truth” (p. 25), and it does not hesitate to address topics that are normally circumscribed by social custom. This means that the Bend-Naba and the language of the drum also function as vehicles of the sacred for the Mossé community. In passing, we can only note that the religious dimensions of drum language are complex and would involve a different sort of analysis than is possible here. Such an analysis would require far more than an examination of written texts by Pacéré; it would necessitate actual (and extended) participation in drum rituals. Pacéré emphasizes that not everyone is authorized to discuss them, and he himself must seek the permission of certain elders before addressing them (p. 248). For my purposes here, I refer to the religious features of drum language only insofar as they help in defining perhaps the most enigmatic aspect of Pacéré’s theory: his concept of “cultural literature.” As mentioned previously, the language of the bendré, or “instrumental literature,” is ultimately incorporated as only one constituent of cultural literature. Despite the high status he grants drum language, Pacéré finally relativizes it in broad ontological terms along with speaking and writing. This may seem to be a contradiction, given drum language’s unique and powerful place in Mossé society, but it must be borne in mind that “cultural literature” is not a separate or competing literature. This concept would be entirely meaningless apart from drum language, which itself calls the world into being. Pacéré repeatedly makes clear that “the language of the bendré is at the base of all cultural expressions” (p. 12, my emphasis). Cultural literature, then, has no objective content of its own but functions instead as a relational or totalizing concept. It is the sum total of all forms of Mossé cultural expression, the temporal interplay of various Mossé “literatures.” In the conclusion of Le langage des tam-tams, Pacéré describes cultural literature in these terms: “It prevails everywhere upon the earth: in the air, the thunder, the rushing water; it is within the speaker, in every gesture of the mask, in every sound of the drum; it is Life itself, within creation and history” (p. 327). Sékou Tall understands “cultural literature” in terms of Being (l’Être), although he differentiates this concept from static or essentializing concepts of Being in the west. For Tall, Being in Pacéré, or what is meant by “cultural literature,” can be characterized as sheer dynamic power or “Force.” Tall states, “L’Être, c’est la Force et la Force, c’est l’Être” (Being is Force, and Force is Being) (“Mysticisme,” in Mélange offerts, p. 263).11 In the context of religious ritual, drum language may also cease to

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be merely communicative—that is, its sounds will no longer communicate any specific content—but this does not mean that it is no longer meaningful. As the drum word merges with Being, or “cultural literature,” it may become pure sound, “a language of bodily movement in a context that excludes description” (p. 252), or “a literature of movement, a message of bodily expression” (p. 258). Pacéré’s remarks that such moments are “beyond description” do not imply that cultural literature is simply ineffable or altogether outside human language, but they do imply that the spoken and written word, unlike the drum word, cannot in themselves adequately convey this experience to us. In fact, it may be more accurate to say that Pacéré describes a context that is linguistically overdetermined, one that is wholly saturated with human language. THE CRITICAL RECEPTION IN BURKINA FASO

In 1988, Albert Ouédraogo published an article on Pacéré’s theory in the Annales de l’Université de Ouagadougou, a local journal with limited circulation outside Burkina Faso. Ouédraogo, who is currently dean of arts and sciences at the University of Ouagadougou, is perhaps the most gifted Burkinabè literary critic of his generation. Educated at the University of Limoges in France, Ouédraogo has published extensively on a wide variety of topics pertaining to the literature of the Sahel. Shortly after Pacéré published Bendrn Gomde, Ouédraogo responded with a detailed analysis that outlined numerous critical problems in Pacéré’s theory. In “Bendrology in Question,” Ouédraogo argues that Pacéré exaggerates the significance of drum language through severing its connection to the human voice. In an attempt to redirect Pacéré’s theory in more orthodox linguistic terms, Ouédraogo rejects Pacéré’s suggestion that the drum phrase is prior to the spoken phrase and that it is authorless or independent of human creation. “We can only conclude [from Pacéré’s theory],” Ouédraogo states, “that Mossé literature’s creative source springs not from human language but from the beating of the drum” (“Bendrologie en question,” p. 151). Ouédraogo goes on to insist that “it is almost certain that the oral phrase precedes the drum phrase” (p. 160), and on this basis he offers not merely a critique of Pacéré but in fact an alternative theory of bendrology. In opposition to Pacéré, Ouédraogo will further object that, since it is human language alone that gives meaning to the sounds of the talking drum, the noncommunicative dimensions of its language are more accurately conceptualized as “musical sounds at best and simple cacophony at worst” (p.

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162). As we have already seen, Ouédraogo’s insistence upon the secondary status of the drum phrase is consistent with conventional wisdom about drum language in the West. Though more culturally specific, Ouédraogo’s essay on Pacéré is at one with Walter Ong’s essay on talking drums in many of its most basic assumptions. In fact, the rhetoric of Ouédraogo’s critique is ostensibly scientific, carrying the full weight of his authority as an academic at the University of Ouagadougou. It should be noted, in this connection, that Ouédraogo is Mossé like Pacéré, although some twenty years younger. After carefully analyzing Pacéré’s theory, Ouédraogo argues that Pacéré’s claims at offering an “exact science” of bendrology are dubious at best: “The scientific character of any study depends upon the separation of subject and object. In other words, the researcher should do everything possible to insure that his findings will not be tainted by his own subjectivity” (p. 154). Such neutrality or objectivity is totally lacking in Pacéré’s theory, Ouédraogo charges: “On the contrary, the author deliberately refuses to be critical: the beliefs of the Moaaga [Mossé religious authority] are identical with his!” (p. 154). Even the language of his study is more poetic than scientific, Ouédraogo observes, which inevitably leaves the reader skeptical about Pacéré’s claims to objectivity. As we have also seen, Ouédraogo similarly questions Pacéré’s refusal to refer to outside studies in drum language: “All science evolves by building upon previous knowledge,” Ouédraogo states. “But Pacéré ignores outside texts that may obviate problems previously encountered” (p. 155). Ouédraogo also hints that Pacéré may have been influenced by the Ivoirian scholar Niangoran Bouah, who coined the term “drummologie” and has written several lengthy studies on talking drums.12 Ouédraogo points out that the similarities between Bouah’s and Pacéré’s theories are undeniable. Though Ouédraogo does not directly charge that Pacéré borrowed from Bouah, his remarks in this context leave readers to draw their own conclusions: Pacéré’s refusal to refer to outside sources is not only unscientific, Ouédraogo seems to imply, it may be disingenuous. To appreciate the intervention of al-Hajj Sékou Tall into these debates, it is important to be aware that many people felt that Ouédraogo had exceeded the bounds of propriety in his critique of Pacéré. In fact, Ouédraogo’s essay “La Bendrologie en question” was widely rejected in Burkina Faso as a basic distortion of African culture, not least because of its reliance upon a Western academic methodology. On May 11, 1991, Tall gave a public talk at the University of Ouagadougou during a three-day colloquium on Pacéré. The burden of

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Tall’s contribution to these debates, which was first and foremost a public event (though later published in Mélange offerts), was twofold: First, Tall sought to defend the integrity of Pacéré’s theory, thereby reasserting gerontocratic hegemony in Burkina Faso. Second, Tall sought to defend traditional African belief systems against the threat posed by Ouédraogo’s secular, academic critique—which for Tall naively reinscribed French colonization in Burkinabè culture. Though he never makes any direct reference to Ouédraogo, Tall critiques Ouédraogo by telling his audience an amusing story drawn from his vast reservoir of historical knowledge. In what follows I paraphrase this story briefly, though Tall’s own style is much more episodic, a catalogue of precise and copious information. The dramatic effect of Tall’s style is that the listener can never be quite sure where Tall is going—until at last he gets there. My paraphrase ignores much of the details in Tall’s rendition to focus directly on the issue at hand. The tale begins during precolonial times in a village in the Mossé Empire named “Zott Gomde,” an expression that, literally translated, means “I fear words.” It could also mean “I fear criticism.” However, since “words” in this context could also mean “disputes” (or “quarrels”), Zott Gomde could be interpreted to mean “I invite public discussion,” precisely to avoid such quarrels. Tall playfully teases out the various meanings of the village’s name before telling his story, a seemingly innocent jeu des mots that harbors a clear thesis: Tall implies that Pacéré himself would invite public discussion of his theory so long as it was not merely hostile, an aggressive attempt to provoke quarrels. In other words, Pacéré and Tall both “fear words,” not from timidity or cowardice but out of greater maturity, their awareness of the power of words to create unnecessary dissension. Thus, Tall publicly counsels Pacéré not to respond to Ouédraogo’s critique, not to stoop to involving himself in such a quarrel.13 Tall then resumes his story: Once upon a time, there were two brothers from the village of Zott Gomde, or “I fear words,” in the region of Koudougou. The older brother, who was the local ruler, was a peaceful man, kind and merciful to all, but the younger brother was a troublemaker, “méchant et turbulent” (“Mysticisme,” p. 268). Often the young prince would pillage the subjects of his older brother merely to cause mischief. At last the young prince was forced to leave the region and seek his fortune elsewhere. In his new residence, however, he prospered and was eventually appointed chief of Zaou Natinguin (a village near present-day Fada N’Gourma). Much later, in another part of the Mossé empire, the inhabitants of Korsimoro (a village near Kaya) petitioned the Moro-Naba to find a prince of pure blood to rule over their

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territory. The Moro-Naba, who was happy with this act of submission, satisfied this request by presenting an option to his faithful subjects in Korsimoro: They could choose between the two brothers from Zott Gomde, the older and wiser prince or the younger and prideful one. However, the young prince did not wait upon mere formalities. Instead, he harnessed his horse and rode off to claim his future kingdom. Once installed, the new ruler had a son, whom he named Tidarpo. This son was born under suspicious circumstances, and some questioned his legitimacy. Eventually, Tidarpo assumed his father’s position and had two children of his own, a boy and a girl. As fate would have it, the boy turned out to be an albino with red hair, who was later banished for raping his sister. (It was forbidden to execute princes, or he would have been killed at once for his crime.) The albino prince was exiled to a village named Bilanga in the province of Gourma. The etymology of the word Bilanga, we are told, originates in the word Bissanga, meaning “stranger of the clan” or “an infant of doubtful origins.” Following this incident, Tall states, “[a] ban was henceforth decreed against the pretensions of any albino prince to the throne of Gourma” (p. 273). If difficult to follow in places, Tall’s story creates an allegory with a fairly obvious meaning in the context of the public colloquium on Pacéré. Throughout his presentation, Tall repeatedly insists upon Pacéré’s fidèle (faithful) exposition of Mossé culture, emphasizing that we can be certain that Pacéré has given us an authentic image of his people and their culture. Tall emphasizes: “L’exigence d’une fidelite a son peuple et a sa culture” (p. 279). Like the Moro-Naba, Tall offers a choice to his listeners, which is not much of a choice at all: They can follow the young and “méchant” Ouédraogo if they so desire, but no good will come of it. In fact, Tall implies, Ouédraogo has done a grave disservice to his brother: With breathtaking audacity, he has relied upon his status as a European-trained scholar, further validated by his role as an academic at the University of Ouagadougou, to usurp Pacéré’s authority in Mossé society. Moreover, Ouédraogo accomplished this with an alien (i.e., French) academic methodology, a tool of the colonizer. The reference to the incestuous albino, the “infant of doubtful origins,” reveals what Tall believes will result from Ouédraogo’s reliance upon dubious Western theories: the potential enthronement of a generation of freaks, whitened black men who will violate taboos necessary to the preservation of African culture. However, Tall himself refers to European scholars in formulating his defense of Pacéré, such as Leo Frobenius and Marcel Griaule (p. 257). Tall builds upon Pacéré’s representation of traditional African culture along with such European scholars in offering his own Afrocentric

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ontology. Tall does not so much unequivocally reject European theorizations of African culture as reject a particular kind of European theory: the antimetaphysical bias of structural linguistics, for instance, or the inherent skepticism of Ouédraogo’s critique. The “excesses” that lead Ouédraogo to reject Bendrn Gomde, born from what he dismisses as Pacéré’s “excusable” passion for Mossé culture (p. 165), are precisely what lead Tall to recommend it to us. In case Tall’s listeners have forgotten what life under French colonialism meant, Tall concludes his presentation with a lengthy catalogue of crimes committed by various French administrators in Ouagadougou (pp. 275–278). The success of Tall’s rebuttal, which was representative of the perspectives of many Burkinabè elders, may perhaps be measured in light of Ouédraogo’s more recent statements about Pacéré. In his public presentation of “La poésie des griots,” delivered at the same colloquium on Pacéré, Ouédraogo defends his earlier critique but also pays homage to Pacéré by observing that “[t]he imperfections which critics reveal in their theoretical approaches are of a wholly human order. It is said in Moore, ninsaal yaa a wae bala, ‘the human being is characterized by the number 9,’ not by the number 10, as perfection is of a divine order” (pp. 204–205). Ouédraogo subtly reminds his audience that it is his job as a critic to reveal problems in the literature that he analyzes and that Pacéré is a mere human being after all.14 Nevertheless, Ouédraogo does not himself reveal any such imperfections in his second essay on Pacéré, which instead celebrates Pacéré’s many accomplishments. Moreover, the critical tenor of Ouédraogo’s analysis is dramatically altered. In the introduction to Mélange offerts, for instance, Ouédraogo describes Pacéré as a “modern-day knight” who valiantly wages war against all forms of cultural ethnocide: “The man from Manéga makes of his village, his city, and his world a microcosm for the entire world, for Manéga is the world, and the world itself could not exist without Manéga” (p. 6). Such a statement may not in itself constitute a recantation on Ouédraogo’s part, but it is a clear departure from his earlier, more critical stance. Most importantly, Ouédraogo’s comments imply that the Euro-African university is no longer the measuring stick that validates or invalidates Pacéré’s theory. CONCLUSION

Titinga Frédéric Pacéré’s writings on bendrology involve not only the analysis of a “secondary sound system” (or “acoustic surrogate,” as

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Walter Ong puts it), but also a far-ranging reappraisal of the very concept of African literature, an ambitious effort to “decolonize” African cultural studies. As stated previously, Pacéré’s Le langage des tam-tams shows how our most basic conceptual resources for discussing Sahelian “literature” are radically flawed. However, Pacéré’s efforts to transform our understanding of Sahelian culture do not involve a retreat from theory as merely harmful, but rather a deliberate engagement with theory, a calculated intervention aimed at dislodging prevailing notions of speech and writing. This effort is fraught with risks: Pacéré bears the burden of accurately representing Mossé culture to outside readers, possibly alienating those Mossé who believe this material should remain secret. In addition, he makes himself vulnerable to “scientific” critique by Western-trained academics like Albert Ouédraogo, who will reveal Pacéré’s “mystifications” to us. In spite of such risks, Pacéré succeeds in articulating a powerful alternative to dominant Western philosophies of language. In his theory, Pacéré grants to the talking drum a higher status than both speech and writing. Both of these forms of communication are secondary or degraded systems for Pacéré: they lack the power to estrange the ordinary, to function as appropriate vehicles of the sacred, and to transmit the collective wisdom of the Mossé people. Moreover, the language of the bendré for Pacéré cannot be contained within the monadic consciousness of any individual: it has a certain autonomy that is extrinsic to the human psyche. Drum language is not a mere mnemonic device, as Ouédraogo argues (“La Bendrologie en question,” p. 162)—a stimulant of proto-linguistic human memory—but an independent, interpolating force that is both prior and superior to the spoken word. If the written word is a degraded copy of the spoken word in platonic (or logocentric) thought, it is also degraded in Pacéré’s theory, thrice removed from the more elemental drum word. The colonization of the world of sound theorized by Walter Ong, wherein the written word as spatial object gradually displaces the spoken word as temporal event, is doubly relevant to Pacéré’s approach: only the hegemony of both the spoken and written word is experienced as a traumatic effect of French imperialism. Jacques Derrida’s attack on logocentrism, which is culturally specific to a certain Euro-Judaic ideology, can offer little help in this context.15 Though in some ways more relevant to Pacéré’s project of decolonizing concepts, Ong’s writings on orature are also problematic, based as they are in a Roman Catholic theology of the Living Word. To say that Pacéré’s overturning of both theories is flawed by virtue of its connection to Mossé religious systems ignores the latent theologies in dominant Western ideologies of lan-

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guage. What may be more interesting is to explore the epistemological implications of Pacéré’s theory: How is it useful in the struggle to decolonize concepts? What can it reveal about Sahelian culture? How does it contribute toward a far-ranging reevaluation of dominant ideas about speech and writing? Secondary literature on bendrology, in both West Africa and elsewhere, will no doubt proliferate as Africanist scholars now confront the many questions and possibilities opened up by Pacéré’s theory. NOTES

1. Albert Ouédraogo, “La Bendrologie en question,” Annales de l’Université de Ouagadougou (1988): 153–167. 2. Tall’s talk, originally presented during a colloquium at the University of Ouagadougou (May 10–12, 1991) was later published in Albert Ouédraogo, Mélanges offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré. 3. Albert Ouédraogo, “La poésie des griots: La lente gestation de la bendrologie,” Mélanges offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré, pp. 189–207. 4. Unfortunately, the majority of Bâ’s writings have not yet been translated into English. For a concise discussion of Bâ, see Andrew Manley, “Amadou Hampâté Bâ’s Amkullel: A Malian Memoir and Its Contexts.” Also see Daniel Whitman, “Interview with Amadou Hampâté Bâ.” 5. See, for instance, Pacéré’s discussion of Derme Mariam (or Pog-yaandègré) in Le langage des tam-tams, pp. 211–223. 6. Not surprisingly, Albert Ouédraogo, Salaka Sanou, and others have questioned Pacéré’s use of the term cultural literature, which is undoubtedly the most problematic aspect of his theory. As Sanou has pointed out in Mélange offerts, Pacéré never really gives us an adequate definition of this term, which has seemed mystifying or “unscientific” to some (“À propos du concept de littérature culturelle,” p. 147). 7. See Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word. 8. See Ouédraogo, “La Bendrologie en question,” pp. 154–155. 9. Besides Ouédraogo, “La Bendrologie en question”; see Sanou, “À propos du concept de littérature culturelle,” in Mélange offerts; and Kéré, “Saglego: La parole sagesse de Maître Pacéré.” 10. Ouédraogo will later argue that Pacéré exaggerates the power of the Bend-Naba, who is economically dependent upon the Moro-Naba and therefore answerable to him (“La Bendrologie en question,” p. 165). For Ouédraogo, the Bend-Naba represents “the belly” of Mossé power, not necessarily its “heart.” 11. The views of both Tall and Pacéré are not far from those of Nigerian author Chinua Achebe, who has described the Igbo world as “an arena for the interplay of forces . . . a dynamic world of movement and of flux [and] restless dynamism” (Hopes and Impediments, p. 62). 12. For an in-depth comparison of the two theories, see Urbain Amoa, “Fondements drummo-bendrologiques du discours de Frédéric Titinga Pacéré,” in Mélanges offerts, pp. 281–303.

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13. I am indebted to Jean-Claude Naba for help in clarifying this dimension of Tall’s discussion. 14. During a recent visit to Manéga, Pacéré’s native village in Burkina Faso, a French author remarked to me that Pacéré was fast becoming the Burkinabè “George Washington,” a comment that was intended to cut both ways: postcolonial arrivants like the United States and Burkina Faso, he seemed to imply, depend upon the cult of great men in constructing national identity. Even if Pacéré is excessively revered by some, those familiar with his many achievements in literature, civil rights legislation, and other areas may feel that such comparisons are not wholly unjustified. 15. For more on Judaic elements in Derrida, see Susan A. Handelman, The Slayers of Moses: The Emergence of Rabbinic Interpretation in Modern Literary Theory. Also see Jürgen Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity, pp. 406–407.

4 Saglego, or Drum Poem (for the Sahel) l

Titinga Frédéric Pacéré

INTRODUCTION

We are an adaptable people; the genius of our ancestors, the true source of our power, does not manifest itself by mere chance. We are an adaptable people. We tend to be highly original in our use of language, which is evident in our contributions to black African poetry. We have never liked competitions or making displays of ourselves. In daring to imagine a new poetry, we ran great risks, but not to win prizes. We risked incomprehension and thus marginalization. More important, we made revelations that cut to the very foundations of our culture. Thus, we risked the approbation of our people, who feared that this material would be degraded in a secular context. But we insisted that every African people, even those using a nonAfrican language, must continue speaking their own language, thereby preserving that which was patiently built through the ages. Bottles that are cast into the sea are sometimes fished out. Thus, we hope the reader will not dwell on the seeming “awkwardness” of this new poetry but will instead be captivated by its unusual style, which originates in a very different aesthetics. *

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Reprinted from Pacéré, Titinga Frédéric. Saglego, ou, Le poème du tam-tam (pour le sahel). Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso: C. Editions, Fondations Pacéré, 1994. Translated from the French and Moré by Christopher Wise.

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“Saglego, or Drum Poem (for the Sahel)” literally translated means “counsels” or “counsels of the heart.” This poem is written by the drum and not spoken by any human mouth. It is a pure instrumental utterance of the drums of the ancient Mossé Empire (wrongly pronounced “Mossi”), which is known to the outside world as the Empire of the Moro-Naba of Ouagadougou. The goal of the drum, the goal of the person of culture, is to communicate the essence of human beings, their daily life, worries, and deepest desires. Life is filled with uncertainties and difficulties; thus, it falls to the drum to serve as first counselor of the nation; through the optic of past triumphs and prosperity, the drum message becomes a supreme poetry, implying the participation of both the living and the dead. The call of the drum, emerging from within this well-established context, serves to raise consciousness. The arrangement of the text in what follows respects the poetic logic of the “talking” drums. First, an appeal is made three different times; after the third appeal, the people have presumably gathered, and the poem can begin. All people, whatever their physical or moral stature, who would like to hold a village meeting, conference, or recreational activity, should begin by presenting themselves and by paying their respects to the gods, the ancestors, appropriate political and spiritual leaders, various social groups, and any other person worthy of such respects. Only afterward may the community be addressed, issues raised, or conclusions drawn. Regarding the drum phrase and its construction, there is imbedded within the talking drum a language that differs from current (Moré) language, a language that is shared among the ancients; even in the “modern” world, there are of course specialized languages for doctors, judges, mathematicians, and so on; so it is (and has always been) that within this specific milieu there exists a specialized language, reserved for certain distinguished people, people who are highly cultured and influential in society; for the most part, drum language functions within such a milieu as Zabyouré (plural Zabyouya). The Zabyouré, wrongly translated into French as nom de guerre (call-to-arms), is a device that signals an administrative action to be taken, an organ of power asserting its will, or simply the symbolic elevation of an individual to a higher rank. Thus, the village of Romiissi, an ancient ally of Manéga, is known by the Zabyouré, “Even the smallest tamarind tree will not bear tasteless fruit.”

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We call the people of Romiissi “the little tamarind trees” in a wholly positive sense, meaning they are known as a dynamic people, as true builders. But even a single word can imply several Zabyouya. This depends upon the level of awareness among those drum experts present, who in any given context will differentiate its possible meanings. Thus, in relation to the tamarind tree, one finds the following Zabyouré, “The tamarind tree may fall upon the earth, but its good taste will remain forever.” In contemporary culture, this phrase refers to African culture in the aftermath of colonization. Despite subjugation and “defeat,” its profundity and integrity remain unaffected. The Zabyouya address all themes of social life. They become key aphorisms for the cultured person, who relies upon them when appropriate. The technique of poetry within such a context is to express an idea or develop a theme, but not with drum phrases commonly known; rather, such phrases are pieced together by a sophisticated juxtaposing of the Zabyouya, or the “mottoes.” Understanding drum poetry is like figuring out a complex puzzle. The worth or greatness of an elder depends upon his or her knowledge of such poems. For this reason, we have always emphasized that drum language is not merely esoteric; it is much more than that; it is a language between masters of thought, word, and deed. Each phrase, each word, is consecrated for a particular constituency or an administrative organ or for some aspect of social life (songs, for example). Every possible (Moré) word first passes through drum language. The drum phrase, the phrase of the elder, does not necessarily consist of a subject-verb-complement; it may contain a subject but no verb, a complement but no subject, and so on; this is true not only in the juxtaposing of concepts but also in fixed formulas, which are more than a millennium old. Often, the correspondence of verb tenses is not only unnecessary but even unknown. The Zabyouya (each accepted without the possibility of modification) contain revelations from divergent points in time. Poets do not simply invent these phrases; rather they rely upon phrases that are sent to them by the gods, ready-made phrases preserved by the ancestors. The drum phrase implies a superior aesthetics and insight into the unknown, even the subversion of school-taught learning; the person of tomorrow thus becomes a construction of today, in the presence of the ancestors. Regarding rhythm and the determined period of each poem, the Zabyouya are all the same length, of equal duration in time; the lines in the following poem thus represent identical measures in time inter-

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spersed with refrains that constitute the poem’s setting or backdrop. These refrains contain rhythms that are more or less identical. The present poem, written within a purely African tradition, takes for its theme the preservation of human beings and their environment in the context of the Sahel. The Sahel described in this poem suffers from frequent droughts, but these same dry seasons purify our hearts of egocentrism and egoism. *

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SAGLEGO, OR DRUM POEM (FOR THE SAHEL)

People of the earth, The first time! People of the earth, The second time! People of the earth, The third time!1 Our respects, To our fathers!2 Our respects, To our Ancestors!3 Our respects, To the gods of the earth!4 Our respects, To the keepers of the earth!5 Our respects, To the blacksmiths!6 The sacred furnace has turned Toward the sky!7 The famine that strikes the forge Strikes not the hammer!8 Our respects!

Go into the hill, become albinos! Gather up coal, become a cat! Listen to the clanging, a sound of power; Only the loved woman is called to the forge; The fire of the anvil has tongs for a son; Granulated flour is much better Than a simple meal!9 Our respects!

The hoof beats of the horse are preordained; The rider of the horse sets the cornerstone;10 The king is my companion, as far as the wall; I helped the king curse his sons;11 Our respects!

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No time for water, the warrior bathes in blood; His game won’t flavor our soup.12 The enemy swallows arrows but shits straw; War is indeed among life’s pleasures;13 Our respects!

The shelter of the Pardoner comes up soon; Guide the stranger, clear him a path.14 The speckled goat wears my pelt; So let’s make a shoulder bag.15 For the goat is the panther’s sister; The left hand carries the rod of fire;16 We stalk the elephant, For two more days; The pancreas gives heartburn;17 The longer the hair, the greater my power; I carry the belt, you watch my pelvis;18 The dyeing well is turned toward the sky;19 Green cotton is hung on the wall.20 Our respects!

The woman of justice need not flatter; The impudent lover incurs her wrath.21 The sacred hatchet prophesies ill-tidings.22 The wind of Guiloungou divides up men;23 The lips of the mask refuse to smile;24 Pick up the rod, whip the man down.25 Wake up in the morning, invent the day!26 Loosen up the bit, hold tight the drum!27 Our respects!

Knock around the man, hammer at his heart;28 Increase your strength, seek out your neighbor!29 Early in the morning, call upon God!30 At the setting of the sun, display your power;31 Drink up beer, but not with yeast;32 Gaps in the teeth ruin the smile!33 Our respects,

To our fathers! Our respects, To the ancestors! Our respects, To the gods of the earth!34 The sons of Kadiogo Now salute!35 And give praise! And give praise! And give praise!36 The waters of Kadiogo! The waters of Zambelongo! The waters of Paspanga! The waters of Warmini! The waters of Koumdayonré! The waters of Segrima!37 That salute! And give praise! And give praise! And give praise!38 Ouagadougou!39 Do not fear, For the future! Its immensity Need not give Vertigo!40 Do not fear, For the future! Do not fear, The wind Of Mankongdougou!41 If the hearth Grows cool!42 Do not fear, For the future! If the dogs, Stray off!43 Do not fear For the future! The future, Takes care of itself!44

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Do not fear For the future! Our respects! Our respects! Our respects!45 Sons of the brave, Sons of the brave!46 Kadiogo Is still alive; A long life, Listened to the counsels!47 Sons of the brave! Of the brave now dead, But there remains Of the brave!48 Kadiogo Is still alive A long life Listened to the counsels. The date of the cataclysm Is not in past annuals,49 And the thorn-bush Is upon the path; If it doesn’t tear the pants, It’ll tear the shirt.50 The wasp is hidden In the shrubbery; For those who dig inside, A clot on the neck A knot on the head.51 Swelling on up Into the sky, A crimson red Invades the place52 Kui gave birth The Constipated Bowels; The Constipated Bowels Look up your bunghole.53 Sons of the brave! Kadiogo Is still alive! A long life

Listened to the counsels!54 Go then and grow, Go ahead and grow, Never mend your ways! The man of discernment, Loves his work.55 Vaccinate your child, Vaccinate your child, Welcome the vaccination! The man of discernment, Vaccinates his son!56 Takes his child to school! His child to school! Takes his child to school! The man of discernment, Opens the horizon for his son!57 Respect your brother! Respect your brother! Respect your brother! The self-respecting man Respects his likeness!58 Sons of the brave, Kadiogo Is still alive, A long life Listened to the counsels. Those who hide Seek the weeds!59 At Oubri Cemetery There are no ghosts!60 No constraints Ever stop death.61 The raised corpse Abandons his hut, The tomb’s his goal; The feet must be free So that we may see.62 If wealth Doesn’t satisfy men, Death itself Satisfies all.63

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If the elephant Skids There where he slides Is a ravine, There where he falls Is a dam; If the elephant Skids, The drum must Pause from its play.64 The bunghole of the chicken Doesn’t think before shitting! On the bed Of the village chief, A chicken once left A pile of shit, And it splattered; Yet there will be No punishment! The bunghole of the chicken Doesn’t think before shitting! It goes where it likes! On the bed Of the Queen A chicken once left A pile of shit, And it splattered; Yet there will be No punishment!65 Sons of the brave, Kadiogo Is still alive! Listened to the counsels. Whatever is blunted Seeks the tongs.66 The thread of intrigue Seeks the thread of chains!67 The old crocodile Seeks the river!68 The sprouting stalk Seeks the sky!69

The herb of the savanna Seeks low terrain!70 The old cooking pot71 Seeks three big rocks;72 Because, Crotch-rot never strikes The donkey;73 The clap never strikes The dog;74 Mildew never strikes The hoe!75 From the moment that a woman Gets her time of month When she must look For a great big rag!76 Sons of the brave! Kadiogo Is still alive, The long life Listened to the counsels!77 Perjury comes first In the trial, Death finds itself Invigorated.78 The vile sickness was first In the trial; Death found itself Invigorated!79 The credo of death, Never backslides; The cost is Life!80 The cup of death Knows no price; Those who drink, Never get sleep; Do not pay heed To those who imbibe.81 If the son of the mist Pierces the rising sun, The planters lay down Their working tools!82

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Corpses don’t fetch Much of a price;83 The stigma of death, Never grows dim!84 Death can’t plant Much of a crop, Even dried herbs live In anguish.85 If diarrhea strikes, One must hurry Toward the bush!86 Sons of the brave Kadiogo Is still alive Its life is long Listened to the counsels!87 So go plant! Go ahead and plant, Stay hunched over! The man of discernment Loves his work!88 Does not strike Fires in the savanna Fires in the bush Fires in the forest! The man of discernment, Is no pyromaniac!89 Never splits green wood! Never splits green wood! Never splits green wood! The man of discernment Never chops what’s green! Never massacres90 Wild animals! Wild animals! Wild animals! Wild animals! The man of discernment, Never massacres, What belongs to the wild!91 Sons of the brave!

Kadiogo, Is still alive The long life, Listened to the counsels! Sons of the brave Of the brave now dead, But there remains, Still the brave! Kadiogo Is still alive! The long life Listened to the counsels! Guide the stranger, And clear him a path!92 Arch in your rear Imitate the ass!93 Bend your trousers For the comely man!94 Go into the hills Become albinos!95 Gather up coal, Become a cat!96 Return to your home, Become the king!97 The evening star must fall, Before I return!98 For the lack of wood I warm myself at the pyre of bones!99 The faithful woman makes ready And I am gone!100 Sons of the brave, Kadiogo, Is still alive! The long life, Listened to the counsels! Stay and dry off, Until sunrise!101 Stay upon the branch, Like a ghost.102 When the sparrow-hawk Sees a throng He doesn’t beg off And send his son!

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He goes himself In person.103 The man journeys on, To amass!104 The termitary is, The work, Of two or three people; Add earth to the earth! If the termitary lives It gives to the earth! If it dies, It remains flat ground!105 The horse’s bed, Restore to the earth!106 Give to the earth!107 The little termitary Is the work, Of two or three persons.108 Add earth to the earth! The pail of drought Fears no neighbor, To scrape out the last few drops.109 Give to the earth! The great termitary The symbol of dwellings, Without help from outside!110 Give to the earth! In order that The head of the woman Is bruised In balancing itself.111 Give to the earth! Sons of the brave, Of the brave now dead, But there remains, Still the brave! Kadiogo is Still alive! The long life, Listened to the counsels, So go plant!

Go ahead and plant, Stay hunched over! The man of discernment, Loves his work!112 The truth cannot be buried! Doesn’t hide the truth! Always follows the truth. The man of discernment, Loves the truth!113 Doesn’t neglect The culture of the people! The culture of the people! The culture of the people! The pathway Of the people’s conscience Rests upon Culture!114 King of building up, King of edifying, King of prosperity.115 The woman drank Wild plum juice. There where she imbibes Is a wet season.116 King of building up The toad Doesn’t leap Backward!117 If the branch Blossoms Blossoms Blossoms It must not forget Its roots Its roots.118 Sons of the brave, Be Magnanimous! Be tolerant! The man of discernment Also knows how To forgive!119

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Sons of the brave, Sons of the brave! Sons of the brave! Of the brave now dead, But there remains, Still the brave! Kadiogo Is still alive! The long life Listened to the counsels!120 May God preserve the wells So that the toads Always frolic!121

—Manéga, January 4, 1994

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

Thanks to Edgard Sankara for his help in editing the Moré translations. CHAPTER NOTES

1. When all serious rituals begin, the biggest drum plays a rhythm, with the sound carrying for approximately 5 kilometers. Then the drum announces its call three separate times; after the third call, the crowd should be completely assembled and ready to listen. The three movements of the drum signal that the messages that follow, important announcements or other news, require their utmost attention. The French version of this text (as well as the Moré version) is a faithful and complete transcription of this poem’s instrumental performance in the sacred drum language of the Moogo-Naba of Ouagadougou. This language is not commonly known among the Mossé people but is a language of initiates, a ritual language of the instruments. The basic principles of its composition are alluded to in the introduction to the poem. For more in this regard, see Ouédraogo, “La poésie des griots”; Pacéré, Le langage des tam-tams et des masques en afrique; and Pacéré, Bendrn Gomde / Parole et poésie du tam-tam. Note that the literal translation of Saglego is “counsels” or “counsels of the heart,” implying here advice that is essential to preserve life and build society in the Sahel. The language originates in the drum, but the spirit is that of an elderly father addressing his son, conveying his great wisdom and experience. 2. First, the drum pays homage to the hierarchy of descent, which shows the importance of one’s duty to family. It is crucial to be aware that the (Moré) words Saamba or M’ba (in English, “father”) include a parentage far greater than one’s immediate or temporal parents (as well as grandparents) but also

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one’s parents in space: among the Mossé, the uncle and the father are more or less equivalent inasmuch as they are situated within the same generation. 3. The ancestors signify the beginnings. Quite often, one must go back nearly 1,000 years to ascertain who is meant; that is, to the coming of the Mossé to the territory (the ninth or tenth century of the common era). The drum pays homage to the first people, the builders of Mossé society. 4. The Tempéelem (gods of the earth) is a god who protects a specific region; such gods faithfully watch over each administrative constituency. 5. The drum pays homage to those who hold political power, and to all those who share in the responsibility of governing society. Implicitly, the drum solicits authorization from those who govern before addressing itself to the governed. 6. Besides moral or spiritual organs, blacksmiths are named before all other physical persons, even before those who hold power. The blacksmith plays a key role in many African societies. Among the Mossé, it is the blacksmith who forges the tool (dabah, or hoe) for planting the millet that feeds even the chief; thus, the blacksmith presides at the origin of life itself, its very possibility. For this reason, he is cited as first among the people; the drum pays him due homage. 7. The Zabyouré (call to arms, motto, symbol) of the blacksmiths. In making reference to the sacred furnace, homage is paid to the blacksmiths themselves. It should be remembered that the Zabyouya are conventional formula or fixed phrases; within the context of the introduction to the poem, their significance depends upon their connection to the blacksmiths and the homage paid to them. 8. The Zabyouré of the blacksmiths: because the motto appears in the introduction, its function is to pay homage, little more. Note, however, that this motto implies that famine itself cannot kill the blacksmith because he still has in his possession the tools of his trade (being made of metal, the anvil and hammer will not grow thinner during times of famine). 9. All these phrases are the Zabyouya (plural) of the blacksmiths. Beyond paying homage to the blacksmith, their actual meaning is not really significant; what is important is the reference made. Nevertheless, to better understand the mottoes, I mention in passing that blacksmiths must extract ore from the earth-reddened hills; in the course of their work, their skin is reddened, like the skin of albinos. To smelt the ore they use coal that is as black as a cat’s fur, specifically, a race of cats known among the Mossé. When the blacksmiths mount their high forge, signifying their superiority in relation to the chief, they do not descend to salute the chief but may content themselves with beating upon a metal object, this sound being their salute. The work of the forge is arduous; women are not permitted at the fire; to quench their thirst, the blacksmiths call their most beautiful wives to bring them water. From the perspective of the actual work of the blacksmith, after he creates the anvil, he must create tongs to hold the other materials. From a cultural perspective, the blacksmith is called Rizâanr-biiga, or “son of the hammer”; that is, the product of the forge. Even if the blacksmith assumes another place in society, his life is above all guaranteed by the forge. Granulated flour goes a lot further than a simple meal. Thus, in the introductory material, the drum recites a simple litany of the mottoes of various social bodies; the purpose is to pay homage.

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It should not be forgotten that the language of this poem belongs to the drum, not to the spoken word. To further complicate matters, it is a language of fixed formulas, constituted by phrases that are often difficult to follow: the technique of the refrains serves to indicate a transition for those who listen. 10. When the drum concludes its address to an assembled body, it pronounces the ritual phrase of homage before addressing a new body; to avoid monotony, it may enumerate several different bodies in advance. Here the drum pays homage to the pure Mossé; that is, the early conquerors of the ninth century. The horse made possible this military triumph and thus remains an important symbol of strength and political power. When one speaks of the horse, one speaks of the Mossé themselves; the horse helped to establish the Mossé capital, and its very name is a symbolic reminder of Mossé origins. Hence, they are a “cornerstone” of Mossé society. 11. After the king, the drum pays homage to the king’s attendants, the sogonè or those who are near the king, dressed as girls or servants. The wall that is referred to in this line could be the sacred wall behind which the king (and only the king) performs the rites of the ancestors; it might also be quite simply the wall behind which the king retires to perform natural bodily functions. The attendants are confidants and men held in esteem by the chiefs. They may fearlessly criticize the princes for the sake of their education. The Zabyouya concern the normal attendants of the chiefs; homage is paid to them collectively, as soon as it has been rendered to the chiefs. 12., 13. The drum pays homage here to the bowmen (Tansoba) of the war chiefs; they are the warriors and ministers of war—men who are feared by Mossé enemies. It is important to note that the minister of war resided not in the capital but at Tensobintinga (in translation, “the village of Tansoba,” the Mossé military center situated 27 kilometers outside Ouagadougou), and his arrival in the capital was strictly regulated. The distance was significant, for the quickest means of transportation was by donkey or horse. The army itself consisted largely of infantrymen, who marched on feet. The minister of war rode upon a donkey. The Zabyouya of Tansoba always speak of bravery. Born in combat, its citizens could not even spare time to fetch water for their baths; instead, they “bathed in the blood” of Mossé enemies (poetic hyperbole). Such enemies were “fair game” for the warrior, who nonetheless never ate his prey (cannibalism being forbidden); the dead body of the enemy had to be respected. The body of the slain enemy, having “swallowed” the arrows of Mossé warriors, naturally decomposed into the earth, thus “excreting straw.” The final line of this Zabyouré acknowledges how human warfare can be experienced as pleasurable. Note again that the drum remains in an introductory mode. In this context, the actual meaning of this Zabyouré is of secondary interest. 14. The drum pays homage here to a public functionary called the Weemba or “pardoner”; even the supreme ruler could not exercise this right (see Pacéré, Ainsi, on a assassiné tous les mossé). A counsel existed that could even authorize the king’s execution for serious offenses. Only the ministry endowed with the right of pardon could obtain a stay of execution for the king. Certain Naba (kings) were executed for high treason, hence the importance and power of the ministry endowed with the right of pardon. The chief, out of selfinterest, would not dare to refuse the Weemba’s petition. Eventually, and for

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greater efficacy, this ministry was conferred upon women; thus the Weemba of Goé, in Oubritinga, has been a woman for several centuries. The Zabyouya (mottoes) of politicians often reveal their jealousy and frustration, but the Zabyouya of the ministry of pardon, which plays such a crucial role, often denote humor, love, even obscenity. It is said that the Weemba, or pardoner, clears a path through the wilderness for the stranger; that is, the pardoner provides hope to the wrongdoer, who is like a person lost in the bush. The drum pays homage to this ministry, symbolized by the pardoner, the person who rehabilitates other people. 15., 16. The drum pays homage here to a public functionary called the poé-Naba, or “private counselor”; the poé-Naba sought counsel from a plate containing a liquid (laaga). The fetishes that enable his double vision are kept in a shoulder-bag sewn from the skin of a panther: if no panther-skin is available, a speckled goatskin may be substituted. In his left hand, the poé-Naba carries a metal rod, a symbol of chastisement. This minister was the most detested because his sentences, often quite extreme (including the death penalty), could not be appealed; happily, the poé-Naba was rarely consulted. 17. The drum pays homage to the hunters in two Zabyouya concerning them. 18. The drum pays homage to the soothsayers, the sect of the Bagba who cast cowrie shells to read the future. After their initiation, they no longer wash their hair; the only time their hair gets wet is in the rain; their hair grows long, dirty, and matted. The older the soothsayer, the more powerful and respected he or she becomes. When they dance at court, the soothsayers wear a large, fringed belt (Wallé), which conforms to their buttocks, accenting the motions of the upper thighs and pelvis. 19., 20. The drum makes reference to the dyers, those who mix the indigo plant (garga) in their special wells to dye the cotton and then spread out the dyed cotton to dry in the sun. Note that these are fixed formulas that the drum relies upon in paying homage, hence the uneven style of this esoteric language. 21., 22., 23. The drum pays homage to the Gnougnossé, the original inhabitants of the region before the coming of the Mossé in the ninth century C.E. The Gnougnoossé were sometimes directly colonized, sometimes driven northward toward those even earlier inhabitants, alternately called the Kibissi, the Ninissi, or the Dogon, according to the region. The Gnougnoossé were also called Tingin-Bissi, or “sons of the earth,” because they predate the Mossé. Though the Mossé colonized the Gnougnoossé, they preserved their spiritual essence, which is evident in certain family names such as Sawadogo (cloud) or Sebgo (wind). The mottoes similarly make reference to “lightning” or “storms,” which can serve as a means of vengeance, especially the lightning that kills at a distance; for the Gnougnoossé, the Bug-lare (hatchet of fire or sacred hatchet) was a symbol of the lightning flash and thunderclap. The court of the Gnougnoossé was centered at Guiloungou, Sawaana, and Seseko, their main capitals. Thus, the drum pays homage to a terrifying spirituality, a form of justice that always means death. 24., 25. After acknowledging the Gnougnoossé, the drum pays homage to the wearers of sacred masks, those with hardened faces. This constituency uses a whip cut from the ritual tree, the ganga, which is in fact the same tree relied upon by the dyers (the indigo tree). 26., 27. The drum displays the glory of itself, its order; it thus displays the

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glory of the “lettered” people, the people of culture. The Bend-Naba, or the chief of the Bendré (drum made from a calabash), is the chief of the griots. He must transmit the culture of the people. One day each year (the first day of the new year), he must render the genealogy of the empire in the presence of all; at each periodic rendering, he shows who has positively benefited from previous genealogical transmissions and who, on the contrary, failed to understand them. He also reveals those who have brought curses upon the people. Finally, he relies upon the genealogy to show what will come to pass in the present year. If he errs in any of the basic principles of recitation, he will be put to death within forty-eight hours by the authority of a special counsel. Thus, it is the BendNaba who orients the life of the people; for this reason, the griot, or the person of culture, is not merely a secondary figure but is positioned at the very center of society. The griot enjoyed a status even greater than the king’s, hence the expression that he rises each morning to invent the day; he awakens before all others and defines the day for all people. From a day-to-day perspective, the Bend-Naba awakens the king each morning at the court of the Moro-Naba, thus orienting life’s essentials for the entire day. In this motto, the centrality of the man of culture is affirmed. He is honored by the drum. It should be noted that the Bend-Naba, the king of the drum, is responsible for carrying the Bendré (drum made from a calabash). If the king travels by horseback, the Bend-Naba must follow suit. This is awkward for him, and he is often thrown off-balance during travel, but even if he is completely knocked off his horse, he must disregard his own person. Even in cases of extreme danger, he must first ensure the drum’s safety. No matter what the personal risk, he must first attend to the culture of the people, the interests of the community rather than his own small life—a life that is but a happy accident of chance. The drum pays homage here to the griots, the people of letters, in citing their mottoes. 28. The drum pays homage to the people of Dapoya, who are descendants of the captives of the throne but not lowly slaves. One of their Zabyouré is “Rim Yembd yiid Naam,” or “the king’s slave is more exalted than the men of power” or “more exalted than the chiefs.” Their chief was made minister of the court; the Dapoya are charged with executing the condemned; their symbol is the cudgel; and they push their victims around before beating them to the ground. They kill them by a blow of the cudgel to the chest, near the heart; hence, their motto is “knock down and hammer at the heart.” One must never disfigure a person. 29. The drum pays homage to the Yarsé, the merchants of the empire; the method of the Yarga (of which Yarsé is the plural) is to borrow from a neighbor (now the banks) and then make this loan bear fruit in time by exploiting it as fully as possible. In ancient times, the Yarga sought the traveling companionship of an older, more experienced trader, apprenticing themselves before reaching full independence. Hence, this Zabyouré pays homage to the traditional merchants. 30. The drum pays homage to the Muslims of the Empire; this Zabyouré makes reference to the morning call-to-prayer of the muezzin. Again, the importance is not so much in its actual meaning but rather in the homage it pays to this constituency. 31. It is important not to assume any connection between this motto and

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the previous one, which would distort the meaning of both. Note that the drum is still in the introductory mode. Here the drum makes reference to the Peulhs (or Fulani), who are the cattlemen of the empire. At night time, the Peulhs round up the herd, which is the source of their power. Note that, by custom, the Mossé do not handle cattle. It is therefore erroneous to establish any connection between the previous Zabyouré and this one. 32. The drum pays homage to twins. The Mossé have always feared twin children, who are regarded as djinn, or “spirits.” According to custom, twins are not allowed to drink “spirits” (or alcoholic beverages), which would only increase their power; the fear is that under the influence of alcohol, their destructive potential could not be contained. 33. The drum pays homage to the Zamsé, or the “bats,” a body of conquerors who take the bat as their symbol. This group is made up, most notably, of a Ouagadougou family named Goughin. They are often misunderstood and are considered eccentric, like the bat which, contrary to human behavior, spends the largest part of its time with its head facing the ground and its feet in the air. The drum pays homage to all, even to those it does not hold in high esteem; it thus passes each in review; afterward, it presents itself to the assembly and identifies the object of its summons. Note that all the Zabyouya, or mottoes, can be found in Pacéré’s general work on drum language, Bendr N’Gomde, or Parole et poésie du tam-tam, which was written after fourteen years of research recording more than 2,000 hours of cassettes, reel-to-reel tapes, videos, and film. 34. See notes 2–5. Since this language is drummed and not spoken, one basic technique of expression that helps the interlocutor to follow along is to return to key departure points or refrains. This repetition of the refrain signals the end of the introduction; a new idea will follow. 35. The presentation of the actors; here, the performing drums present themselves to the assembly: they are the children of Kadiogo. In fact, it is normal protocol to designate a group by their administrative district of origin. It is not then a matter of singling out specific individuals but identifying them according to their administrative district and their honor and courage. 36. At this stage, the drums (the actors of the message, the authors) seat themselves in Mossé fashion to salute all; at each “our respects” or “and give praise,” they prostrate themselves. The actors here are all men; if the drummers were women, the salutation “their respects” would be made four times, the number four being the sign of the feminine sex and three the sign of the masculine sex. 37. These are customary districts in Ouagadougou through which flows the Kadiogo River (Kaad-Yoogo). 38. See notes 34 and 36. 39., 40., 41., 42., 43., 44. These are the Zabyouya (mottoes) of Ouagadougou, ancient “capital” of the powerful organization of the Mossé. From its origins in the ninth century, the empire did not fear its neighbors. Only colonization, with its howitzer canons in 1896, was able to totter it; previously, there was a strong centralization in which everyone and everything was assigned its place. The Zabyouré of note 41 alludes to the mysticism of the

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Gnougnoossé who administered justice by wind, lightning, and storms; the Zabyouré of notes 42 and 43 alludes to the decline of the empire; if embers glow under the cooking pot, the dogs will not stray too far. The implication is that the “embers” of Mossé greatness still glow despite the fall of the empire; thus they could be rekindled. This hope keeps “dogs” around. 45. See notes 34 and 36. 46. The Mossé think of themselves as Burkinabè, that is, people of great moral integrity, a title that is earned in daily struggle. They will refuse to the point of death any attempts to subvert or humiliate the high moral principals that guide their life, work, and homeland; the refrain can also be translated here as “children of the upright,” descendants of valorous people, and so on. This refrain is a well-established formula; I remind the reader that the drum does not improvise or invent phrases; it selects them ready-made from the mottoes, the Zabyouya; the drum phrase is puzzle work. 47. The Zabyouré of Vaagtenga in Oubritenga is relied upon here: “Vaagtenga is ever-living.” This motto is true because Vaagtenga people faithfully adhere to the counsels of the drum; these are Zabyouya of prudence in conduct and wisdom in life. 48. Notes 46 and 48 repeat the same fixed formula of drum language, signifying that if upright people enjoyed success in the past, it is equally possible in the present time for good people to prosper. Society need only follow their path, the path of happiness, disregarding the cynics of each new generation. 49. “The bar across the door keeps a tight hold upon people” is the Zabyouré (motto) of a district in Guié; it means that the people of this district are always prepared for every possible adversity; the announced theme indicates an impending drama. 50. The Zabyouré of the earth of Zida, indicating the looming dramatic conflict. 51. The Zabyouré of the region of Tenkodogo, warning against the unnecessary provocation of misfortune. 52. The Zabyouré of Badnogo, warning against a misfortune on the near horizon. 53. The Zabyouré of the village of Koui: the idea is that all people should protect themselves against certain curses. I have often emphasized that drum language is frank, often very obscene. Because it is not spoken but played upon the drum, only the initiated can understand it; the immature are thus protected from its meaning. See Pacéré, Bendrn Gomde, the introduction and other sections related to the minister Weemba (pardoner). 54. Refrain of the Zabyouré of Vaagtenga (see note 47). 55. These are the counsels on the basic principles of happy and tranquil living, which begin here by emphasizing the necessity of daily work. The Mossé live in one of the most arid and difficult regions in the world (the Sahel); life itself means constant toil without respite. The reader will note that the image of “the man of discernment” is philosophically rich as a teaching heuristic. Human beings should first orient themselves toward others and nature in seeking their own happiness; this defining principle of the Mossé dates back to the earliest days of Mossé society in the ninth century. 56. The terrible epidemics of the colonial and postcolonial periods (virus-

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es, yellow fever, cholera, etc.) and the corrective measures taken against them are now introduced within Mossé customs out of the necessity of preventing the further spread of such diseases. The songs speak ironically of the terrible itching from these pestilences and encourage the people to accept what is a much smaller humiliation, the vaccination. The refrain here reveals the fixed formula of the castanet songs. 57. The established refrains of the castanets on the necessity of teaching and education. 58. Fixed formula of castanet songs, replayed by the drums. The literal translation is only that the self-respecting person cannot detest his or her fellows. The formula speaks of fraternity, but fraternity in a broad sense, of one individual to another, of one people to another; from the perspective of this discourse’s formal utterance, the refrains are replayed by the ensemble of the drums. At the end of the refrain, the big drum (Taor-Saba, or “front drum”) relays the couplet, the discourse or basic theme, as a means of posing problems. 59. The Zabyouré from north of Manéga, suggesting that medication must be accumulated before it is actually needed; that is, where there are obvious limitations, one must taken proper precautions against them. 60. The Zabyouré of Oubriyaoguin (the cemetery of Oubri): the drama (of death) is fatal, and the problem is very real. Solutions that can contain it must be found in advance. 61. The Zabyouré of Sisyargo: one can do nothing against death’s finality; it is better to forestall its coming. 62. The well-known words of Kouda. I note that, from a cultural perspective, Naba Kouda is the greatest founder of Mogho, the empire of the Mossé; all his well-known phrases have endured throughout the ages. People of culture who speak in a traditional context can rarely recite a song or discourse of any length without citing a Zabyouré (motto) of Kouda or one of his wellknown sayings. It may be useful to refer to the work Bendrn Gomde at the section concerning Kouda and the section concerning Saponé, where he reigned (south of Ouagadougou). The reprisal of this phrase here signifies that no other solutions are possible at the coming of death; the Mossé do not cover up the feet of the corpse during funeral ceremonies; for them, although the living possess eyes at the level of the head, after death the eyes are displaced to the level of the feet. It is by the feet that the dead guide themselves to their final resting place, from where they respond to all questions during ritual interrogation. 63. The words of the Moro-Naba of Ouagadougou (nineteenth century) delineating the power of death and the necessity of doing everything possible to prevent it. 64. The Zabyouré of Konkistenga, emphasizing the power of death and the power of the diseases that weigh upon humanity. It is essential to do everything possible to prevent them. 65. The words of Naba Kouda (see note 62), still referring to the power of disease. Chickens sleep without worry, leaving their excrement everywhere, but no one kills them for their bad habits. This line signifies that the anus of the chicken is powerful, for it cannot be sanctioned; life thus brings with it misfortunes, hazards, and conflicts. What is essential is to be prudent and wise, seeking to prevent calamity before it occurs.

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66. The Zabyouré of Boalin: it is understood as “the blunt hoe,” “the worn-out hoe.” The Mossé are cultivators; thus, they refer to all working or metal instruments as hoes; if the hoe is worn out, it has need of the tongs to hold it again in the fires of the forge, thus remaking it into something sharp and useful. What is implied is the necessity of seeking outside assistance, anything that will help. 67. The Zabyouré of Souka, referring to the search for assistance, whatever is useful. 68. The Zabyouré of the region of Guié, referring to the necessity of seeking practical assistance. 69. The Zabyouré of Naba Simbdo of Zitenga, referring to the necessity of seeking help to avoid death. 70. The Zabyouré of Saponé, a special region that produces straw hats (kaansé), referring to a type of herb that can thrive only in regions with lowlying terrain, usually man-made. 71. The Zabyouré of Tiguemtinga: it refers to the big pots for preparing the sagabo, a staple food for the Mossé, which requires large pots that will break if they are not propped up by three big rocks below the fire. 72., 73., 74., 75. The Zabyouré of Guirgo: the idea is that the threat that disease poses (death) cannot be beaten back with rocks but with living and perishable matter. It is thus necessary that human beings, who are capable of great suffering and are of an intelligent and destructible nature, take proper precautions. 76. The Zabyouré of Baoguin: for the problem of an irregular cycle, a woman should find a solution rather than allow herself to die prematurely. 77. Refrain; see note 47. The refrain constitutes a “backdrop” of sorts, repeated by the ensemble of drums, thus leaving the development of the discursive theme to the big drum. 78. The Zabyouré of Nameguian: to ensure their well-being, the population of Nameguian had promised to perform this ritual at a fixed frequency, even upon pain of death. In the folly of their happiness, they once forgot this measure and were surprised by an epidemic, which decimated them in the ninth or tenth century (within this context, it is said that death had received its due). The Zabyouré of Nameguian demands of each person respect for the word given, above all, when it is a matter of life and death. It is intended to alert the listener to reality of an impending grave danger. 79. The Zabyouré of the markets of Ouagadougou: this Zabyouré should be taken as conditional; “if the villain of illness finds you unprepared, death is inevitable; thus it is essential to take precautions against it.” 80. The Zabyouré of a former Moro-Naba of Ouagadougou: it is not necessary to sign a pact with death or to make an agreement with danger, for one will end up paying with one’s very life; thus, one should not leisurely amuse oneself with what may be fatal. 81. The Zabyouré of Sisyargo: it is ill advised to make sport of death or to idly laugh at danger, for unhappiness and death will follow. The right to live must be earned, for life is a fight without compromise. 82. The Zabyouré of Noguin: the mist and fog symbolize for the Mossé the unknown or something that hides itself, even something evil. The Mossé, being a working people, say that the neglect of their hoes (or dabah, their

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“working tools”) is the worst of calamities; hard work is thus a safeguard against the unknown. 83. The Zabyouré of the region of Mané: a corpse is a totally useless object, not exchangeable. It is pointless to seek the company of corpses; they will offer no help in solving problems or shoring up potential solutions. 84. The Zabyouré of the region of Tenkogdogo: death leaves its mark; problems leave their mark; it is thus necessary to act before it is too late. 85. The Zabyouré of Naba Warga: the power of death worries even the well preserved. To avoid problems, it is therefore necessary to seek solutions in advance. 86. The Zabyouré of Yatenga: if one knows that one is ill, it is important to act quickly and find remedies. 87. Drum refrain from the Zabyouré of Vaagtenga; see note 47. 88. Refrain of the drums; see note 55. 89. Popular song of Manéga, passed down in drum language. 90. Popular song of Manéga, passed down in drum language; note that the word maas (green) here has a broad meaning within this context. It means “young” or not fully mature and therefore “innocent,” unable to commit any evil that merits personal injury. 91. Popular song of Manéga, passed down in drum language; it should be noted that the animals are referred to as “savage” because they live in the wild, not in towns or villages; because of this, it is unnecessary to seek their death. They are separate from us; such unnecessary killings would amount to a form of theft. The discerning person (the one who is not a fool) does not kill what belongs to the neighbors. 92. The Zabyouré (motto) of the Weemba (see note 14) concerns the stranger who rashly enters the bush. Only the foolish person brings problems upon himself or herself. The Weemba, as previously defined, is the minister charged with the right of pardon; this Zabyouré, taken from the Weemba, emphasizes the necessity of work, of being active in a positive way. One must be useful and thereby reduce the difficulties in life. 93. Another Zabyouré of the Weemba: what the Mossé fear most is humiliation. Here dishonor is symbolized by nudity. This reliance upon the Zabyouré of the Weemba emphasizes that one must work for the glory of one’s people, for the building up of one’s people, and for the defeat of famine and other calamities. 94., 95., 96., 97. This is the Zabyouya of the blacksmiths (see note 6 and those immediately following). The life of the blacksmith is connected with that of the convict or the slave laborer. He performs back-breaking labor, often searching fruitlessly for minerals and then crushing rocks, growing suffocated from the hot fires, and being blackened with coal; but once his work is completed (most importantly, the hoe, the main tool of all work), even the king will prostrate himself to the blacksmith to obtain the fruits of his labor. Thus, the blacksmith becomes a true king of the earth. The succession of these Zabyouya (mottoes) emphasizes how important it is that people work; their work defines them; the fruits of work are deeply appreciated and irreplaceable. 98., 99., 100. The Zabyouya (mottoes) of the hunters: the work of the hunter takes much time and is difficult. Part of the night, he must stay on a

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branch until morning, hoping to find game. Among the Mossé, one takes only one meal for the day (at night-time). Very often the hunter will be without shelter. The ensemble of mottoes borrowed from the hunter emphasizes that people should work because work is the source of both happiness and suffering. There is no other way to be happy. 101. The Zabyouré (motto) of Guirgo: a pretender to the throne of Ouagadougou who was not elected, took refuge within the zone of Guirgo and said “that he would stay put, until the rain stopped, until daybreak” (“Zind in koui, n teen d beogo”). Guirgo is a symbol of heroic fighters and protectors. The Zabyouré here emphasizes that it is necessary to work, to not get discouraged. 102. The Zabyouré of the hunters: see note 100. The emphasis here is on steadfastness in labor. 103. The Zabyouré of the region of Tèma, emphasizing that one should lend a hand, even in the face of a lawless mob (the meat of an animal killed by a lion, encircled by a troupe of carnivorous birds). One does not send inferiors to observe and bring back the goods back on one’s behalf; one must strike out on one’s own, supporting those who depend on one; one should work hard, for oneself and for others; one should not be a saprophyte or exploit others. 104. The Zabyouré of the blacksmiths (see note 6 and those immediately following; also notes 95 and 96): a person should always work. 105. The objective and the method of work are implied here. The Mossé represent society as a termitary: the termites are the citizens; the termites work in all seasons; that is to say, people find meaning only in daily work. They should always build upon the work of the ancestors, contributing to what they have already constructed; for if the termites ever stop working, it means the death of the termitary, the very disappearance of society. Thus, Pacéré’s own motto, signifying a specific line of conduct, “If the termitary lives to give earth back to earth.” 106. The Zabyouré of the Nakomsé, descendants of the first Mossé conquerors and retainers of political power: the horse is the symbol of dignity and power, and the place where one ties up a horse grows in importance from the activity, marches, and incessant movements of the horse. The point is that one must never be inactive; one must always work, build. 107. The refrain “Ning tan-paando”: “giving earth back to earth” means “working.” This refrain, Pacéré’s own motto, has become the hymn of the worker’s organization of Manéga, for the building of the region and for the Mossé contribution to the building of the nation. 108. There are several kinds of termitaries, even though all are based upon the same principles of construction. The little termitary may be no bigger than 50 centimeters high, whereas the largest may stand 5 meters high. The little termitary is grayish, whereas the big termitary is reddish. What is important is that, like the termitaries of varying sizes, each person must work according to his or her own measure, that which determines his or her possibilities. When the Mossé make reference to two or three persons, they imply many more. 109. The Zabyouré of Sonmdé: when confronted with pressing need, one should let go of unhelpful complexes. One should modify one’s plans as contin-

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gency dictates, according to necessity. The reader will note that the pail is in fact a calabash held up by liana and dropped to the base of the well with a rope for pulling out water. In dry seasons, during times of scarcity, there can be as many as eight pails together in the well, which is at most 75 centimeters in diameter. One often works shoulder-to-shoulder with others to gather this water; in three hours time, one may have drawn only one liter of water. 110. The reference here is to a special variety of termites, which are particularly powerful. If these termites begin to build within someone’s dwelling, that person might as well change houses, for these termitaries are so powerful that trying to dam them up is a waste of time. The Mossé call this termitary the Bimbilga. When a Moaaga builds his dwelling, he calls upon those nearby to help him lay the roof, for no single person can do it. The Bimbilga build their houses with no fear of their predecessors, nor do they call upon any neighbors to help them. The idea is that one must work hard and build up one’s country without fear and without relying upon exterior aid. A person (i.e., the country) should first rely upon his or her own abilities, doing everything possible and leaving the possibility of aid to the goodwill of outlying regions. 111. Among the Mossé, when a woman is content, she holds up her head in a balanced way (otherwise, she pouts). There are people who even carry the name of Guelbo, that is, “the harmonious” (well-balanced). A happy woman is a good sign that indicates a happy society. If a man works, he will obtain happiness. 112. See note 55; this is another refrain on work. 113. This is past tense in drum language. In contemporary times, the name “Touissida” (follow the truth) has become popular. In fact, it is the name of Pacéré’s little sister (see, “Quand s’envolent les Grues couronnées”). This name offers important counsel to upright people, the true citizens of any community: to build a better tomorrow, to build the future, the ancients say in this context that it is better to speak the truth and die of hunger than to lie for the sake of a meal. 114. A popular song titled “Toui Koudoumdé,” which means “stay true to the people’s civilization,” or “never neglect the people’s culture”: the point is that one must not underestimate the value of African civilization, not if really one wishes to build up Africa (see note 115). 115., 116., 117., 118. The reference here is to the Zabyouya (mottoes) of Pacéré and of Manéga. Whenever it expresses itself, the drum does not arrive at any conclusion without interpellating its interlocutor or the assistants who listen. By customary rites in October 1993, the ancients of Manéga awarded Pacéré the title “Manegr Naba,” that is, “king of the village’s edification” or “king of happiness building.” This was added to the motto already given to Pacéré on the termitary: “If the branch blossoms / Without forgetting / its roots,” or, any nation that wishes to build itself up must stay faithful to its cultural traditions. The motto’s reference to the leap of the toad implies that people should always be active, that they must always strive for progress to achieve happiness. 119. The word of the Weemba, the minister charged with the right of pardon. The reader will note the richness of the expression, “the man who knows himself knows how to forgive others.” Understanding and pity for all is essential between individuals as well as in the administration of the state. The reader

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will note that the drum wishes to finish this part of the counsels with the theme of the pardon, that is, the compassion or understanding essential in any discussion among people, especially those in power. For the Mossé, one should know to forgive because one never fully grasps all of life’s threads; one cannot completely and intimately know the heart of another. One must know how to forgive, fearfully respecting the fact that one too may make a mistake. The expression “Yi sougr soaba” emphasizes magnanimity, tolerance, and modesty. 120. Reprise of the main refrain supporting the drum’s discourse before the conclusion. 121. The Mossé live in the Sahel where water, as I have already said, is more precious than gold; the toad also needs water to survive. The Mossé identify themselves with the toad in their daily lives and in their cultural language; the well is therefore their hope. This fixed formula terminates all utterances of the drum. For this reason, the reader will find it again at the end of all Pacéré’s writings in Moré (Bendrn Gomde or Parole et poésie du tam-tam; Ri-zaar Biiga or L’artisan du Burkina).

5 Bendrology in Question l

Albert Ouédraogo

Recently, the Burkinabè literary world gained a new vocable that has inspired great curiosity and many questions. To further enhance its prestige, several television shows were aired over Burkinabè national television during the months of October and November 1988, all consecrated to its promotion. Titinga Frédéric Pacéré, who coined this new vocable, is well known within the African literary world. Poet emeritus of Burkina Faso, he has to his credit nearly a dozen poetry collections. In 1982 two were awarded highest honors in the category “Afrique Noire” by the Association des Écrivains de Langue Française. A prolific author, Pacéré has also written on a wide variety of nonliterary subjects, including law and sociology. A man of culture, he has actively sought to preserve Mossé traditions, assembling some thirty-three volumes and converting Manéga, his native village, into a cultural sanctuary. In his six-volume work, entitled Bendrologie et littérature culturelle des Moosé, Pacéré attempts to rethink numerous concepts and ideas about African culture that poorly communicate its deeper realities. His intention is highly laudable and indeed contributes to the “decolonization of concepts.” The following article offers an analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of Pacéré’s approach: it aims to provide simple clarity, eschewing the complacency that comes from the uncritical endorsement of popular oral expressions of the Mossé. Additionally, this article seeks to delve more deeply into issues raised by Pacéré, who himself invites such reflections in his book: “We have chosen to frame the present Reprinted from Ouédraogo, Albert. “La Bendrologie en question,” Annales de l’Université de Ouagadougou (Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso) (1988): 153–167. Translated from the French by Christopher Wise and Edgard Sankara.

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study,” Pacéré states, “with the sole aim of providing a foundation for further research and more in-depth analysis” (Bendrologie et littérature culturelle des Moosé, p. 22). Pacéré seeks in his writings to be scientific, as affirmed in the following citation: We have attempted here to articulate a philosophy of Mossé cultural expression, of Mossé languages in a broad sense: this was our goal from the start, in gathering data, in meeting with informants, and in assembling materials contributed by friends of this work; thus, we sought to unveil a comprehensive philosophy at its deepest source, to be consistent in this effort, and to postpone more academic and possibly clumsy sorts of research that might damage its deeper unity of origins. (pp. 22–23)

A priori, this strategy is highly appealing, and there is no reason why it should not be adopted. However, as I get further into his book, as Pacéré’s argument begins to take a more precise form, many of the attitudes that inform his approach begin to seem suspect. The scientific character of scholarly research consists precisely in the separation of subject and object: researchers must do everything possible to ensure that their findings will not be tainted by their subjectivity. Neutrality, the pledge to pure objectivity, is the hallmark of scientific research, even after Bronislaw Malinowski’s theory of the participant-observer. This is so regardless of the fact that observers can never finally disengage themselves from the objects they observe. In Pacéré’s work, the permanent mandate that researchers must maintain a certain distance between themselves and the object of their analysis is largely disregarded. In fact, the author deliberately refuses to be critical: the beliefs of traditional Mossé society are identical with his own! The author equally does not refrain from indulging in a certain lyricism of diction, offering us a highly stylized and symbolic approach that is not really appropriate in scientific research. For this reason, certain passages of this work leave the reader somewhat skeptical. For instance, Pacéré writes: “The literature of the Mossé of West Africa originates within a polymorphous culture: men can be drummers and spectators at the same time. The free man is indeed a happy one, but the happy man is always a free one” (p. 581). Our final caveat, though by no means the least significant in terms of the author’s methodology, is Pacéré’s marked refusal to employ outside textual resources. “[W]e have made no references to any prior studies,” Pacéré states, “other than to our own literary works, works to which we necessarily refer readers whenever appropriate” (p. 22). All

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science evolves by building upon previous knowledge. For that reason, we do not need to perform research today to know if the earth revolves around the sun. By simply dismissing all literary works other than his own, the author risks knocking upon doors that have long since been opened by others. These opening remarks bring me to the proper subject of this essay, the two problematic concepts of bendrology and cultural literature. Pacéré alternatively defines bendrology as a science; as methodological studies; and as modes of thinking, of speaking, and of using rhetorical figures related to the bendré drum, to the culture of the drum, or to the culture of African drum messages. At the very least, Pacéré’s definition is quite verbose! To synthesize, I say that the term bendrology designates all studies that have for their object the bendré (a drum made from a calabash). According to the logic of this definition, if I wished to be polemical, I might argue for a science entitled lungologie, which would have for its object the lunga (the armpit drum), or ruudgologie, which would have for its object the ruudga (the vielle drum). But, to be less facetious, I situate the birth of this term within its proper historical setting. Most likely, this term was triggered by the colloquium “Traditions orales et nouveaux media” (Oral Traditions and New Media) that was organized during the international film festival, Festival Panafricain du Cinéma de Ouagadougou (FESPACO) in 1987. Among the numerous participants at this colloquium were the Ivoirians Niangoran Bouah and Niangoran Porquet, one the father of drummologie, and the other the father of la griotique. In the course of the ensuing debates, the latter even stated that Pacéré’s work on talking drums, which had not yet been named bendrology (bendrologie), could be situated between drummologie and la griotique! In fact, bendrology and drummology are remarkably similar, though Pacéré criticizes the word drummologie for its extrinsic and inauthentic character: “We have sought to develop a word, a concept (bendré) that originates within profoundly African realities and offers a truer image of Africa and its key role in bringing this genre into the world” (p. 20). Pacéré seems to confer upon the bendré special qualities and attributes. It is important to bear in mind, however, that in Moré, the term bendré equally means the instrument as well as the instrumentalist. From a stylistic perspective, Pacéré’s usage of this term is metonymic; more precisely, the term bendré should be grasped as subordinate to the vocable of bend-weeda, that is, the player of the calabash drum. So Pacéré’s usage of this term would seem to imply a reversal of subject and object, of the possessor and the possessed. In other words, the

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instrument is granted abilities that in fact belong to the instrumentalist. This preamble is crucial in understanding what will be proposed in the argument below. Pacéré, endorsing the concession traditionally granted to the BendNaba, “chief of the players of the bendré,” casts his lot with the instrument (the calabash drum) to the detriment of the person who is actually called upon to play it. The man of letters is therefore the “first man” in society; it is he who awakens before all others, “to invent” the day, to create anew, to give meaning to the seasons for others; in other contexts, the Bend-Naba is on an equal-footing with the Minister; we do not therefore refer to the exotic griot of the imagination, who is connected to simple folklore. To guard his power and independence, the Bend-Naba was one of a few State functionaries. (p. 50)

This passage is crucial to understanding Pacéré’s conception of bendrology and cultural literature. The author begins by refuting the term oral literature, which he regards as pejorative and paternalistic: Because the Occident, or the so-called civilized world, cannot transcend its deeply entrenched beliefs, cannot get beyond the stages of speaking and writing, it is commonplace to hear the totality of African literature misunderstood, dismissed, or prostituted, for having “defects” that are calculated to maintain patronizing distinctions, perpetuating the ignorant cataloguing of entire cultures. (p. 140)

He advocates instead the term cultural literature, which he defines as follows: Africa’s profound, nonwritten literature has need of another term rather than this partial, pejorative, and iconoclastic vocable called “oral literature,” a vocable which perpetuates the false assumption that Africa was in some way deficient, unable to develop writing. (p. 139)

Pacéré’s theoretical position and methodology are based in the fact that musical instruments and bodily movements may form a kind of literature. This explains his use of the expressions “literature of the drum,” “literature of music,” “literature of the castanets,” “literature of the silsaka,” and “literature of dance and movement.” Before we extend our analysis any further, it may be appropriate to pause for a moment to consider a question that has been posed many times, but never fully resolved; that is, how do we define the concept of literature? To paraphrase the title of an article by Robert Escarpit, what exactly is litera-

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ture (“qu’est-ce que donc la littérature?”). Such questions inevitably plunge us into a universe of careful nuances and distinctions. The notion of literature so highly valued among semioticians has enabled, for some time now, a few analytical techniques that may help explain the phenomenon of literature. Though I wish to avoid scholastic debates here, it may nonetheless be helpful to clarify the minimal conditions necessary for the existence of a literary artifact. It is undeniable that literature participates in the production of something specifically human: language! André Martinet defines language as “an instrument of communication enabling the analysis of human experience, which differs within every community, through established units of semantic content and phonetic expression, the monemes; phonetic expression is articulated in distinct and successive unities, the phonemes, which are numerically determined within each language” (Eléments, p. 7). Language and speaking would seem to be intrinsically human activities, if we may refer once again to Martinet: Language, the subject of the linguist’s work, always means the language of man. One should refrain from further equivocations, for the informal uses of this word that one makes are nearly always metaphorical: The “language of animals” is an invention of fabulists; the “language of ants” is hypothetical, not empirical; similarly, the “language of flowers” is a purely metaphorical expression. (p. 7)

What, then, do we make of language of the bendré? Before specifically addressing this question, it must be emphasized that the language of the drum in Pacéré’s writings necessarily eludes interpretive definitions, mostly because it functions as an unarticulated language. However, according to our perspective, literature is the daughter of language, and this is how we shall define drum language here. Literature is an art, albeit an “impure” one, that is transmitted through the powers of the word, describing individual or collective experiences within a fictional framework for a public that is able to make sense out of what it reads. We will not replay here the old debate regarding the existence of a literature that has not been written. Escarpit instructively writes: Literature seems to many not so much like a fixed frame of inscribed literary works but rather like an event in cultural communication. It is even more difficult in our era to delineate its limits, to register the many paths of cultural communication that have nothing at all to do with books. In the strict sense of the word, there is no such thing as oral literature, but in the era of audiovisual communication, it is exceedingly difficult to debunk this idea. (p. 14)

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In essence, literature belongs to the domain of subjectivity and for this reason is able to sustain emotion and pleasure, all things that we are unable to encounter in the exact sciences. Pacéré states, however, that “[t]he literature of the Mossé is very complex but reveals at its foundations, as we have always insisted, an exact science, a distinct language that does not equivocate” (p. 21). Nevertheless, we agree with Pacéré when he states that “literature among the Mossé has a foundation which both differentiates and distances it from ordinary language in common currency, from simple spoken language.” The first function of ordinary language is to communicate. Beyond that, literature serves an aesthetic function, opposing the purely literal dimensions of ordinary language with “a prolonged and resilient entropy” (Escarpit, Eléments, 14). Bendrology and cultural literature are closely related; the one conditions the other. After a cursory glance, one might assume that cultural literature designates the sum total of writings related to Moaaga culture; literature, then, would be understood as writing, including journalism, sociology, medical knowledge, literary works, and so on. However, in further listening to Pacéré, one soon grows aware that the term cultural literature means precisely the opposite. The term is a reaction against the widely used expression oral literature; in fact, it designates the totality of nonwritten African literature. In other words, oral literature is only a smaller constituent of cultural literature, which becomes spokesperson of all messages (oral, instrumental, and gestural) of Africa and finds its perfect realization in the bendré: “The literature of the drum is not a language but a language of languages” (Pacéré, Bendrologie, p. 38; his emphasis). Regardless of the fact that, for me, literature cannot exist outside language, Pacéré claims to the contrary that “in Africa, it is not only the spoken word which determines literature, but literature itself often determines the spoken word. . . . In this sense, literature is forged by the instrument, and not invented or elaborated upon by man, who may only accept it or submit to it” (p. 140). It is necessary to bear in mind that what Pacéré calls “instrumental literature” and “gestural literature” are, in fact, only secondary modeling systems whose function is to transport messages outside natural language. According to this order of ideas, the languages of the drum, flute, dance, and mask, must be considered as artificial ones without implying any devaluation of the messages that they transport. Following this line of reasoning, I inevitably conclude, with Niangoran Bouah and Pacéré, that drum language is not a form of oral literature, is not even literature at all, but is instead only a small constituent within a vast ensemble of tradition. Let us carefully consider the expression “language of languages”

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that is attributed to the “literature of the drum.” All literary critiques, or studies with language as their object, necessarily have recourse to a metalanguage. Pacéré’s “language of languages” would seem, then, to be like a second language that permits apprehension of other languages, the target or first languages. Seen in this light, drum language would appear to be a metalanguage of the Mossé or a vehicle that serves to render intelligible their distinct vision of the world. I purposely employ the conditional tense here, since all would maintain the belief that the artificial language of the drum must have the capacity to account for the basic principles of a natural language. Pacéré’s assertions go against the common belief that oral language preceded any other kind of language; he suggests a different vision that tends to reduce the impact of speech and of natural language in order to promote drum language: The study of the literature of the Mossé is reserved to specialists, and because its fundamental expression comes from drum-language, from the language of the instrument, the specialization is done mainly in relation to the instrument; the maneuverability of the latter one will determine the form of its expression. (p. 132)

One can conclude that the source of creativity in the literature of the Mossé is not to be found in language but rather in the beats of the drum. This is very important in understanding bendrology, as these general remarks show: “[I]n Africa, it is not only the spoken word that determines literature but, often, literature also determines the spoken word” (p. 140). As conceived here, literature is produced by the drumbeat. For Pacéré, cultural literature is independent from natural language, which it can still influence. Yet we should be aware that literature, besides its linguistic part, is also an act of creation. What is therefore creative in drum language? According to Pacéré, the drum contains words that are based on the mottoes (Zabyouya), the family names (Soanda), and the “longestablished literary expressions” (in fact, they are common sayings). The first two are utterances that are specially used to praise an individual or an ethnic group. Nevertheless, a few differences remain between them: whereas the motto is selected by voluntary and individual choice, thus demonstrating a certain physical and spiritual maturity, the family name is imposed upon an individual from birth, signaling that he or she belongs to a certain ethnic group. To come back to the question I asked before, I must say that, if creation there is, it can occur only during the earliest utterance of the mottoes, family names, and common sayings. Until proven wrong on this point (and I am supported here by field research; see Ouédraogo, Poétique), I maintain that the Zabyouya,

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soanda, and other common sayings need to have been uttered by natural language before they are produced by the drum. Chronologically, it is obvious that the oral sentence precedes the “drum sentence.” This can be easily understood when one considers that it is impossible to grasp the meaning of a thought without using a language or uttering words. I am forced to admit that drum language, far from being a creative work, is merely the musical reprisal of oral texts. Pacéré, however, states the following: The text, as it appears, reflects the sensibility, the knowledge, the style, and the mark of a specific man. To refuse to acknowledge this proof of creativity with the pretext that he is not the author of the Zabyouya, would be comparable to refusing authorial identity or rights of ownership to the novelist because he did not invent the words that he uses, but borrowed them from the dictionary. (pp. 135–136)

Comparison is not an end in itself, and I must insist here—with the exception of those cases in which the novelist commits plagiarism— that no legitimate comparison can be made between the novelist and the drummer, who merely echoes formulaic, oral expressions. Of course, novelists, like storytellers, do not invent new words if they want their message to be understood. Creativity must be looked for elsewhere, that is, in the unique combinations of words and in the setting of the plots, which will have the particular effect of giving birth to what did not exist before. I hope this point is not misunderstood: I am not attempting to minimize the importance and the value of drum language but instead place it in proper perspective. The drum creates sounds but not concepts: its language is a copy, subordinated to a musical arrangement, of mental concepts that are carried by spoken words. Thus, it is surprising that Pacéré claims that some special qualities may reside within the drum sentence: “The drum-sentence is not an ordinary one, made of Subject-Verb-Object complement . . . ; on the contrary, drum-language challenges the established rules of Grammar, namely those of European syntax. In drum-language, agreement between grammatical parts does not apply” (pp. 38–39). To make matters worse, such assertions are not supported by any plausible evidence; in some instances, the examples found in his book paradoxically contradict Pacéré’s original vision. To illustrate this point, I would like to quote the introductory message of the talking drums of Ouagadougou (p. 19). I also refer to the treatment of the theme of independence (pp. 35–36), to the yearly assessment made by the Bend-Naba (p. 49), to the genealogy of Manéga (pp. 52–54), to the mottoes of

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Ouahigouya (p. 62), and to those of the Naaba of Lallé. The language used in all these instances in every way complies with the rules of the Moré grammar, as their French translations correctly suggest. Logically, it could not be otherwise. The text in Moré is no more than the mere translation of a musical language that presents itself as the copy of tonemic structures of given sentences, all of which are produced on a drum. The drum sentence, being the musical reproduction of words that were used to make up mottoes, family names, and common sayings, cannot therefore be deemed “creative” in any viable sense. Drum language cannot be regarded as a literary work because, by merely repeating musical structures of sentences that preceded its production, it does not create at all in the true meaning of the word. In fact, in Pacéré’s own words, “The Naba Sebgo of Saponé chooses a motto that is repeated by the drums” (my emphasis, p. 69). Although I am behooved to deny drum language any possibility of creating literary works, I must nevertheless acknowledge that, in oral civilizations, especially in African society, it plays a very important role. Such a language is neither fortuitous nor gratuitous; it is subordinated to two complementary imperatives that have real binding ties between them. The first imperative resides in the technical apparatuses created by people in oral cultures in order to combat forgetfulness, thereby preserving their fundamental concepts of expression and enabling their very existence in the world. Thus, the language of the drum preserves against the ephemeral aspect of natural language, providing a certain consistency that it lacks (“Verbat volent, scripa manent”). Were it not for natural language that gives meaning to the drum beats, they will remain no more than mere musical sounds or, worse, plain cacophony. Following the example of written texts, the drum beats mummify and petrify words that will not, from then on, be accessible without decoding the musical sounds. In general, it is much easier to memorize an utterance that has been reproduced in a musical structure than to try to memorize the musical utterance itself. Therefore, drum language provides griots or the benda (genealogists) with a mnemonic device to aid them in carrying on the important but fragile mission to be the living memory of their society. The drum compensates for the natural and deadly lapse of memory with great efficiency: the tonal schema of the utterance produced on the drum or, better said, produced by the drummer, is immutable. Thus, the role of the drummer is to repeat these utterances, thereby preserving their original structure and freshness. For this reason, Niangoran Bouah’s drummological approach is more plausible than Pacéré’s because Bouah endeavors to find the missing links

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that will allow the unveiling of an important part of African history.1 By “missing link,” I refer to those buried words that only the drum beats can awaken within the memory of people by way of drum language. It is indisputable that the rhythmic beats of the drum have a deep and lasting impact on memory; Francis Lefebure refers to this as the “practice of rythmo-phosphenism.”2 The second imperative is what I call “the drum as a cultural vector.” By using mottoes, common sayings, and proverbs, drum language functions as a reservoir of cultural values that are indispensable in helping society define itself with reference to the world. These values are learned by a select category of men and women. In Pacéré’s writings, they have the character of secrets not to be divulged. The drum partakes of that esoteric spirit, and its mysterious beats, which cannot be deciphered by a layperson, are nevertheless clear to the initiated. If not necessarily a privileged language of the gods, drum language still transmits what is second best, the words of the ancestors, as in the case of the wilma, the secret language of masked societies. In order to distinguish between ordinary and profane characteristics of natural language, drum language intervenes as preserver of certain words; it thus endows spoken words with a sacred character. The rigidity of drum language is somewhat relative: in the case of genealogies, it must be harnessed according to its corresponding life precepts. This type of language evolves in relation to the progression of history, either accelerating or slowing down. Finally, Pacéré exaggerates the importance of the drummer of the bendré (this term is preferable to griot, which Pacéré misuses, and which does not correspond to the conception of this word used here). By a language abuse, which I find regrettable, Pacéré calls the drummer “a man of letters,” thus unwittingly adopting the Western conception of culture according to which only literacy can provide a person with knowledge and intelligence. The drummer, if I were to qualify him or her, is a “master of the word,” to paraphrase the title of Camara Laye’s book, Le maître de la parole: Kouma Lafôlô Kouma. The mastery of language is coupled with that of the instrument that echoes or supports the word. As I see it, the importance of the drummer should be situated at the level of oral rhetorical art, not at the political level, as Pacéré puts it: [T]he man of letters, contrary to what goes on in certain civilizations where he plays a secondary role, is placed here at the heart of public life; he is even situated at the same level as the Political power. To show that power, better said, that supremacy, a special language had to be invented for the use of the man of letters, a language that is independent from the common use of language. (p. 27)

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As I emphasized before, drum language is not and cannot be independent from language and words, which serves as its original ground. Thus, the role that is assigned to the drummer at the social level needs to be examined. I proceed by reading the mottoes referring to the drummer that are cited in Pacéré’s book. The drummer is referred to as “Yik pind n sing beogo,” which means that the bendré is solicited (even commanded) to get up early in the morning in order to start off the day. Therefore, one might see servitude where Pacéré, paradoxically, sees the bendré’s supremacy. In fact, what is more demanding than to be “the one who is the first to get up early in order to wake up the political authorities”? “Bas salbr n kolom tuko” is also one of the mottoes of the drummer; here, it is requested that the drummer give up the bridle and stick to the gourd that he or she uses as a drum. A study of the pauses in the mottoes shows the objective signs of the “fall” of the drummer. For what more can be requested of him or her than to give up any idea of ever becoming a king or queen? It is already known that political power in the Mossé group (called naam) is the prerogative of the Nakomse, a fighting people who are fond of riding horses. Roughly put, the true message of this motto is: “Everyone should mind his or her own business and should not go beyond what is assigned to him or her.” Political power must be reserved to the king only, and the drum remains the only claim for the drummer. In certain parts of his book, Pacéré seems to be aware of the bendré’s limitations, but he fails to draw the logical conclusions: If the horse causes the Bend-Naba to lose his balance, the latter must not try to hold on to the bridle in order to save his life, but he must rather grip his gourd, that is, the drum, the symbolic representation of culture. His life is of minor importance and is subordinated to the interest of the people, which determines all his actions (p. 51). The last motto mentioned by Pacéré is “Rim duudé t m kiend tenga,” which could be translated as, “It is not normal that I should walk while the king rides the horse.” Pacéré deduces from this motto that the “Bend-Naba is on an equal footing with the king” (p. 51). Such an assertion cannot hold because Pacéré takes into account only the point of view of the drummer. Paradoxically, when closely examined, this motto simply expresses the aspirations of the drummer, as the firstperson singular pronouns show (m meaning “I”); the preceding mottoes were structured as impersonal or imperative statements. If there is any comparison to be made, one might say that this last motto contradicts the preceding one (“bas salbr n kolom tuko”), which castigated the illegitimate claims of the drummer. Even though the drummer, above all

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the Bend-Naba (the master of the drummers), is an important figure, one should not forget that he or she is not recognized for nobility of blood. It is said that the first bendré was born from an incestuous relationship between a Moro-Naba (king) and one of his daughters. This explains why, despite his being close to the king, he must never forget his primary duties as well as his rank. In the past and in many courts, the drummer who employed the drum to recite the genealogy was not allowed to make any mistake. If he made a mistake against the most serious principles of social life, he was put to death immediately within forty-eight hours (p. 58). I am not saying that the Bend-Naaba is not allowed to make any suggestion on certain important decisions, but Pacéré surely exaggerates when he writes, “He [the Bend-Naaba] is even the one who dictates the decisions that must be made” (p. 50). The political power always takes certain precautions to protect itself from dangerous blows (coups); otherwise, how could one explain the fact that, originally, the drummers were exempted from work in the fields? One of the mottoes that expresses this situation well is “A pa kood” that is, “the one who does not practice agriculture.” A superficial reading of the texts might emphasize how an honor is shown to drummers in this instance, which is precisely how they prefer to understand it. However, the actual power relation implied by such a practice turns upon the drummers’ social disablement, the fact that they are incapable of feeding themselves and must rely upon the whims of the dignitaries. It is a truism that there is no real freedom until economic freedom has been achieved; thus, the drummer, far from being at the “heart” of the political power, is rather in its “stomach”! In concluding this study, which has endeavored to perform a critical analysis of a theoretical work and to contribute to the revival of our cultural heritage, I must acknowledge that Pacéré’s work is special because it does not leave its readers indifferent. His work even causes uneasiness, and it must be the role of the academic to pay special attention to these emerging subjects, which bring something new to intellectual inquiry. I must credit Pacéré’s work for reviving a certain knowledge, even though, at times, his approach is not free from some exaggeration. The passion that Pacéré has shown in his study of culture and in the protection of our national heritage must allow me to excuse him for his enthusiasm in frequently attacking those who, according to him, contribute to the degeneration of so rare and precious a value as Mossé culture. It would be useless to list all that Pacéré has done for the promotion and the magnificence of the culture of the Moogo. The solutions that he suggests for the revival of our authentic cultures are truly on the

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cutting edge. For example, he pleads for traditional bards to be associated with official ceremonies; he asks that some jobs be offered to those who sing for the promotion of culture; and he suggests that a school of drumming and other “talking” instruments be created, that a chair devoted to the study of bendrology be created at the University of Ouagadougou, and finally, that our children be taught such a language! Pacéré’s tireless efforts in nearly every significant cultural matter in Burkina Faso have led to the discovery of some great figures of our traditional music such as Gionfo, Lalle-Noaga, Bonnere, and Patenema, whose musical successes belong now to Burkina Faso’s heritage. If Pacéré’s work is not really “empirical,” it is nonetheless truthful in its own way. Some now call such work “bendrology,” but only because its true methodological tools have yet to be invented. NOTES

1. The unveiled centuries of life in precolonial Africa have created a big documentary mystery that constitutes a pedagogical obstacle for the anthropologists, sociologists, historians, philosophers, linguists, literary critics, musicologists, economists, archaeologists, and dramaturgists. This missing link might involve documentation that more accurately reflects the worldview and beliefs of the target populations who are under study. 2. Lefebure, Le Phosphénisme en Haute-Volta.

6 Animism, Syncretism, and Hardness: The Epic of Askia Mohammed l

Sean Kilpatrick Literature has existed in the Sahel since the Middle Ages in the form of manuscripts “rediscovered” by European explorers such as Heinrich Barth, Felix Dubois, and others in the nineteenth century. As stable texts, the medieval manuscripts Tarikh el-Fetach and Tarikh es-Soudan allow a comparison of both the histories and the sociocultural details that are given prominence in culturally parallel oral and epic traditions.1 The technology of writing, imported with Islam, spread from Timbuktu around 1150 C.E. and with it came implicit writing and reading tactics. Since this period covers a continuum that spans nearly 850 years, it is impossible to dismiss the effect that Islam has had upon West African thought, specifically the effects of Islamic hermeneutics. In contrast to nearly 1,000 years of Islamic influence, Western education and its different reading and writing biases have had less than a century to affect West African society. Western literary strategies and biases were introduced with the arrival of Western colonialism, and they remain a superficial overlay upon older and more established Arab approaches to reading and writing. The most obvious example of how the hermeneutic strategies between the West and Islam differ becomes evident in understanding the fundamental premise that the Quran is not the Quran unless correctly recited. The Islamic emphasis on the vocal articulation of the written word (reinforcing the priority of the oral) provided West African cultures with a powerful oral tradition, emphasizing the sacred nature of the correctly recited word. Within oral traditions, the griot similarly prioritized the spoken or oral-aural word rather than the spatialized text. Thomas Hale suggests that griots, as a specialized citizenry, are more akin to “wordsmiths” than the generally translated term bards (Griots, p. 114). Camara Laye defines griots in his novelized Son-Jara epic, as 87

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“guardian[s] of the word” who maintain their culture through an elaborate oral continuum. Hence, the traditions of the Sahel offer a particularly unique opportunity to see fundamental differences in the understanding of language between the (Eurocentric) West and West Africa as evidenced in its own intact oral-literate intersection zone.2 Whereas the Tarikh el-Fetach and the Tarikh es-Soudan, written in medieval Arabic and grounded in a quranic literacy, privilege Islamic paradigms and social norms, the epics found in the griot tradition assert pre-Islamic (or perhaps un-Islamic) identity into their “chronologies.” Hale writes, “The griots seem to seek a balance between Islam and traditional beliefs in the oral version, a balance that reflects the syncretic nature of religion in the Sahel today” (Scribe, p. 170). Camara Laye’s novelized form of the Son-Jara epic, The Guardian of the Word, and FaDigi Sisòkò’s The Epic of Son Jara (transcribed by John Williams Johnson) show the Mandé and Songhay cultures to be steeped in both African animism and mystical Islam. This religious-cosmological-paradigmatic syncretism is demonstrated in the conclusion of Laye’s novel. He writes, “In short, Sundiata gave the Empire its political and social framework, a religious life with the peaceful coexistence of Islam and Animism—a political framework that had been the one built up by his ancestors” (Guardian, p. 218). The Epic of Askia Mohammed (as presented by Nouhou Malio to Hale) offers insight into how contemporary Sahelian peoples have redefined and appropriated the historical emperor Askia Mohammed for their own purposes. Without denying the Islamicizing force of Askia, the version by Hale and Malio interprets the history of his reign by privileging the occult systems to which the griot is attached. Hale’s more recent transcription bears out Johnson’s earlier insight that “[t]he text of a griot is less a representation of the past than a contemporary reading of that past” (Griots, p. 23). The written chronicles date Askia Mohammed’s reign between the years 1493 and 1528 C.E. Askia’s dynasty, centered in Gao, included a period of considerable territorial expansion and, perhaps more significantly, achieved this expansion through jihad and conversion of the conquered. In contrast, The Epic of Askia Mohammed covers the title figure’s life only in the first 590 of 1,602 lines. The last section of the epic deals with the story of Soumayla Kassa, his wife Sagouma, and Amar Zoumbani (Soumayla’s son from his first wife, a captive of Sagouma’s family). Lines 807 through 1602, then, concern the fall of the Songhay empire. Hale and Malio date Soumayla Kassa’s rule from Gao at sometime between 1640 and 1650 C.E. (Epic of Askia, annotation 818). Hale suggests a historical conflation in this sequence of the epic,

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in which the fall of Gao at the hands of invading Moroccans in 1591 C.E. is tied to resistance south of Gao (in the Dendi region) lasting until 1640 C.E. (Scribe, p. 115). Both this compression of time and conflation of histories support the perspective of the epic serving as a contemporary reading of the past. In other words, the story serves as a focus in which the griot generalizes about the Songhay empire in order to support current perceptions of Songhay identity. The Tarikh el-Fetach and the Tarikh es-Soudan both state that Askia Mohammed was the governor of the Hombori mountain region during the reign of Sonni Ali Ber. He was also Sonni Ali Ber’s trusted aide. The chroniclers of the Tarikh el-Fetach write that Sonni Ali Ber “died in mysterious circumstances on the way home from a war,” and Askia Mohammed overthrew Chî Bâro, Sonni Ali Ber’s son and successor, after challenging Chî “to embrace Islam more fervently than his father had” (Scribe, pp. 24–25). In contrast to the chronicles, the oral version suggests that Askia’s uncle is Sonni Ali Ber, who has been told in prophecies that his sister’s child will overthrow him (Epic of Askia, ll. 9–23). Sonni Ali Ber kills seven of his sister Kassaye’s children before the birth of Askia, whose death is thwarted when his mother switches him with the simultaneously born child of a Bargantché slave, whom Sonni Ali Ber kills instead (ll. 14–63). Raised in the guise of the son of a captive, Askia grows to manhood and then kills his uncle before taking control of the chieftaincy (ll. 184–185). Although the chronicles emphasize the faithfulness to Islam of Askia Mohammed, the epic addresses African animism from the very birth of the title figure. According to the oral tradition, Askia is fathered by a djinn who lives under the Niger River (ll. 23, 121). In this magical tradition, Hale links Askia’s mother, Kassaye, specifically to Songhay sorcery, which is confirmed by Paul Stoller and Cheryl Olkes in their book, In Sorcery’s Shadow, in which they describe meeting the current sohanci priestess in Wanzerbé. The practitioners known as sohanci are the “magicians for the Songhay who claim descent from Sonni Ali Ber. . . . The cult’s priestess is still called Kassaye today in the capital of Songhay magicians, Wanzerbé, a small town located near the intersection of the Nigerian, Malian, and Burkinabè borders” (Hale, Scribe, pp. 70–71). Significantly, in the epic version, immediately following the death of Sonni Ali Ber, his children (the cousins of Askia) become the originators of the occult Songhay professions (Epic of Askia, ll. 209–236). Directly following this sequence, Askia begins a jihad on his pilgrimage to Mecca (ll. 237–374).

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Much of The Epic of Askia Mohammed was sung in the Soninké language, which is also the language of Songhay sorcery. Of this, Hale writes: Given the evidence of Soninké in the Songhay oral tradition and the Soninké origin of Askia Mohammed, I posit the thesis that as Askia Mohammed assumed power and grew in importance from the late fifteenth to the early sixteenth century, Soninké griots, healers, magicians, and sorcerers from a vast area gravitated toward him and were responsible for the close cultural link between the two languages. The Songhay belief system, at least as it appears in the epic of Askia Mohammed, became attuned to a broader, Sahelian way of apprehending the world. Soninké was the key to that system. It reflected a highly complex network of relationships as extensive but much deeper than the brotherhood of Islam in the area. (Scribe, pp. 175–176)

Perhaps then, Soninké, as a language that is based in occult professions, provided and continues to provide the syncretizing forces of animism as its usage negotiates the understanding and methods of Islam? Consider the origins of the Songhay occult practitioners as represented in the epic: for example, the sohancis, sorkos, and jeseres (griots) are all children of Sonni Ali Ber. I might also note the Muslim Askia Mohammed’s continued use of sohanci sorcery even after his pilgrimage to Mecca. In other words, the specialized use of the Soninké language, particularly in connection with its use by griots, continues to promote cultural identification directly influenced by this language. The powerful influence of Soninké is evident in the Songhay cosmology. Outlining the cosmology of the Songhay possession deities, Stoller and Olivier de Sardan both speculate that the rise of the possession cults corresponds with Askia Mohammed’s attempt to Islamize the Songhay. In this perspective, each of the six families of spirits enter into the Songhay pantheon, signifying “a distinct historical period during which there occurred a sociocultural crisis” (Taste, p. 105). The first three families, the Tooru, or noble spirits in control of natural forces; the Genji Kwari, or white spirits, the arbitrators of the spirit world; and the Genji Bi, or black spirits, the masters of the earth, arrive because of the displacement of ancestral practices due to Islam. In this cosmology, the last to arrive are the Hauka, spirits of force that arise in response to French colonialism (see Stoller, Embodying). Since Soninké is inseparable from the Songhay occult apprehension of the world, it stands to reason that this language system is intricately connected to the birth of the Songhay pantheon (at least with regard to the first three families). A brief examination of Songhay society is now in order. The Songhay social structure is based on a class of nobility, of which each

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member “is a descendant through the father’s line, of Askia Mohammed Toure, also known as Askia the Great” (Stoller and Olkes, In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 12). In other words, one may live in Songhay society, but one cannot truly be Songhay without the bloodline of the Askias. Stoller writes that Songhay society is divided into three unequal social groups: the nobility; the former slaves, owned by the nobility in precolonial times; and the foreigners, or immigrants onto Songhay lands, either recent immigrants or those from the distant past (Stoller, Taste, p. 6). Stoller indicates that the focus of Songhay politics is with the chief. A chief is always of noble descent, and popular Songhay belief dictates accordingly “that only someone of noble descent has the predisposition to govern” (Taste, p. 58). As a chief, the noble man is endowed with the “sacred powers of fula and lakkal, which are passed down from Allah through the Prophet” (Taste, p. 59).3 Stoller finds social interaction and the concept of “hardness” inseparable in Songhay society. This hardness connotes a sort of immobility (in a broad sense) in the Songhay social sphere, in which a participant in Songhay social interactions (including commerce) may emulate the “hard” Songhay nobility. Stoller writes, “Former slaves cannot become nobles, but if they are crafty negotiators in the commercial sector, they can become noblelike” (Taste, p. 81). The social structure of Songhay occult practices (sohancis, sorkos, and jeseres) reflects the same immobility in its dependence on a flexible system of descent; this system (with initiates outside the bloodline) has clear limitations because “there are some secrets that a master will impart only to consanguineal kin” (Taste, p. 42). When Stoller is invited to be initiated as a sorko apprentice, he objects to Djibo Mounmouni’s qualification of his status as a sorko benya (literally, a “slave”). Djibo responds, “Is your father a sorko . . . ? Well, then you must be a sorko benya” (Stoller and Olkes, In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 41). I surmise from this that Stoller may never learn certain secrets of his master. Likewise, in the case of Stoller’s experience, the sorko system emphasizes the Songhay ideal of hardness. When Stoller “successfully” drives a Frenchman from Niger using an incantation he has been taught, Djibo tells him, “You are mean and you are hard. You are walking along your path as a sorko” (In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 123). This is repeated by Adamu Jenitogno, Stoller’s sohanci master in Tillaberi, who also finds the implicit meanness and hardness in the success of the spell as evidence of Stoller’s “walk along the path” (In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 124). Furthermore, Stoller describes the realm of Songhay sorcery as an amoral activity: “There is no good or evil in Songhay sorcery,” Stoller writes, “there is only power and the words that enhance power” (Taste, p. 118). Since the sorkos, sohancis,

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and jeseres are understood to be descended from Sonni Ali Ber, there seems to be an implicit cultural identification with this ruler, however much Askia is valorized in The Epic of Askia Mohammed. This valorization suggests that the epic, which concerns a very Islamicizing figure in Songhay history, is subject to the same syncretizing forces applied by the griots who orally maintain the histories. Although Stoller’s experience with the sorkos and sohancis does not touch upon the Islamic cultural aspects of this section of Songhay society, The Epic of Askia Mohammed accentuates Islamic perspectives throughout its recounting (in its transcribed and translated text). The text by Hale and Malio emphasizes the function of the griot as an interpretive negotiator of the past in a contextual present. The structure of Sisòkò and Johnson’s book, The Epic of Son Jara, similarly highlights the marriage of mystical Islam to pre-Islamic African cosmologies and provides a particularly striking example of this syncretism. From the offset, the Johnson transcription of The Epic of Son Jara exposes the reader to cultural assumptions and details that weave together historical data within a complex cosmological paradigm. From the first few lines of the poem, there is a strong identification with Islam. The epic slowly traces Son-Jara’s lineage from Adam and Eve through Mohammad’s daughter Fatima and finally arrives at Fata Magan (Son-Jara’s father) via the Mandes Taraweres over the next 324 lines. This firmly connects Son-Jara both physically and spiritually with Islam. The epic suddenly shifts, and the next 700 or so lines trace SonJara’s matrilineal ancestry, which includes a lengthy narrative about the Taraweres brothers, who hunt and kill the Buffalo-Panther Woman, Son-Jara’s grandmother. Buffalo-Panther Woman passes on her dual totems (buffalo and panther) to her daughter, who passes them on to her son, Son-Jara, at his birth. The result of these traced lineages is the connection of parallel occult systems from Islam and West Africa: namely, the mystical power of Sufic Islam (baraka, or the transferable power of the blessed state) and the occult knowledge of the Du people (nyama, or sorcery with or without spirits) (Sisòkò, Epic of Son Jara, annotation 325).4 These parallel mystical views of the “occult word” (as an agent beyond pure signification) that are brought together in the figure of Son-Jara also provide insight into the paradigmatic synthesis of the language models that continue in the modern Sahel and with the Songhay in particular; that is, both Sufism’s and animism’s tendencies to synthesize. Perhaps the most significant difference between the West and the Sahel, especially in their respective understandings of the occult power of the word, resides in the Sahelian experience of sound, as is evident in

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numerous examples from Songhay culture. For instance, in reading the transcribed and translated The Epic of Askia Mohammed, the sound of its transmission is lost, but sound for Songhay culture is “a dimension of experience in and of itself” (Stoller, Taste, p. 112). In most settings, many of the griot’s words are as alien in their original form to the African audience as they are to the Western ear.5 Therefore, the importance of the epic as sung by the griot is primarily in its sounds instead of its understood meaning “because the sounds of the words the bards have mastered carry the power of social, moral and physical (magical) transformation,” in and of themselves (Taste, p. 111). It is in this realm of nyama/baraka, or “occult” understanding of words, to which I now redirect this analysis. Islam, including Tidjaniya Sufism, continues to be the dominant religious presence among the Songhay. Among Tidjaniya Muslims of the Sahel, the mystical commonality in the relation of words and sound or the relation between animism and mystical Islam come together in the syncretizing force of the griot. In an interview with Christopher Wise, Mohamed Abdoulaye Maïga (of Songhay descent) states that certain branches of Islam also believe in the physical power of words and sound: What you must know is that there are certain sounds that exist, pure sounds that have been passed down through the centuries. These sounds have no real meaning in themselves. They are devoid of sense, you might say. Their number is very limited. You will find these sounds in the Qur’an, but they are much older than the time of Mohammad. They originate beyond the founding of Christianity, even Judaism. The Egyptians taught these sounds to the Jews, who passed them down in their turn. They are sounds only, not words as such. So you will find them in the Qur’an, but unrelated to its meaning. (Wise, “Yambo Ouologuem Among the Tidjaniya,” pp. 227–228)

Evidence of the intact knowledge of Sahelian mystical perceptions of sounds in The Epic of Son-Jara comes in the form of the BuffaloPanther Woman story. When the Du hunter-brothers find the sorceress, she arms them with the magical weapons that will eventually destroy her. After they gather her requested paraphernalia (two chicken eggs, a piece of charcoal, a piece of green wood, and a spindle stick), Sisòkò sings, “she conjured a spell o’er all of that” (l. 561). In other words, the Buffalo-Panther Woman breathes words or sounds of power into the objects and endows them with magical powers. This parallels Paul Stoller’s observations about Songhay sorcery, in which he writes, “A substance (a vine, tree bark, a stone or a cowry shell) is without power

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unless a sohanci, a sorko, or a Zima has imbued it with force through words” (Taste, p. 118). Stoller also observes that the imbuing of objects with power occurs when the recitation is repeated three times, accompanied by spitting into the container that houses the object (Stoller and Olkes, In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 67). This same motif of the three magically imbued objects is found in The Epic of Askia Mohammed, when Askia sends his sohanci flying back to Kassaye for assistance in his battle against the Bargantché (ll. 393–410). Kassaye gives the sohanci cotton seeds, a chicken egg, and a river stone that, when tossed behind Askia, become “a bushy barrier,” a big mountain, and a river (ll. 436–459). Again, consider the significance of Askia’s use of Songhay sorcery against his enemies after his pilgrimages to Mecca and Medina.6 An interesting recurrent motif in The Epic of Askia Mohammed is the “land” populated by djinn under the Niger River. Askia himself is fathered by a “man . . . who was wearing beautiful clothes. / He was a real man, he was tall, someone who looked good in white clothes, his clothes were really beautiful. / One could smell perfume everywhere.”7 This man in white clothes promises Askia’s mother that her son will kill Sonni Ali Ber and take his kingdom (ll. 24–34). The “man” is revealed to be a djinn who gives Kassaye a ring to give to their son that will allow Askia to travel underwater to visit him. There in the underwater kingdom, Askia is given the weapons and horse that he uses to kill his uncle, Si (Sonni Ali Ber) (ll. 126–184). Similarly, Si’s daughter spends seven days underwater and returns a sorko after witnessing the death of her father (ll. 225–229).8 In Stoller’s book In Sorcery’s Shadow, the sorko who initiates the author into the mysteries of Songhay sorcery describes his own visit to this underwater realm, the village of the river goddess Harakoy Dikko. In The Epic of Askia Mohammed, Askia puts a ring on to his finger and, “The water opened up. / Under the water there are so many cities, so many cities, so many cities, so many villages, and so many people” (ll. 148–149). In the contemporary version, Djibo Mounmouni describes the separation of the water as he descends below the river’s surface. He tells Stoller, “The more I walked, the whiter the sand became. I walked on. To my right and left I saw the river. I saw crocodiles and fishes, but whirlpools kept us separated” (l. 164). When Djibo arrives at his destination, he meets Sadyara, the two-headed guardian snake of the river goddess. Through all this, he sings Tooru praise poetry and then meets Harakoy Dikko, who bestows certain medicines and other objects on him (l. 164). Returning to the epic’s episode of Askia’s jihad against the

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Bargantché and his use of magic to retreat from certain defeat, it is important to remember Askia’s childhood spent in the guise of a captive Bargantché’s son. Askia’s mother Kassaye tells the sohanci her son has sent to seek magical assistance, “Long ago, / I told him not to fight against the Bargantché. / He cannot beat them, for he has in his stomach the milk of a Bargantché” (ll. 432–434). The passage suggests that there are aspects of Sahelian culture that even baraka is not sufficiently strong enough to overcome.9 For example, in the Songhay pantheon, milk has significant symbolic connections to Nya Beri, “the great mother” of the Hargay spirits and one of the most powerful of the Songhay deities. “In fresh milk, she can see the future,” Stoller writes. “In blood, Nya Beri sees the past” (In Sorcery’s Shadow, p. 39). Given the Islamic thematic content of The Epic of Askia Mohammed, the question arises, what is the purpose of connecting the emperor with magical practices apparently still customary in the Sahel today? A Songhay proverb may provide a bridge from the previous question to the multilayered answer that arises in response to it. In Hale’s essay, “Can a Single Foot Follow Two Paths?” he translates, “Nda boundou ga te giri zangoun harora, a si té caré” as “If a log spends 100 years in the water, it will not become a crocodile” (p. 139). This proverb implies that the log may come to resemble a crocodile; that is, even after nearly 1,000 years of coexisting with or existing through the experience of Islam, Sahelian experiences remain essentially Sahelian. The many Songhay identities are united through the blood of the Askias that runs through the veins of the nobility; however, equally important to the identity of sohancis, sorkos, and jeseres (or griots) and those influenced by the activities of these individuals is the connection to Sonni Ali Ber and his sister Kassaye. The Hale and Malio version’s explicit familial connection between Askia Mohammed and Sonni Ali Ber (as uncle and nephew) moves the epic’s surface context of an Islamic identification deeper into a veiled network of occult knowledge systems that both precedes Askia’s dynasty and, through the epic’s subtexts, implies the extension of Songhay identity into a broader historical experience that is common throughout the Sahel. Songhay religious cosmology continues to react to outside forces that enter into contact with the culture. The griots and other practitioners of occult word knowledge (nyamakala), including healers and practitioners of magic (occult linguistic technologies), influence cultural awareness directly by maintaining a continuum to the past. The Epic of Askia Mohammed, as sung to Hale by Malio, harbors and asserts preIslamic (and current Sahelian) principles that reflect the dynamic nature of Songhay culture. The griots (and other nyamakala) work from a cul-

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tural standpoint that is vaster in scope than currently understood by the West and more expansive than its Islamic heritage. The griots are living history makers who influence perceptions of the past by binding them to the present. Not surprisingly, they are less invested in a purely Islamic interpretation of their cultural history than the nobility with whom they are traditionally linked. NOTES

1. The Tarikh el-Fetach and the Tarikh es-Soudan are sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Arabic language chronicles of Sahelian empires dating from the medieval period. 2. Even transplanted, the West African language models used in religious practice reveal a certain discomfort with writing technologies. Margaret Drewal recounts giving a copy of an essay she had written on the practice of Yoruba religion in the United States to her friend, John Mason, a diviner and priest of Obatala. The priest told the author he found the essay disturbing. When asked if the report was inaccurate, he reportedly replied that the opposite was the case: it was “all too accurate” (Yoruba Ritual, p. 199). Drewal writes, “He then told me that he was surprised by the detail with which I reported our conversations. The problem, he decided, after giving the issue some thought, was that in my concretization of his words in black and white on paper they took on a kind of reality and permanency of their own that he found frightening” (p. 199). 3. Fula, “the wisdom of governance,” and lakkal, “the ‘hat’ of inner strength and determination” (Stoller, Taste, p. 58). Stoller describes how the Songhay nobility and their clients’ nobles invited him to join their afternoon discussion groups during his 1976–1977 stay in Mehanna, Niger. Stoller writes that on some days the discussions turned to “kinship, questions of Songhay law, theories about the nature of the cosmos, and criticism of features of the preIslamic religion: spirit possession and sorcery. From the vantage of these men, Songhay was a thoroughly Islamic society, and the problems of contemporary society were attributable to the withering of Islamic belief” (Taste, p. 12). 4. Hale indicates that the related term nyamakala is a Mandé term adopted by the Songhay, which refers to artisans who possess occult powers in order to carry out their operations (Scribe, p. 36). Nyamakala also denotes a metaphorical caste structure, better thought of as specialist groups. 5. The epic was sung in a mixture of Songhay and archaic Soninké and perhaps some other unidentified languages. 6. While in Mecca, Askia “slung the sword of Dongo on his shoulder,” Dongo being the Songhay god of thunder and lightning (ll. 357–358, 371–372). 7. In Stoller and Olkes’s book, In Sorcery’s Shadow, the perfumes Bint alHadash and Bint al-Sudan are reportedly used to attract Songhay spirits (187–189). 8. A sorko is a sorcerer (and/or praise singer to the spirits) patrilineally descended from Faran Make Bote. In the Askia epic, sorkos come from the daughter of Sonni Ali Ber. See also Stoller, In Sorcery’s Shadow and The Taste

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of Things Ethnographic. Stoller indicates that sohanci (sorcerers) are patrilineal descendants of Sonni Ali Ber. 9. The advice comes from Kassaye, currently linked to sohancis, whom Hale (citing Boubou Hama) writes, “the cult’s priestess is still called Kassaye today in the ‘capital’ of Songhay magicians, Wanzerbé” (Scribe, p. 71).

7 Tuareg (Tamazight) Literature and Resistance: The Case of Hawad l

Georg M. Gugelberger Il ne nous reste qu’à marcher. —Hawad, Sept Fièvres et une lune, p. 14

It was, indeed, a strange encounter that took place in “Chaoscity” (Mexico City) among African writers and Mexican writers. The first “encuentro Polifonías,” a meeting of African and Mexican writers, was arranged during June 1998 under the auspices of the Institut Français de l’Amérique Latine (IFAL) in this largest city of the world, where things African go relatively unnoticed. Present from Africa were Calixthe Beyala (of Cameroon); Cristiane Diop, wife of the founder of Présence Africaine; Hawad; and Tierno Monémbo from Guinea. Wole Soyinka was invited but could not come. The African selection was most unorthodox, to say the least. The Mexican counterparts were José Agustín, Carmen Boullosa, Carlos Monsiváis, and Juan Gregorio Regino. Among the African writers was a nonblack but strongly African feeling “blue man” (tel tagalmust) named Hawad (no first or last name, simply Hawad). He is a Tuareg or (to avoid the negative connotations characteristic of the Arabic word Tuareg, which means “wild” or “savage,” or the word Berber, from the Latin word barbarus) an Amazigh poet and painter. More precisely, he is a Tuareg of the central Sahara, one of the Aïr or kel Aïr (the people of Aïr), one of the five Tuareg countries. Most people did not really know what to do with this writer of some ten books who hails from the African Aïr and lives in political exile in Aix-en-Provence, an unexpected city not only for a Tuareg but any nomad. Hawad stood out, not only because of dress and performance but because of his belligerence in regard to what African writers 101

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had to say about their various societies. For a Tuareg writer, Africa looks very different than it does to those African writers who embrace Africaneity, blackness, and anticolonial rhetoric. For the Imazighen (plural of Amazigh and Tuareg word for “free men,” the word the Tuareg use for themselves), their black “brothers” serve as the new colonizers who seek to erase Berber or Amazigh culture in the Sahara and the Sahel (Niger, Mali, Algeria, Burkina Faso, Libya), or what the Tuareg call their territory, Tamazgha, in “flagrant” disregard of colonial and postcolonial borders. The Tamazgha confederation consists of the following areas: Ajjer, in Algeria and stretching into Libya (near Ghadames); Ahaggar, one of the largest Tuareg areas in Algeria; Azawagh, Adagh, and Tadamahat in Mali; Aïr in Niger; and Udalen in Burkina Faso. They can be said to form the pillars of the Tuareg “tent” (ébawel), the Tuareg community. The “tent” to the Tuareg is foundational and related to the ehen, the place of women who are in charge in Tuareg society, and to which is opposed the essuf or assif, the outsideof-the-tent, the strange, the unfamiliar, the desert, the other, and the alter-ego. The events of the 1990s made the situation Tuareg or le problème targui even more complex than it has been for a long time, especially in light of the Songhay militancy exhibited by the Gande Koy movement in Mali, the self-proclaimed maîtres de la terre (masters of the land). The Africans of the Tamazgha are simply called bandits. For many black Africans, the Tuaregs are merely racists, thieves, and an alien element in society’s fabric. Arabized and Islamized Africans accused them of being white and Jewish. There is no end to the misconstruction of the other. Hawad was born in 1950 in the Aïr of the central Sahara in what is now Niger, an unacceptable nation-state for the Tuareg. As Hawad defines it, the word aïr in the Tamazight language, the language of Hawad, also means “caravan moving northward,” and it is likely that Hawad was born “on the move.” Hawad told me that, during his childhood, he crossed the Sahara and Sahel numerous times on camel with his father and others, all the way to the Sudan. A political exile due to the conflicts the Tuaregs face in Mali, Niger, and Algeria, Hawad now lives in Aix-en-Provence, France, but he returns to the sandy spaces of Africa as often as possible. He has written since 1985 some ten books: poetry, lyrical prose, a novel, and works that fall into the generic category of the epic. He also uses Tifinagh calligraphy to embellish his works. But he emphasizes that these writings are not to be seen or read as calligraphy but as what he has called “furigraphy” (furigraphie),

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imaginary illuminations based on Tifinagh letters of the alphabet but altered and having no specific meaning; they are gestures that prolong his philosophy of space. Hélène Claudot-Hawad, Hawad’s wife and an established Tuareg scholar and translator, remarked that this type of calligraphy (aghanab in Tuareg) “is a modern manifestation of the trance” (Les Touarges, p. 161). As a teacher and researcher at the famous Institut de Recherches et d’Etudes sur le monde Arabe et Musulman (IREMAN) in Aix-en-Provence, Claudot-Hawad has written extensively (including in Le Monde diplomatique) on the Tuareg. Hawad himself composes his works by orally voicing them in Tamazight, and then he and his wife translate them into French. In other words, the published or written versions exist only in French translations, as well as additional translations from the French into other languages. In this chapter I draw from the following works: Chants de la soif et de l’égarement (1987), Hawad’s second published work; Testament nomade (1987); L’anneausentier (1989); Sept fièvres et une lune (1995); and Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie (1998). Some of Hawad’s works have been translated into Italian and Dutch. Testament nomade has been translated into Arabic. To date and to my knowledge, nothing by this poet is available in English, and nothing has been written on him in the English-speaking world. He has also written Caravane de la soif et de l’égarement (1987), Froissevent (1991), Yasida (1991), La danse funèbre du soleil (1992), and Buveurs de braises (1992), titles that emphasize nomadism, thirst (as the mover of things Tuareg), trance and delirium (égarement), caravan, and most of all anarchism. Hawad’s literary beginnings were in a lyrical mold with, however, a typical Tuareg thematic emphasis on the desert, on the foundational theme of thirst, and on continuous movement. The theme of thirst (la soif ) becomes a philosophical quest that instigates his cosmic travels. Thirst and the quest for water lead naturally to delirium (égarement) and a separate quest for knowledge. In one of Hawad’s first collections of poetry, which, incidentally, is accompanied by some of his most beautiful furigraphic Tifinagh illuminations, Chants de la soif et de l’égarement (Songs of thirst and delirium), this common theme is expressed in the title. The “voyagers” are “ascetic silhouettes, mummies draped in white veils / squatting in the sand” (p. 8). These poems are considered a follow-up to his first sequence Caravane de la soif (Caravan of thirst). The twenty-five poems included in Chants are rather mystical, and in a way they anticipate the themes of Hawad’s later works. As Claudot-Hawad states: “In the search for water, the thirsty man departs from the beaten path; he leaves behind domesticated

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lands; he goes beyond all known boundaries and limits; he penetrates into the desert; he loses his orientation; he wanders; he rambles; finally, he is able to trace his own path” (Chants, p. 5). These poems move on a cyclical itinerary, finally approaching nothingness (le néant) or the fusion with cosmic forces. In his vision of infinity, Hawad joins with Tuareg metaphysics. These poems almost need to be chanted or performed, much like the chants d’ésebelbel that Tuareg worriers used to improvise while facing the enemy. But the theme of “once were worriers” quickly gives way to the present reality of Tuareg existence. In Testament nomade, Froissevent, La danse funèbre du soleil, and Yasida, Hawad focuses upon contemporary Tuareg history, the brutal expulsion from Algeria, the resettlement in other postcolonial states, the massacres of civilian populations in Mali and Niger since 1990, and the birth of armed resistance. At the same time, this is also an invocation of the old Tuareg worriers of centuries past: We have furrowed the infinite awakening at sun’s waning whirlwind of sparrow-hawks Not a dune not a mount not a valley nor a reddish plain that is not scarred by the tracks of our steeds without the marks of our fires three blackened stones by the glowing embers smeared stones left to oblivion Adember Kaosen Ag-Tessigalet Ferhum Ag-Abakada Shabun. (Testament, pp. 28–29)

To the oppression of the Tuareg experience respond various figures of Tuareg mythology: the blind old Imollen, the star-poets (astrespoètes) Kokoyad and his antithetical partner Porteur-de-la-Nuit, the blacksmith Awjembak, and the priestess Chaima, all figures reencountered in later works by Hawad. In Testament as in other works by the poet, only the blind and the marginalized have the ability to see. Far from dogmas and established order, the traveler can only find his or her way by getting lost. In L’anneau-sentier, the “hero” named

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Tégézé, tortured by physical thirst as well as thirst for knowledge, transgresses nomadic flux and tries to go back to the source, finally to throw himself “upon that which his eyes had dared not gaze” (p. 16). L’anneau-sentier is a philosophical tale, a metaphysical poem in prose, and an epic chant. It is based on Tuareg cosmogony in which the universe is conceivable only in movement. In Tamazight, Tégézé signifies “descendant of the womb.” It means going back to the source and designates the successor according to matrilineal rules. Tégézé broods over the mysteries of origin and extinction, key themes in Tuareg thinking. As a kind of leitmotif, the sacrifice of the bull concludes and begins the marche nomade. This is a “long time of meditation and listening” (L’anneau-sentier, p. 14), a journey of seven millennia, “the different lives of the nomad empires” (p. 32). It moves with the speed of the desert: “For a long time, he stayed put, measuring the traces, the laws of meandering, that the wind had etched upon the peeled shoulder-blades of sand” (p. 17). In Sept fièvres et une lune (Seven fevers and one moon), all the key players of Hawad’s Tuareg universe come together in a journey through the desert in seven nomadic steps, “a crossing of the desert in seven nomadic stages, seven feverish nights of oratory contests, of frenetic irony” (Sept fièvres, p. 7). We find Imollen, “the blind clairvoyant”; Awjembak, the blacksmith; the two star-poets Porteur-de-la-Nuit (a worrier figure) and Kokoyad (iconoclast and provocateur), the latter in a way the most autobiographical figure for Hawad, “the navigator of Tuareg resistance” (p. 84); and Ewaki, a lonely combatant who believes in the gun only and not in the word. Although Hawad is closest to Kokoyad, he shares something with all these allegorical figures. Each of them confronts an uncertain future and various metamorphoses. Each of them resists forgetfulness, silence, and extinction by following forever the paths of the nomad beyond tangible spaces. The figures (figurae in the literal sense of the word) are described in the prologue as “five shadows, frayed, neutered, silhouettes from Giacometti, in exile from their bodies.” Imollen demands, “We must hold the course.” Kokoyad invokes the word “exile,” but in the Tuareg language the homophone ejil has a variety of meanings such as day(light), victory, success, and destiny (p. 19). In a dialogue between Awjembak and Kokoyad, we hear the following about the exile situation:

Awjembak: We no longer exist. We have given up our identity for the exile that awaits us. Kokoyad: Exile, in Tuareg, means to turn from one horizon to another. (p. 79)

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Ewaki insists that he cannot stand words: “For a long time, I’ve told you that I don’t like words” (p. 23). This is a philosophical performance, literally a skeleton play, performed by shadows reminiscent of the skeleton sculptures of Alberto Giacometti. As one volume in a collection of books appropriately called Les pieds dans le plat, Hawad published his largest, most outspoken, and least enigmatic work of epic dimensions, perhaps the major Tuareg epic to date, Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie. In the Tuareg language the French word coude (elbow or angle) becomes taghmart, a word that could best be translated as “orientation,” as Hélène Claudot-Hawad explains in her introduction to the work. She interprets this epic in the following way: To designate the regions of North Africa that eluded the control of the central system, Arab authors of the medieval period were the first to use the expression bilad as-siba; that is, the rebel lands, with which one made war and where one could take captives, or even, according to other formulas, the “coude rebelle” [the rebellious “angle” or orientation], or the “coude de l’anarchie” [the anarchistic “angle” or orientation]. This refractory space against the state’s authority, more or less enlarged according to the historical period, is the incarnation of the savage and unsubmissive world, a world that knows neither God nor master. . . . Hawad seizes upon this negative image, tapping into its explosive personalities and communities, and he hurls it back, like a boomerang, into the glacial face of order. . . . In the Tuareg language, taghmart simultaneously means elbow, angle, and orientation. Additionally, “le coude grince” is a menacing noise [creaking, grating, or gnashing], which accompanies both old age and decrepitude, but also a return to activity and the repudiation of immobility. (Le coude, p. 9)

Hawad himself adds a short preface to the book in which he states:

This book, before being written, had first been chanted between the summits of the Atlas and the Anti-Atlas, then upon the ancient roofs of Aix. I offer it and will sing it for all the Imazighen, all the women and men, all the children and old ones, who refuse to submit to the authority that mutilates them. (p. ii)

Written in exile, Hawad’s poem is then chanted and offered to all Tuaregs (Imazighen) and to all women and men who do not submit to mutilating authority. This horizontal epic connects Tuareg past and present with other rebellious movements all over the world. Loudly it shouts, “Never submit to authority!” The topography is a Whitmanesque world with an additional North African component

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stretching from Gibraltar to Catalonia; from Timbuktu and Agadez to Marrakech; from Tenerife (Tuareg and Berber culture can indeed be found on the Canary Islands) all the way to Yemen, Eritrea, Somalia, and Nubia; and from Nouakchott to Tripoli. Place-names with Tuareg affiliation in this work abound: Ghardaïa, Ghadames, Agadez, Timbuktu, Tafraout, Adrar n Nefoussa, Tamanrasset, and so on. But the work is not only about and for the Tuareg. The taghmart also invokes Chicanos and, in particular, Chicanas in the United States and Zapatistas in Mexico. The link with Zapatismo is very strong indeed: O, Zapatistas, spike throwers, rust of maya aztec inca javelins, here is our truth, that which we share, Zapatistas, do not fear rage nor the metamorphosis of our truth. (Le coude, p. 96)

This “performance epic” throws its Tuareg rage, or rage tamazight (p. 48), in a kind of “magic of electrochaoticity” against “the vertical pike of the pig-epic” (p. 29), which I take to mean against the well-structured, Western, Christian, or vertical epic. The hero is a plural hero, a compound figure, disguised as a harlequin performing while observing in a public place associated with the (in)famous Djemaa el-Fna, focal point of the Moroccan city of Marrakech. He belongs to the oppressed of this earth and merges with Ag Abakada, a resistant Tuareg; Ag Tachfîne, an Almoravide leader; Ag Toumart or Ibn Tumert, an Almohades leader; Kahéna, the woman combatant of the Aurès; and Amourakouch, a Berber divinity; but also with Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Errico Malatesta, and Rosa Luxemburg. The topography is particular—North Africa with an emphasis on Sahara and Sahel, the centers of Tuareg culture—but at the same time it also includes Latin America, Asia, Kurdistan, or wherever people are exploited: the embattled places of the earth where the marginalized are increasingly oppressed. It is a cry against the oppressor and against financial capital worldwide. It fights with the bullets of words. It is a fascinating mixture of seriousness and irony, cow dung, camel shit, and nostalgia in the hope of using the famous “barrel of the pen” (Ngugi wa Thiong’o) as a substitute of the gun to liberate, if not confiscated Tuareg land, at least the territory of the mind. The harlequin man, protagonist of the epic, is at the same time the “the psalmody man,” the Tuareg troubadour, the voice of Tafraout, who speaks the Tamazight

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language and the gnashing words of anarchy. This hallucinatingly beautiful trance epic of idealism and nostalgia arises out of the present chaos of Tuareg existence: “Chaos, exile of the vital breath of the Touareg” (p. 108). The Tuareg is like a somnambulist, a phantom warrior: “Somnambulist, errant ghost, Tuareg people / phantom, amajagh soul!” (p. 106). What is left is this endless march of the marginalized (Hawad uses the term marche en vrille, or the twisting march) and adroitly uses the homophone of marge (marginality) and marche. In the end what remains are words, language, the language of endurance: Cries, tears or laughter, what remains for us? You who still have ears, listen to the tamazight, the language with the accent of endurance. (p. 77)

As a horizontal epic, this pamphlet in epic form of the last appel amazigh can never end, which is why the poet’s final words promise eternal continuity: And so, the elbow had creaked and the pulley turned, but to know the course of history pass me another cartridge of ink. (p. 126) CONCLUSION

The first images that come to mind when we hear the word Tuareg are probably those of endless desert, camels, veiled men (not women), sand, and nomads; some will recall the exquisite albeit exotic photographs of Tuaregs and the Sahara by Alain Sèbe (Sèbe, Tagoulmoust, 1982). By now they can be found at every bookstand and kiosk in Paris, usually next to the equally exquisite calligraphy of Hassan Massoudy. Hawad’s work must be seen as a correction to this view. The beauty of pictures does not reveal the “real thing”: oppression and possibly a dying nation. Central to Hawad’s continuous marche en vrille is the desert that reenergizes, questions, and answers the riddles and enigmas of humankind. In Sept fièvres a young Tuareg poet living in exile says about the desert, “The Arabs call it sahara, awakening” (p. 74). There is by no means an obvious connection between desert and wakefulness,

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and the Arab language makes it available to us not grammatically but at most homophonically. It is, however, a great indicator of Hawad’s poetic thinking. The desert is not only sahra (sad) but sahra (bewitched) and sahra (wakefulness, vigilance, resistance). The homophones, essential for orality, allow for the weaving of a text in exile that safeguards the memory of the past, the poet’s childhood, the long marches with his father through the desert: sand, dunes, dance of the sand, “trance,” wakefulness, resistance. It is interesting that Hawad, when it comes to the desert, uses the Amazigh word ténéré but also the Arabic word sahra, one of the few Arabic words in his texts. One of his most beautiful evocations of the desert as source of everything can be found in his epic Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie, where he says: Sahara, jagged teeth and hair of our wolf-sisters, nails of Tifinagh alphabet and pearls, fragments of sun, of amber, of musk and the Tamazight language, Tifinagh, letters of the wind, stars, and lightening. (p. 55)

The desert and thinking about the desert while being exiled from it are central to Hawad’s work, as central as the desert was to the Kairene poet Edmond Jabès, who lived in exile in Paris. Both Hawad and Jabès have the desert in common, the désert-trance (Sept fièvres, p. 64), as well as the désert en exil. “Sur le dos maigre du Sahel” (On the Sahel’s lean shoulders) (Chants, p. 44), Hawad has learned the truth of the anarchist, which Imollen proclaimed: “The desert is the answer to the question that is never asked” (Sept fièvres, p. 52). Jabès has said that “the desert is much more than the practice of silence and listening. It is an eternal opening. The opening of all writing, that which the writer needs to function, to persevere” (Jabès, En su blanco principio, p. 70). Hawad, like Jabès, writes a nomadic poetry, nourished by the memory of the desert: “Nomad writing. Book of the nomad” (p. 68). Let us not forget that the nomad does not have to move continuously. As the Tuareg Dahbia Absous reminds us, nomadism does not mean the absence of being tied to a specific territory; it means rather a particular management of space (Claudot-Hawad and Hawad, Touaregs, p. 218). Along with Jabès, Hawad belongs to the avant-garde of the desert thinkers and poets, which at the same time is the “avant-garde of the rapid death of the deserts” (Hawad, Le coude, p. 126).

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aghanab Ahaggar Aïr Ajjer

APPENDIX: TUAREG TERMINOLOGY

amajagh or kel amajagh amazigh

Azawagh ébawel éhen

éreshu or erezu Essuf

ettebel ilegwan izelan koseilata Kahéna

Tuareg calligraphy one of the largest Tuareg areas (in Algeria) Tuareg nation in the central Sahara in what is now Niger, contested by the Tuareg as a postcolonial nation-state one of the four largest Tuareg groupings; kel Ajjer (in Algeria) also means those who did not succumb to French colonization the word for Berber and Tuareg in the singular; the feminine is tamazight, as in la langue tamasight; the plural is imazighen large Tuareg region in northern Mali basically ehen; the contrary of the void, solitude, essuf; the plural is ibawlan; also means the maternal tent the familiar (literally as related to family), as opposed to the essuf. Also woman, woman-shelter (femme-abri) or woman-tent (femme-tente); ehen also refers to the tent with pillars representing the various Tuareg groups (Ajjer, Ahaggar, Aïr; Tademekkal); Tuareg society is conceived as a tent the equivalent to orature; relatable to Arabic adab also spelled Assif (in Hawad’s epic Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie); the exterior as opposed to the interior, which is ehen. Can refer to the desert (ténéré) or to things unknown or away from the community, which is symbolized by the tent; it can also mean the other, even the alter ego drummer that gives the command songs of ilegwan, intended to provoke and spur on the assembled members of the community; literature of provocation and despair see tishiweg; the oral epic poem maternal Tuareg ancestor; blacksmith Berber heroine who fought the Arabs; due to her death associated with the Aurès in Algeria

TUAREG LITERATURE AND RESISTANCE

nek tagelmust

taghma Tamajaq Tassili-N’Ajjer tawsit Tayrt

témust ténéré

tent

tézézregt

Tifinagh

tishiweg or izelan

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moi! I!; often used at the beginning of Tifinagh texts, for example, Nek emsak (I am a grain of sand), or daghtit n azaman (in the eye of the era) the (male) veil, which can be up to 15 meters long. See kel tagelmust, those men with the veil; veiling and honor are closely allied; only after confrontation with the essouf is the adolescent allowed to go veiled literally “thigh,” meaning “confederation”; in the Ahaggar the word is tegéhé; “a sisterly lineage” also spelled Tamazight, and in English often Tamahaq; the Tuareg language of the Aïr or le parler de l’Aïr; kel Tamazight are those who speak the Tamazight language Tuareg region in the central (Algerian) Sahara around Djanet; the Tassili region is famous for its prehistoric rock paintings the political and social unity of the Tuareg another term for the Tuareg language of the Aïr Tuareg society at large Tuareg term for the Arabic equivalent sahra, or “desert”; more specifically, the vast extension of sterile land between the Aïr and the Ajjer. Kel ténére is the domain of the genies threatening the domestic space, ehen, and therefore is associated with the essuf contrary to the common view of the Tuareg as nomads, the tent is the quintessential locus of Tuareg life, and it is associated with femininity. Tuareg society can be considered as a tent a path or road that leads to a water fountain or hole glyph language painted or engraved in rocks; said to be one of the two original written languages of Africa; the other is Amharic oral epic poems

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NOTE

A shorter version of this chapter on the Tuareg poet Hawad was presented at the 25th Annual Conference of the African Literature Association in Fez, Morocco (March 10–13, 1999) under the title “HAWAD: Tuareg (Tamazight) Literature and Resistance in the Sahara/Sahel and in Exile.” The theme of the conference was “Continental North-South and Diaspora Connections and Linkages.” I am grateful to the poet for answering questions and for having provided access to his main works. And I am grateful and indebted to Hélène Claudot-Hawad, wife of the poet and eminent Tuareg scholar and translator, for answering all my questions since I first met Hawad in Mexico City.

8 Anarchy’s Delirious Trek: A Tuareg Epic l

Hawad I

Clay-walled city crouched, draped in a shroud without tresses, a shroud of sand and salt, reddish dust and yellow pearls. Throughout the day, a man in Harlequin’s guise, soul of the carnival, has animated the plaza. For now, this man sings.

Reprinted from Hawad. Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie. Paris: Editions ParisMéditerranée, 1998. Translated from the French and Tamazight by Georg M. Guyelberger and Christopher Wise.

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Like the death-rattle of revolt, of all the world’s disinherited, you took it upon yourself to carve, on a mossy wall in Berlin, —I will fight on, but where is life?

—This is life! I am alive for I am the goal of my own dream. And this night is my night. My hand is full of life, volatile, spewing bullets of ink. Rosa,1 it is now my turn to cry, “I’m standing here, alive, but where are the fighters?” Here I stand, life itself, the goal of my own dream, determined to fight to the death, at this very moment, for a new day. Fighters, you have fallen. You have abandoned the martyrs, knees buckled in the killing fields, burning shadows of martyrs, splattered with black blood, ink of the speckled victims, desert harness of the sky.

Timbuktu, Kidal, Tamanrasset, Agadez, Djanet, Ghadames . . . We are the straps, the belts, the sashes binding roads and crossways of the earth.

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And when we are tired of pinching and rubbing against the nerves of our horizons, we know it’s time to seek the desert, generation after generation, astride our camels, to palm tree’s shelter, where we grow strong again, crowned by the Argan tree surging off the olive branches, almond sap spinning thorns of the jujub. Swirl of hawks crowned by meteorites, twisting rope of history and tornadoes. We wrap ourselves in the wings of our ancestral cloak, drapery of the white vulture, across the dizzying peaks of the Atlas, bull of bulls.

Don’t give up on the new Marrakech, which must be rebuilt. Even now we carry within us Ibn Tumart’s2 alchemical writings, etched by Tachfine’s3 blade and the pen of the geomancer Znâti,4 a solitary pike, bulwark, guardian. We marry the white vulture, the wing of the wind that carries us, through the Atlantic fog, groaning without a syllable, caping the skull of Mount Toubkal.5

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With our left foot, we knead the Marrakech of today and with the right, we dance and undulate upon the threshing floor of tomorrow’s Malaga. Like the tempestuous black voice of the flamenco, we stir dust from unknown paths and shake the fleece of hidden stars. Standing tall, legs spread wide apart, we piss upon the rot of this world, and we lap up the sweat of its vineyards.

Ammo for the battle lies all around us. First, clutch dates, figs, almonds. Then roll camel shit into a ball, mixed with a smattering of donkey shit. From the science of the Berber Znâti, call forth Tifinagh6 letters. Dilute this concoction with mule piss. Then pour it into the magical jar of Kahéna.7 Like a mighty olive tree, above all oriental fetishism, and the occident’s sinister deluge, this homegrown remedy will transmute into a deadly powder, a rocket and thunderclap. When morning comes, when the nag of the Donkey-Man8 brays, and the blind rooster of Tafraout cries, hurl this mixture into the imam’s face, into the policeman’s face. Slash their vicious snouts.

Never forget the vengeance of the red viper, nor her promiscuity, this woman of Fez who refuses to dance to the Saracen’s flute.

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II

Wakha, wakha, wakha!9 Go brother Assif,10 petrified soul of our valley! Ascend the jagged vistas of the Rif pirates. Further north of Granada, at the navels of Amsterdam and Stockholm, we sow guepards and gazelles and other lynxen of the Sahara, bearing the seeds of revolt beyond all storms, beyond mere dreams and madness.

We peddle neither the Quran of Mohammad, nor the Gospel of Mary’s son, nor the Torah of Moses. Don’t look for us in these places, close to God’s messengers. For we are stone’s sweat and drivel, tears of the Southern star. Our dreams lie further south, where the milky wake of stars washes into the roots of the abyss, joined in trance and delirium.

Don’t you agree, white lady, royal vulture, drunken albinos? Speak and bear witness, you who have draped the sky with our fathers’ intestines.

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Wakha, wakha, wakha! My brother Assif! In the desert’s softer places, let us blow tourism to pieces, soul of Ouarzazate, Timbuktu and Tamanrasset, Agadez and Marrakech. And if we retreat to the mountains, we do so only to weave shrouds and ropes to strangle the enemy’s towns and garrisons.

Lalla,11 you with the veil of dignity, blossom for us, Lalla, dance, young camel, so majestic and dignified. Come to life, Lalla, undulate, sweet palm tree, surging through time, Lalla, don’t confuse the last true fighters of this world with the cockeyed cuckoos and their lies. Lalla, undulate, Lalla, tighten the rope, the artery of time.

Path of the bull, path of the cow, path of the camel, path of the mule . . . Before fossils fissured, before the rupture of morning light, the yew tree stood ready. Before the coming of the red sun, we played upon the anthills, like a breaking storm over the calm, becoming death rattles in our turn, a rainbow of arms and chanting and thronging roads, smashing the barriers, garrisons, and borders, buried in vertigo’s saddlebags and in nausea’s bile, nostalgic, voices of delirious trek.

ANARCHY’S DELIRIOUS TREK

The book of Assifaou12 is the thunder that weaves the coil of the snake into the earth’s very fabric, the richest vein of anarchy, a ropy tongue that spews venom into the face of the muezzin, the holy man of Tlemcen.

Never mind the gaze of the angry bat, who is both blind and constipated, nor the nasal drone of the cricket, soaked in the night, tattooing the flesh. These are little more than the stale crust of Tifinagh letters, cooked up for you by mere shadows. Never mind the erupting lava, or the neckless bull’s revolt. These signs are mere glimmerings from the south behind us, fueling the insurrection.

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III

Left boot following right, he ascended Mount Gibraltar. Step by step, he traced the path of Uncle Tariq.13 In Spain and Castille, the gendarmes detained the nomad, sack upon his shoulder and burnous crammed with explosives, camel shit and the dregs of syllables, of dithyrambic poetry, fire’s residue, intestinal rumbling, epileptic, frenetic furor, rage, the yellow fever of our tents. He said to the guardian at the border: “If you take some cow shit from the farmers of Aragon and cook it up into a French casserole, in no time at all, fueled by exploding beans, this concoction will blow up in the Yankees’ faces, wiping out the American bankers, who slither in the grass, their torpid and ponderous voices, that rob the homeless of their meals, in Europe and the U.S., among the starving in Africa and Latin America, afflicted by aids, by the shit of Pinochet, Mobutu, Chile, the treachery of Ebola fever.”

ANARCHY’S DELIRIOUS TREK

Amasgedda, tegedda, tamesgedda amesegdud, tegdudt.14 I summon the Ayt Atta! I summon the Ayt Morghad!15 And so heresy, the spirit of crag rock, descends upon me, flooding the stairway of twilight. The waking world crumbles at the edges, at the lifting of an ancient lid. And, suddenly, I can see. I swear, I shout. I pinch myself, I bury my heels in the sand, but this is no dream. This eye that sees, jutting outward like some battered copper pot, wrecks my sense of space, the tracks of my camel in the sand, what I called reason.

I summon the black heresies, evoking their names once again, until the djinn calls back to me, in a voice of damp basalt. And I know beyond any doubt that its resinous echo is at one with the cry of the Tuareg, with all those who believe in the coming revolt. For now, it is enough to shout, to hear my own voice, vibrating in my diaphragm, across the mountains.

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At anarchy’s leftward bend, traced by the ink of heresy, revolt is born again. We have tattooed our revolt across the foreheads of the Muslims, upon the rock of Kahéna with its bloody images. Like greedy wolves, on the trail of a fresh kill, we have barked at their strange God. Come closer and I will tell you how it was. For of all those who remain, I alone wear my father’s pants, inside-out. Of all our brothers, I alone can turn defeat into victory, can win back our lives, can transform horseshit, figs and dates into bombs. Let us blast open the portals of their garrisons.

ANARCHY’S DELIRIOUS TREK

Yesterday, and long before yesterday, they swept down from the Levant. Others came later, following the northern star. They invaded us with their Quran and sword, with their gospel and rifle, and on their faces they wore hunger and frustration. Yesterday, and long before yesterday, they hurled in my breast, “Native amazigh, here you shall die, under the writings of our God, under our laser technology.” Today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, I will hurl back at them, “I have shown my brother, the one who returned from exile, how to fight against your hatred. I have shown him the secret of your destruction. His mansion is now ready, and he shall bring home Mercedes, his lovely bride, and on his rooftop, he will install the proverbial couscousier. Then he will leave us, to sit beneath a shady palm tree, machine-gun upon his knees. Even now, he squats patiently, waiting for the earthquake, the sarcastic laughter of our mountains, that will soon fissure and swallow up the likes of you.”

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This is how we weave the noose of resistance, a rainbow to guide us, toward better days, far from the false labels and false images that you have given us.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

There is no satisfying way to render the full meaning of Hawad’s title in English. An alternative title might be “The Taghmart of Anarchy.” Taghmart in Tuareg is at the same time a bending, an elbow, or an angle. It also implies “orientation” in the broadest sense of the word. The original French title is Le coude grinçant de l’anarchie, which, literally translated, means “The Grinding Twist of Anarchy,” or “A Gnashing Bend of Anarchy.” The title also implies “A Touch of Anarchy.” Thanks to Helène Claudot-Hawad, who answered numerous questions regarding Tuareg terms and concepts used in her husband’s Tuareg epic, and to the American poet Bruce Beasley who assisted in editing the translation. Tamazight (in English often spelled Tamahaq) is the Tuareg language spoken in the Aïr, the area from where Hawad comes. The Aïr now is within the nation-state Niger, which is not recognized by the Tuareg. CHAPTER NOTES

1. The reference is to Rosa Luxemburg, with whom Hawad associates his ideas of anarchism. 2. Ibn Tumart was an Almohad reformer. 3. Tachfine was Yussuf Ben Tachfine, the Almoravid founder of Marrakech. 4. Znâti was a Berber geomancer. 5. Mount Toubkal or Jebel Toubkal, at 4,167 meters, is the highest point of the Moroccan Atlas. 6. Tifinagh are written characters, supposedly among the oldest in Africa. They are used by the Berbers and Tuaregs. Hawad includes in his books numerous examples of Tifinagh calligraphy. 7. Kahéna is the Berber heroine who fought the Arabs and died in the Aurès. 8. The Donkey-Man, or l’homme-à-l’anesse, is an image of messianic heresy attributed to Ibn Tumart and other Berbers who stood up against oppression. 9. Wakha, wakha, wakha is an exclamation like “that’s how it is.” 10. Assif derives from Essuf, the wild, the undomesticated, the unknown, that which is outside the tent, which symbolizes the community (ehen). In

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Tuareg thinking ehen and essuf are fundamental opposites. The essuf can be conceived as the other, the strange, die/das Fremde, the dangerous, the desert, but also the alter ego. 11. Lalla is a Berber term for a free and noble lady. 12. Assifaou or Assifaw is a term that connotes light or that which illuminates. It has a kind of messianic connotation without being religiously used. The “book of Assifaw” is associated with Ibn Tumart. 13. Tariq was the leader who led the Arab troops invading Spain. The Jebel Tariq, which later became Gibraltar, is named after him. 14. This Tuareg incantation is a series of words indicating successive spiritual stages. The frenetic-sounding lines create a trancelike quality. 15. Ayt Atta and Ayt Morghad are nomadic Berber groups in the Atlas.

9 The Black and the White: Race and Oral Poetry in Mauritania l

Lisa McNee Situated between the Maghreb and the Sahel, postcolonial Mauritania vacillates between the two shores of the desert, hesitating to choose one allegiance over another. Culturally as well as politically, Mauritanians waver between pride in Arabo-Berber and sub-Saharan African affiliations.1 The tangents of the country’s wavering progress from one pole to another have often been characterized in binary terms, and observers often focus on oppositions between black and white, male and female, or freedman and slave. Local theories of music and poetry follow suit, with informants describing styles as lakhal and labyad, or “the black and the white” (see Norris, Shinquiti Folk Literature and Song). However, the Manichaean politics inscribed in this poetic theory fail to explain the performance practices unveiled when we examine women’s popular genres, such as the Hassaniya tebra’ and the Wolof taasu. These performances throw into question a simplistic binary model and, by extension, the theory that hybridity alone fully explains Mauritanian cultural practice. THE BLACK AND THE WHITE

Current postcolonial theory often celebrates the cultural hybridity that is a result of colonialism; however, the mere fact of cultural hybridity, or métissage, does not imply that a positive, democratic process is at work. In fact, as Christopher Miller notes in Nationalists and Nomads, certain forms of cultural hybridity may obscure difference in an oppressive manner. Moreover, hybridity theoretically depends on the Manichaean colonial structure. Often characterized as the hallmark of the postcolonial condition, hybridity does not signify the end of colo127

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nialism as such but its successful extension into the inner worlds of peoples and cultures under Western domination. According to this theory of cultural practice, colonized peoples bear the double burden of their own cultures and that of the colonizer within themselves (see Young, Colonial Desire). The double yoke also gives the colonized subject double vision; that is, the ability to see further and more clearly than the colonizer because of an inherently ambivalent subjective location. Ambiguity, then, is the fruit of the colonial encounter. Yet ambiguity does not preclude the continuation of oppression. This fact is clear when we examine the case of Mauritania, where a hierarchical society imposes its order, sometimes in brutal ways. We cannot assume that the high rate of intermarriage in Mauritania or the popularity of African musical and poetic styles are products of a tolerant regime. Rather, they are the fruit of conquest and razzias that continued until recently. Mauritania offers a particularly interesting case for postcolonial studies, for it has known waves of conquerors for at least 1,000 years. French colonialism was only the latest in a series of colonizations that makes of Mauritania a culturally hybrid nation that vacillates between the Maghreb and the Sahel (see Villasante–de Beauvais, “Génèse”). Often enough, these vacillations have found expression through human rights abuses in postcolonial Mauritania. These abuses are predicated on a hierarchical system that opposes bidan and sudan, or white and black, as well as members of various castes and those who are noncasted, or noble. As in many other areas in the Sahel region, most communities in Mauritania recognize hereditary differences of caste based initially on the profession that a lineage practiced. These professional distinctions were then associated with social and cultural traits assumed to be hereditary, as was the profession. The system is based on the binary opposition between casted and noncasted, which favors the nobility. Furthermore, the distinction between slave and free lineages continues to play a role in Mauritanian social life. Slavery persists, in spite of the fact that the government abolished it in 1980. Freedmen, known as haratine, still face prejudice. As they identify with the dominant AraboBerber Hassaniya culture, however, they benefit from the support of Hassaniya-speaking bidan (whites) in conflicts with Pulaar, Wolof, or Soninké minorities. In each case, a binary opposition is at work, pitting black against white, slave against free, and casted against noble. The system behind the social hierarchy in Mauritania may thus be seen as a series of infinite regressions in which each individual, no matter what his or her sta-

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tus, can see him- or herself as superior to someone else on the basis of race, class, age, gender, and so on. Since independence, gradual Arabization of school programs and the purge of black civil servants and politicians from the government in the 1980s were signposts that led many to categorize Mauritania as an apartheid state. Schooling in Arabic automatically penalized students whose first language was not Arabic, and Arabization also penalized those black civil servants who had been educated in French.2 These measures met with protest, but the Mauritanian state has consistently repressed political activism since independence. Baathists (pan-Arab nationalists), trade unionists, and black rights activists have all faced government opposition, yet the repression of black residents has been most extreme. In fact, any social gathering of black Mauritanians required official permission until recently. At the height of the repression in 1989, black residents and citizens of Mauritania were jailed, tortured, and expelled from the country.3 Their citizenship papers were burned, and their lands, herds, and other goods stolen. Protesters were jailed; some were tortured. Many hundreds died, according to Mamadou Diop and Moumar Coumaba. Thousands of refugees streamed into Senegal, straining relations between the two countries to the breaking point (see Diop and Coumaba, Le Sénégal). The far-reaching effects of these events extend to the sphere of oral poetry, for poets have commented on them in their performances. My research in Senegal on the taasu, a form of popular poetry that Wolof women perform at various events such as naming ceremonies, weddings, and more recently at political rallies took an unexpected turn when I met Anta Bouna Dieng and her daughter Bassine in the village of Jillilu Sylla, Senegal. 4 They were citizens of and refugees from Mauritania, expelled in 1989 with nothing but a few rags to show for their years of work there. They have commented extensively on these events in various taasu. At a political rally in Louga in 1993, Anta Bouna Dieng performed the following poem on behalf of refugees seeking aid. I say Abdou Diouf! If it weren’t for that Kumba Dem’s child We’d have died in Mauritania No one took us in

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I say Abdou Diouf! If it weren’t for him We’d have died, all of us No one saved us Oh, Abdou Diouf—rescue! Abdou Diouf I prefer you to Ould Taaya Who walks and kills Chorus I say Abdou Diouf You are different from Ould Taaya Who walks and kills. (McNee, Selfish Gifts, p. 238)

This declamatory praise poem contrasts Ould Taaya, the leader of Mauritania at the time of the expulsions, and Abdou Diouf, president of Senegal. Performed at a rally for Diouf’s party (Parti Socialiste), the poem praises Diouf in an indirect, restrained fashion. This restraint suggests that this poem is also a reminder that even though Diouf is different from other leaders, he should still do more for the refugees. The contrast between Arabo-Berber and Sahelian affiliations that appear in the poem are symptomatic of the tensions and vacillations that constitute Mauritanian identity. The politics at work in Mauritania influence local theories of cultural practice as well, for endogenous theories divide performance styles into the black and the white: the former being those clearly related to “African” styles and the latter, those forms associated with Arabo-Berber, or bidan, styles. Following these theories, W. T. Norris offers a detailed table of “black” styles (lakhal) and “white” (labyad) styles (Norris, Shinquiti, pp. 71–73). His description clearly draws on the dominant bidan viewpoint because he characterizes the black style as less refined than the white style. He writes that the black style is “forceful, and unsuitable for expressing finer shades of emotion. With it are associated extreme modulations of the voice. . . . The ‘white’ way of singing is preferred by the sophisticated and those of elegant taste. It is harmonious, without the violent modulations to be found in its opposite” (p. 71). These supposed differences in style may not be quite as striking as these ideologically motivated theories would have it; and, in any case, the similarities in content that we find when we compare Wolof and Hassaniya poems are remarkable. Hassaniya women, too, comment on the politics of identity in their poetry. In a brief poem collected by W. T. Norris in 1962, Sadgi mint al-Mashdufi of the Awlad ‘Ammwanni in the Adrar expressed her views on a brief armed conflict with Mali.

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O God, get rid of the Mashduf, the whole lot of them. Why?—My reason is simply one of fear, because my son goes towards them, O my God. He has accomplished this great success to their detriment. He has acted chivalrously and he has done no harm to them. O God, bring him back to the town (Nema) among the highest rank of civil servants. Dissidents from Morocco are new down here, causing alarm along the frontier. My son has done you good service, bring him back—that’s all I want. (p. 72)

This poem refers to border problems with Mali, as well as to dissidents who took refuge in Morocco. The poet refuses both tendencies, as Mauritanians have so consistently, and prays only that her son will survive while performing his obligatory military service and succeed in his career. Women’s use of both forms of poetry to express forbidden erotic sentiments is even more significant in this light, for it makes the aesthetic distinction between the white and the black styles all the more difficult to sustain. Many taasu linked to particular dances are frankly erotic, and they have been banned by marabouts in the past for this reason. Deborah Heath gives an example from the 1980s that was linked to the ventilateur, or “fan,” dance style (Politics, p. 119): Electric fan, air conditioner There is wind inside I went to sleep My mother went to sleep If you caress me Caress me on the cheeks Everything else is forbidden to me.

In an Islamic society, this flirtatious poem receives censure because young women are not supposed to express sexual interest at all. Many taasu are far more explicit than this one, but the genre does rely on allusion, so indirect language is common. The Hassaniya tradition5 bears striking similarities to the Wolof poetic tradition; indeed, the Hassaniya poetic tradition offers an analogue to the taasu in the tebra’.6 The tebra’, rhymed couplets often based on a proverb, are very similar to the Wolof taasu. Like the taasu, it is considered a woman’s genre, to be performed among women at fes-

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tivities or in private.7 (Although Wolof men may perform taasu, they do so in parody, or they highlight the form’s obvious similarities to rap.) Tebra’e are rhymed, rhythmic couplets, just like taasu. The following poem, cited by Georges Voisset, is a good example of a poem that displays “a conscious attempt to break the conspiracy of silence imposed on women by a male-oriented morality” (“The Tebra’ of Moorish Women,” p. 85). If I could be his saddle

Dimi, the women

If I could be his snuff-box

It is in Bouna’s snuff-box

he would be above and I below haven’t even recited a few tebria I could touch him at every move that Iblis installs his tidmit [musical instrument]. (p. 82)

This poem seems to support the opinion of Aline Tauzin’s informants, who claimed that women whisper these poems when they are in love. However, it does not show the kind of modesty that those who idealize Hassaniya women would like them to present. Indeed, the same ideal of modesty is current among the Wolof. As in Wolof society, Hassaniya believe that “parler trop, trop fort, avoir des gestes trop amples ou trop vifs, entraînent la même honte” (talking too much, too loudly, gesturing too much or too energetically, leads to the same kind of shame) (Tauzin, “A haute voix,” p. 184). Not only do all the ethnic groups in Mauritania share the same religion (Islam), but also they share the same social hierarchy based on the distinction between casted and uncasted/noble members of society, as well as the distinction between slave and free (once a family has been enslaved, it is known as a slave family—haratine—even after its members have been freed). In general, talking too loudly or too frequently is shameful, and overly expansive gestures are associated with griots, who are casted and receive less overt respect than nobles.8 These strictures are used to support the local hierarchy, for behavior is linked to caste status. Iggawen, or griots, for instance, lose status merely by practicing their profession. In other words, identity and cultural practice are so closely tied that the hierarchy may seem inescapable. The local theory of poetic practice that Norris describes seems to function primarily as an ideological tool designed to support this social hierarchy. Women’s poetic practice, however, demonstrates that similarities are as striking as differences when we examine “the

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black and the white.” Moreover, women’s bold commentaries on politics and sex make it virtually impossible to sustain the theory’s key element—clearly, neither tradition is more refined than the other. Poets in both traditions address similar issues in similar language. In addition, “black” styles are more popular than “white” styles among Mauritanians, in spite of the higher value accorded to white styles, according to Norris: “Many of the iggawen (griots or bards of the Hassaniya community) prefer it, and it is also a sure and quick way to arouse the emotions of an audience” (p. 71). A theory of hybridity or of cultural exchange thus seems more appropriate to a description of women’s poetic practice in Mauritania than the binary system that underpins both the social and the aesthetic hierarchy.9 PLAYING IN THE SHADOWS

Nevertheless, the events of 1989 seem to indicate that Hassaniya culture is ascendant and that those who affirm their own cultural heritage are not considered Mauritanian. These events are indicative of a cultural hierarchy as well as a racial one. Another of Anta Bouna Dieng’s poems suggests as much. I recorded two versions of the poem, one in the village of Jillilu Sylla, the other in Bouna Dieng’s village, Màkka-Barage, Senegal. What follows is a version of the poem performed by her daughter Bassine Guèye because Anta modified the text in performance in Jillilu Sylla so that the focus became her patrons there rather than the events in Mauritania (McNee, Selfish Gifts, pp. 199–200).10 Call Omar to me Call Father Lambi So they’ll trace the foundations of my house

Chorus: Call Omar to me Call Father Lambi So they will trace the foundations of my house

Oh, Mauritania, I will not go there to die Chorus: Oh, Mauritania, I will not go there to die

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If you raise your head, you die Stand, you die Look, you die Wherever you move, death promises to come Death is in Mauritania Mauritania! I will not go there to die Haratine Moors are the worst They grab your balls and uproot them In a flash, the owner sleeps forever A second circumcision from which your blood springs Haratine Moors are the worst I lost my mother Add to that my father, who almost died Say, I will never return to Mauritania I say, the ancestors have cheated again Mothers of Njamata Me, I will never return to Mauritania Haratine Moors are the worst there Chorus: Haratine Moors are the worst there.

The poem could not be clearer: Anta Bouna Dieng and her daughter were lucky to escape with their lives, simply because they are black and Wolof. The poet ironizes the tortures that took place in jails in Mauritania, comparing the experience to a second initiation, one that leads to death rather than to new life as an adult. She refuses this death, and the north becomes a sign of death for her. For the purposes of this chapter, it is even more interesting that the poet exclaims “Haratine Moors are the worst.” Rather than feeling solidarity with black Mauritanian minorities, the haratines (freed slaves and their descendants) are culturally Moor and even benefited from the expulsions of 1989. They received the lands of those who were expelled. 11 The analogy of the black policeman in apartheid South Africa comes to mind, as does the Marxist notion of false consciousness. The haratines served their former masters in this conflict, if Bassine and other observers’ accounts are to be believed. As freed slaves of Moors, the Haratine speak Hassaniya. Culturally, they are closer to their former masters than they are to the ethnic minorities. According to Charles Stewart, “La pigmentation de la peau est un indicateur précis du statut social” (skin pigmentation is a precise indicator of social status), but “ce sont les communautés haratines qui sont sensées être les principaux bénéficiaires des redistributions de terres du bassin du fleuve Sénégal après les expulsions de la rive mauri-

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tanienne du fleuve” (it is the haratine communities that are supposed to have been the principal beneficiaries of land redistribution in the basin of the Senegal river after the expulsions from the Mauritanian side of the river) (“Une interpretation,” pp. 168–169). Although the distinction between bidan and sudan forms the basis for one layer of the social hierarchy that made these abuses possible, these terms do not have the same resonance in Mauritanian society that they do in the West. Culture plays an important role as well. A long tradition of interracial marriage had blurred ethnic boundaries and made attempts at ethnic identification imprecise. The haratines’ lack of solidarity with other black Mauritanians reflects this blurring of ethnic boundaries. It also reflects the hybrid nature of Mauritanian society, for hybridity implies the extension of the Manichaean colonial ideology into the consciousness of those who are oppressed by that system. Hybridity can thus be explained, as Stewart does, in concrete socioeconomic and historical terms. According to Stewart, a failure to recognize the cultural differences that play a role in commentary on the events of 1989 has led to misinformation about those events. In his 1989 article, he places the conflict in a regional context, focusing on resentment at the legal and illegal immigrants from Senegal and Mali who played such an important role in the expanding urban economy of Mauritania. Economic ties bind Mauritania to the Sahel as well as to the Maghreb. Stewart notes that Senegal has an important place in Mauritanian history; indeed, the two trade partners have deep ties that date back several centuries. Senegal and Mauritania “partagent une tradition culturelle et religieuse remontant à des siècles; de même que les économies des deux pays sont interdépendantes” (share a cultural and religious tradition going back for centuries; at the same time; the economies of the two countries are interdependent) (p. 161). Many Mauritanians also trade or work and live in Senegal. Families cross the borders, artificial constructions of the French conquest that cannot contain the porous cultural, religious, and familial relations. For these very concrete reasons, then, Mauritania and its people often vacillate between their bidan and African heritage, two fundamental elements of their distinctive national culture. Stewart’s position suggests that postcolonial theories of hybridity are incomplete. Hybridity does not surpass the two terms of its existence; rather, two disparate elements are fused but remain visibly different. The ideology that represents the hierarchies of race, caste, and gender in Mauritania as immutable because they are hereditary finds sustenance in the colonialist variant of the theory of hybridity. According to that variant, Mauritania must forever vacillate between

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the Maghreb and the Sahel without ever accepting both as equal, fundamental parts of its cultural heritage. However, the poetry that we have examined shows that some Mauritanians do accept their mixed cultural heritage. As Philippe Marchesin writes, many different cultural and political strands make up the weave of the postcolonial state: “Une vision mettant en exergue des couples opposés risque d’induire en erreur. Il s’agit plus d’interpénétrations que d’oppositions binaires. . . . Il y a autant de passerelles que de signes de rupture entre les diverses ethnies” (A vision that emphasizes opposing pairs risks leading to error. Interpenetrations matter more than binary oppositions. . . . There are as many bridges as there are signs of rupture between the different ethnic groups) (Tribus, p. 82). These signs of hope cannot efface the terror of the events of 1989; nor should they. Hybridity is a colonial heritage and carries with it cold and brutal realities. Those poets who go beyond hybridity in their performance practice are playing in the shadow of those realities. That they are able to shine some light on these harsh facts as they entertain their listeners is an extraordinary sign that human beings are capable of surpassing oppressive Manichaean systems, even if only for a moment. NOTES

1. For a good overview, see Robert E. Handloff, Mauritania: A Country Study. 2. Hassaniya is a dialect of Arabic. 3. For further information, see Amnesty International, Mauritania 1986–1989: Background to a Crisis, Three Years of Political Imprisonment, Torture and Unfair Trials; and Ron Parker, “The Senegal-Mauritania Conflict of 1989: A Fragile Equilibrium.” 4. I conducted a year of research on taasu and women’s autobiography in Senegal in 1993, thanks to a Fulbright-Hays dissertation research grant. For further information, see my dissertation, McNee, Selfish Gifts: Senegalese Women’s Autobiographical Discourses. 5. Cathérine Taine-Cheikh gives an overview of Moorish poetry in her essay, “Le pilier et la corde: Recherches sur la poésie maure.” 6. See Georges M. Voisset, “The Tebra’ of Moorish Women From Mauritania: The Limits (or Essence) of the Poetic Act” and “Enquête sur la littérature mauritanienne: Formes et perspectives.” 7. For further information about women’s performance literature in general, see Aline Tauzin, “A haute voix: Poésie féminine contemporaine en Mauritanie.” 8. For further information about the social hierarchy, see Mariella Villasante–de Beauvais, “Génèse de la hiérarchie sociale et du pouvoir politique bidan”; and Philippe Marchesin, Tribus, ethnies et pouvoir en Mauritanie.

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9. For an interesting examination of another binary system—the great divide that pits oral performance against written literature—see Nicolas Martin-Granel, “Le Grand Partage, ses petits, et la littérature: Questions autour de l’oralité en Mauritanie.” 10. For both versions and the Wolof original, see McNee, Selfish Gifts: Senegalese Women’s Autobiographical Discourses. 11. See Charles Stewart, “Une interprétation du conflit sénégalo-mauritanien.”

10 Literature as a Form of Intellectual Ascent: The Writings of Patrick G. Ilboudo l

Salaka Sanou

The 1980s saw a virtual explosion of written Burkinabè literature, with increased production, improved quality, and the establishment of structures such as literary prizes that would favor this cultural blossoming. The prizes offered to writers in Burkina Faso, which have allowed them to showcase their talents while also giving them a framework in which to express themselves, include the Grand Prix National des Arts et des Lettres (GPNAL, or National Prize for Arts and Letters), held every two years since 1983 during the Semaine Nationale de la Culture (SNC, or National Culture Week); the Concours Sidwaya (Sidwaya Competition) for Best Novel, held in 1986 and 1987; and the Concours Imprimerie Nationale (National Government Printing Office Competition) for Best Novel, held in 1990 and 1992. Each of these prizes revealed to the greater public the young talent of Burkinabè literature. Among these emerging writers, none impressed more than Patrick Gomdaogo Ilboudo, a winner in each of these competitions. He died prematurely on February 28, 1994, at a moment when Burkinabè literary history was poised to place him in the dignified ranks of such men of culture as Nazi Boni, Larlé Naba Ambga, and Joseph Ki-Zerbo. For Patrick Ilboudo had been steadily ascending in the literary world since his appearance in 1983, when he garnered first prize at the GPNAL for his short story collection, Les toilettes (published in 1985). In 1987 he received first prize in the second Sidwaya competition with his novel Le procès du muet. The following year, he published another novel, Les carnets secrets d’une fille de joie. In 1990 Translated from the French by Jeanne Garane.

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he won the first National Government Printing Office Competition with Les vertiges du trône. And in 1992 Le héraut têtu obtained the Grand Prix Littéraire d’Afrique Noire. Given this exceptional trajectory, the loss that his death constitutes is all the more evident. Nevertheless, despite this loss, it behooves me to assess this unfortunate development by accounting for what brought him all of these honors: his writing. Indeed, the different prizes obtained by Ilboudo attest to the power of his creative efforts and his artistic rigor. In what follows I analyze his understanding of literary writing by adumbrating the intellectual demands Ilboudo placed on himself and on his reader. THE LIFE OF PATRICK ILBOUDO

Born into a family of modest means (his father was a salaried employee, and his mother was a homemaker), Ilboudo spent an austere childhood in one of the indigenous neighborhoods of Ouagadougou and died at the age of forty-five, almost at the top of the social hierarchy (he was an official at the United Nations Children’s Fund, or UNICEF). This social ascent was realized through suffering, sacrifice, and selfdiscipline. In fact, after having attended elementary school with no difficulty, he was unable to study at the secondary level because of his parents’ poverty. Forced several times to interrupt his studies in order to make the money needed to pay his tuition costs, he worked as a tax inspector and warehouse employee. He obtained his baccalaureate degree at the age of twenty-five in 1975. Under these conditions, he did not qualify for a university scholarship. Not wishing to stop at that point, he enrolled in the program in modern literature at the University of Ouagadougou, where he obtained his licence degree (which is similar to a bachelor’s degree) while working in order to make a living. During this period, he became interested in journalism while working on the daily newspaper L’Observateur. After obtaining his licence degree and with one year to go for a maîtrise in Ouagadougou, like other students, he applied for a scholarship to carry out his studies in France. Having received a negative response, his solution was to enroll in the University of Abidjan in Côte d’Ivoire, where he obtained the maîtrise after one year. Following these efforts, he naturally expected that the state of Burkina Faso would finally award him a scholarship so as to allow him to continue his intellectual training. Having received his reward, he spent four years (1979–1983) in Paris, writing and defending a doctoral thesis. Armed with this important degree, he declined an offer from the

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international weekly Jeune Afrique and returned to his country. He taught for two years (1983–1985) at L’Institut Africain d’Études Cinématographiques (INAFEC, or African Film Studies Institute) at the University of Ouagadougou. In July 1985, he became a representative of UNICEF in Ouagadougou. Given such life experiences, it is not surprising to see that Ilboudo was interested from the outset of his professional life in the situation of the poorest and most disinherited among his people. In 1983 he founded the Mouvement Voltaïque Contre le Racisme et pour l’Amitié Entre les Peuples (MOVRAP, or Voltaic Movement Against Racism and for Friendship Among Peoples), the first organization for human rights in Burkina Faso. This movement achieved real success from its earliest days, which coincided with the revolutionary spirit of the time. At UNICEF he worked to help Burkinabè women and children. He traveled throughout all the provinces of the country, educating ordinary people through rural theater, and worked to educate intellectuals and artists about the problems of childhood. Despite being recognized by his supervisors as an untiring worker, he did not limit himself to his professional activities alone. In 1990, with a group of young writers, he created the Movement for the Union and Solidarity of Writers (MUSE), whose objective was to help Burkinabè writers solve the problem of literary publishing in Burkina Faso. Four published works have resulted from the competition that MUSE has held regularly since 1992. Ilboudo was able to establish this society thanks to his tireless efforts in developing the literature of his country. In fact, since he was discovered during the first GPNAL competition in 1983, he never ceased writing. In addition to his literary career, Ilboudo became interested in film criticism, and in 1989 he published a book, Le FESPACO 1969–1989, les cinéastes africains et leurs oeuvres (FESPACO is the acronym for an African film festival held in Ouagadougou). A self-made man, he looked far into the future, undertaking numerous long-term projects. Among them are a publishing house, La Mante, whose name appears on the works that he published at his own expense (except for Les vertiges du trône, published by the Government Printing Office); a weekly regional news magazine, Regard, whose first issue appeared on October 5, 1992; and a communications consulting office associated with the printer Mediacom. It is almost certain that Ilboudo died with many other projects in mind; in fact, it is not possible to list all his accomplishments or all that he planned to accomplish. Nevertheless, his many achievements give us some sense of his great ambition and his desire to be the author of this own happiness in both the social and material senses. But one person alone cannot find happiness in the midst of misery. In order to be the

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author of one’s own happiness, in Ilboudo’s view, one must constantly make enormous sacrifices, always asking more of oneself in order to elevate oneself materially, financially, socially, spiritually, and intellectually. This standard requires great rigor in every area of life, but especially in writing. A social trajectory such as Ilboudo’s is exemplary in several ways, but such highly disciplined people often disdain intellectual and physical laziness in others. Ilboudo believed that he accomplished so much under such trying conditions, not because he was more talented than others but simply because he imposed such rigorous demands upon himself. Not surprisingly, Ilboudo often made similar demands of others. In fact, self-discipline is the key to Ilboudo’s literary and creative philosophy. LITERARY THEMES

In the field of literature, Ilboudo wrote prose, although he did make a gesture toward poetry in writing the national anthem of Burkina Faso, the ditanyè. His choice of prose can be explained by his preference for the journalistic writing he had been doing since his youth. In addition, having been trained in the school of life, he put his finger on the physical, material, spiritual, and financial sufferings of humanity in order to describe them, to show them to his peers. Literary writing therefore sprang from the deepest sources of his being. The need to write and the need to speak of human beings in society resulted in an intense, prolific, and emotionally powerful literary product. Les toilettes is a collection of five short stories in which he expresses his disgust for the decay in his society. Here, Ilboudo presents different facets of society such as traditional mores, white collar crime, and corruption. The title of the collection expresses his entire literary philosophy: he wished to participate in the “cleaning up” (toilettage) of society, to repeat an expression that was dear to him. Le procès du muet, Ilboudo’s first novel, revisited themes introduced in the short story collection. In the mid-1970s, independent Africa was characterized by the creation of regional state entities assigned to design or carry out the development politics of its various governments. Within this framework, the Economic Community of West Africa (CEAO) was originally created in Ouagadougou. But in less than ten years, the officials in charge of CEAO had built their own personal fortunes, to the detriment of the organization, by embezzling untold sums. In 1986, the Burkinabè revolution chose to present these “starvers of the people” to popular revolutionary tribunals. It is this trial

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that Ilboudo fictionalized in a thinly veiled account of CEAO’s activities that accentuates the cupidity, lack of civic commitment, and cynicism of those in charge. Les carnets secrets d’une fille de joie recounts in its turn the trial of national officials who are involved with prostitutes. The president of the republic, government ministers, union leaders, politicians, and clerics all condemn prostitution publicly while regularly visiting prostitutes in private. The story is recounted as entries in the personal journal of a young girl who is forced into prostitution by circumstance. Having become pregnant during her studies, she is expelled by her high school and rejected by her family. Abandoned by all, she turns to prostitution to buy food and shelter for her child. Les vertiges du trône portrays the insane grandeur and vanity of the president of Watimbow, Benoît Wédraogo. His governing methods consist of repression, demagogy, creation of militias, intimidation, and corruption. Finally, Le héraut têtu portrays the impossible dream of a (diehard) pan-Africanist who is defeated by the divisive forces of Africa in his quest for freedom. Clearly, Ilboudo placed social reality at the center of his concerns. His principle themes are as follows:

• Corruption and white collar crime. Such problems constitute a true scourge in Africa and impede its development. It is not only minor public officials who commit such unethical acts but first and foremost the highest political authorities who cannot resist easy opportunities for getting rich. • Social and economic prostitution. A decadent society also expresses itself morally, insofar as those in charge take advantage of their social positions to pressure the most fragile members of society, such as the youth and, in particular, young women who must sell themselves to make a living. • Dictatorship. The absence of liberty and democracy is one of the characteristics of African nations that Ilboudo tirelessly denounced in his novels. For Ilboudo, dictatorship is at once a cause and a consequence of corruption.

Ilboudo was an impassioned spokesman against the exploitation and repression of the most disadvantaged members of society. He denounced the political, social, and moral impediments that keep Africa from developing. To this end, he pressed history into service. Indeed, Ilboudo was deeply committed to using the techniques of social realism in his novels. Being a journalist helped him because it allowed him not only to be in contact with daily realities but also to echo those realities

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in his articles. Thus, he drew from an inexhaustible, constantly renewable source of inspiration, which furnished him with the material necessary for his literary creations. By using contemporary history above all, he hoped to maintain contact with his readers, to keep them alert and breathless so that they “would not be able to call themselves innocent,” as Jean-Paul Sartre might have put it. He was thus motivated by a sense of truth, of witnessing actual events, in order to be taken seriously. No one could call Ilboudo a dreamer or a writer who wasted his time on mere trifles. THE ROLE OF THE WRITER

Writing was a profoundly useful activity for Ilboudo. Far from being a gratuitous diversion, for him it was an intellectual, social, and therefore political investment. When practicing this craft, Ilboudo was fully aware that he was addressing someone, a reader whom he asks to join him—each in his own abilities—in the cleaning up of society. Ilboudo sought the ethical purification of society, its purge. Although he did not assign the reader any particular role, he did assign himself very specific tasks. In an interview I conducted with Ilboudo in 1990, he delineated these tasks in some detail. First, Ilboudo claimed, the writer serves as a reservoir of cultural knowledge: “The writer is a collective memory, a library of culture who must conserve a common heritage,” a sort of modern griot. In African tradition, the griot is recognized for his or her erudition; perfect knowledge of humans, objects, and the history of society; and perfect mastery of the word. The griot possesses the secrets of language and for this reason is feared as a “master of words.” Such masters are just as capable of vulgarity as of depth and even affectation. By virtue of the griot’s selection of one or another level of language, his or her interlocutor will be better able to follow and understand what is being expressed. In comparing himself to the griot, Ilboudo seems to insist that the writer must accept the role of the mediator and educator. It is the writer’s duty to educate readers, to inform them while teaching them. The writer points out potential pitfalls so that readers can avoid them and puts himself or herself at the disposition of readers and society, with whom he or she wishes to establish contact, to communicate. Because oral dialogue between writer and reader is impossible, the writer becomes a connoisseur. Second, Ilboudo emphasizes the writer’s ethical responsibility to his or her people. “The writer is a guardian,” Ilboudo states. “In order to

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avoid injustice and misbehavior, he observes society and indicates where certain things need improvement.” The writer must understand and embrace the deeper “moral code” of society (or the society he or she is writing about). He or she must also behave in an exemplary manner and must even be ruthless when necessary. As the guardian of moral values for a culture, he or she not only has to deal with society (which is a diffused entity), but also with the individual and collective elements that compose it. The writer counsels them and also has the power to punish, react, or sanction. Therefore he or she must not simply observe his or her interlocutors but must also address them. Communication is once again established in a language chosen according to the interlocutor’s capacity to understand it. It is here that Ilboudo’s desire to clean up society is expressed. Because society has been dirtied, it must be purified not only on the level of personal ethics but also in its outward or external appearance. The way that a society presents itself to the rest of the world must coordinate with the actual moral condition of its individual members. Third, the writer must hold a mirror up to society, not abandoning the imperative to represent real people in the actual circumstances of daily life. “The writer is the mirror of society because it is reflected in him,” Ilboudo insists. How can the writer fill this role? First, the writer must have gained a profound knowledge of the social realities of the world he or she inhabits through mastery of social discourse. Second, he or she must echo this social discourse as faithfully as possible. It is this concern that compels Ilboudo to being a realist in his works. We have seen how he acquired his knowledge of social discourse. Born into a family of modest means, he suffered and struggled to climb the social ladder. This trajectory allowed him, even gave him the authority to speak in the name of those whom nature has not favored and who are rejected. From these experiences, Ilboudo came to believe that the writer must mirror reality as faithfully as possible, reflecting society’s image back to itself without distorting or falsifying it. At the same time, the writer must take care not to grow disgusted with certain aspects of society and thereby weaken his or her deeper convictions. The writer has no need for cosmetics or special effects, no right to err in rendering the real because errors could be fatal, leading society down an undesirable path. The mirror must reflect not only social decay but also society’s legitimate desire to leave that decay behind. That is the second aspect of the mirror. The writer must be able to seize the aspirations and express them as clearly as possible in order to mark the road that will lead society to purity. Finally, “the writer sees into the future,” Ilboudo claims. “He

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always perceives the direction in which society will evolve.” The writer must be a seer, an avant-garde inventor, a sort of guide who shows the way. Here Ilboudo is understandably more circumspect in his choice of words because such terms were often abused by African politicians, especially in the 1970s. At that time, military leaders and others commonly described themselves as “enlightened leaders,” “fathers of the nation,” the “avant-garde,” and so on, but in the end they further retarded Africa’s development. As Ilboudo employs these terms, no pejorative connotation or irony is intended. It is rather a question of a noble mission articulated by a writer educated in the school of life. For Ilboudo, this mission consists of showing his readers the best route to human happiness. The main difference between the writer and the politician is that the writer acts on the minds of his or her readers without having the means to compel them to behave in a certain way. Thus Ilboudo advocates the cleansing of society, asserting that postcolonial African society must be rid of all decay and all the scourges that impede its development. In pointing out these handicaps and demanding the destruction of these obstacles, he plays the role of guide or inventor because once society is rid of its ailments, there will be yet another reality equally in need of address. The need to clean society leads the writer to predict, to envision a better future, and to invent a world that comes as close as possible to perfection. Ilboudo sought to awaken the moral conscience of his society by focusing upon social themes in a realistic manner. Fully aware that he addressed himself to other minds, Ilboudo invited his readers to share his road, to rise up and seek out perfection. He also sought complicity with his reader born of the reader’s intellectual effort. However, complicity is not possible unless the reader agrees to make this intellectual effort. Here Ilboudo required at least a minimum intellectual level. ILBOUDO AND HIS READER

Ilboudo did not equivocate about the importance of the French language for the Sahelian reader in general and the Burkinabè reader in particular. By making this choice, however, the writer designates and limits his or her audience in a country like Burkina Faso, where nearly 80 percent of the population does not know how to read or write French, the national language. Thus, Ilboudo addresses a public educated in French. If French is the language of the colonizer, it is also—and more importantly—the official language used by the government administration. Here again, Ilboudo does not necessarily address himself to all readers

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educated in French because within this group he sets his sights upon certain people, specifically those who are especially called upon to obey their country’s moral code. In other words, Ilboudo directs his work principally toward those in command, members of the upper echelon of society who possess a level of education and training that puts them in charge of their country’s political, economic, social, and cultural affairs. In a country like Burkina Faso, social and political success depends upon an individual’s high level of education above the minimum provided by the baccalauréat diploma except in some rare cases. Because Ilboudo portrays people in the governing class, they can be identified as the primary targets of his criticism; so can those who possess enough education to enable them to understand the situations described in his novels. Having thus identified Ilboudo’s interlocutors, we can understand a bit more easily why he uses a very elevated linguistic register in his literary works. Indeed, it is almost impossible to read and understand his works if one does not have a dictionary at hand because in each chapter one is certain to encounter at least one rarely used word, in addition to expressions in Latin, as in Le procès du muet. This elevated level of language characterizes all his short stories and novels. A second characteristic of Ilboudo’s writing is its foundation in Burkinabè traditional culture, the Mossé culture in particular. Mossé traditions inspire him and serve as a basis for his values. This is remarkable on the onomastic level. All the characters have Mossé names, sometimes symbolic names that identify them to a Mossé reader who speaks Moré. For example, in Le procès du muet, Pass Yam means “add ruse,” and Biga Zamsoiba means “child cheater.” Both are names of characters who craftily embezzle the wealth of the African Economic Union. In Les carnets secrets d’une fille de joie, the narrator-heroine is called Fatou Zalme. In Moré Zalme means “nothing, zero, worthless, or failure,” all terms that correspond to the situation of the young girl, who is forced to prostitute herself in order to feed her child. In Les vertiges du trône, Ting Bougoum, which means “village fire,” is the head militia man of president Benoît Wédraogo in charge of “setting fires,” or taking care of the opposition. Gom Naba is the master of words, the traditional mad character who likes to talk, who talks a lot, and to whom the militia pays no mind because he is mad (who would dare to publicly insult a dictator, if not a madman?). Nevertheless, this character is nothing less than the voice of the voiceless, the spokesman for the exploited and mistreated masses who do not dare to speak for fear of Ting Bougoum’s fires. The symbolism of the names (of people and places) is of such

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importance in Ilboudo’s work that by itself it could constitute an entire subject for reflection. What must be remembered is that Ilboudo does not deem it necessary to provide explanatory notes for these names, exactly because they are symbolic. To unveil them so easily with notes would destroy their symbolic value and strip the narrative of all its depth; that is, these hidden depths would have been unwisely revealed to the reader, who must discover for himself or herself the meaning of the story. Once again Ilboudo demands much from his reader, who must make the necessary intellectual effort to understand the message addressed to him or her. By making this effort, the reader educates himself or herself, thus acquiring hard-earned knowledge. A third characteristic of Ilboudo’s writing is his reliance upon oral traditions and genres. Because Ilboudo defined himself as a sort of modern griot, trustee of the patrimony, the number of proverbs in his works is not surprising. We know the importance of this genre in traditional African rhetoric. Only the wise, the erudite, and the knowledgeable have the capacity to use proverbs in order to support their arguments, demonstrations, and affirmations. One must know how to use the necessary proverb at the right time; otherwise one risks ridicule. One must be sure of oneself and one’s knowledge to use this rhetorical technique. For a writer as young as Ilboudo, the use of so many proverbs in his narratives demonstrates a certain erudition. It also shows that, in spite of his formal education, Ilboudo had acquired great knowledge of traditional African culture. When he compared himself to a griot, it was in no way pretentious on his part. In addition to using proverbs, Ilboudo also relies upon traditional folktales, which often end with a moral and are part of the education of children, to whom they are most often addressed. By using folktales in his novels, incorporated within his greater narrative structures, Ilboudo expresses his desire to teach his reader, just as the storyteller or griot does. ILBOUDO’S USE OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE

Ilboudo writes in French out of necessity:

I write in French because first of all, it is the only language in which I can write. I learned to read and write in French; thus, this is the only language I know. This is the only language I have as an instrument for writing, and when I needed to express my feelings or to transmit messages in my novels and my short stories, I naturally used what I had at hand, French.

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Ilboudo goes on to confirm what I have been saying about his addressees: I write for those who can and who know how to read French. . . . I am ambitious enough to hope that, through these readers, it is possible to communicate my message even to those who can’t read me in French, either through a translation one day into another language . . . or by the spread of the message contained in my books to those who can’t read French.

Ilboudo has two audiences in mind: those who can read French and those who cannot, for whom a translation could be done. His novel Le procès du muet shows how he envisions spreading his message from the first audience to the second: the character Batolo (a young student) translates to his uncle Ram Nogdo the contents of a notebook that the latter had found in a bus, recording the different sessions of a trial of those in charge of the African Economic Union. Although he writes in French, Ilboudo thinks first in his native tongue, Moré: When I write in French, for some situations, or even some expressions, in order to express an idea, I sometimes first formulate it in my native language, and then I carry out the acrobatics of memory and thought in order to translate it into French. . . . In almost all of my writings, there are at least one or two expressions, one or two words that I have transcribed from my native language. It is in fact an imposition for the reader who is not immersed in the Mossé cultural universe. . . . I believe that is acceptable.

As is evident from these remarks, Ilboudo enjoys playing with language and with his readers, but the game he plays is an intellectual one that appeals to the reader’s mind. Ilboudo’s reader must pierce and decode the author’s complex message. CONCLUSION

Although Ilboudo did not explicitly say so, he believed that literature was a means of educating and raising consciousness. He is aware that he addresses himself to readers to whom he wishes to present an authentic image of society. In this regard, Ilboudo does not hesitate to rely upon material from his own cultural universe. He does so in the hopes that his readers will make the effort to discover the truths of their

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commonly shared society. He presents a realistic image of his society, not so that it will be an object of lament for him but to convince his readers that change and improvement are indeed possible. Ilboudo tries to move his readers, to touch sensitive spots. Implied in this approach is a call to action or at least to reaction. The readers are offered no straight or easy road to attaining such improvement. They must follow the intellectual meanderings that the writer’s unique vision imposes upon them, thereby acquiring the knowledge that will allow them to move to a higher intellectual level. At the end of this sort of initiatory trajectory, readers are truly conscious of having been educated and elevated, of having climbed the rungs of higher knowledge, thanks to the author. Ilboudo’s demands on his reader cannot be well understood without an examination of the author’s life. He came from a family of modest means, and his life ended when he was at the top of the social ladder, both intellectually and materially speaking. He suffered much, having known poverty before rising out of it because of his efforts. Although he never said as much, he constitutes an exemplary model, an example that he implicitly offers to his reader to be used in the reader’s own intellectual and social ascent.

11 Norbert Zongo: The Committed Writer l

Michel Tinguiri Norbert Zongo, also called H. S. or Henri Sebgo, was born July 31, 1949, in the Koudougou region of the former Upper Volta, now Burkina Faso. He wrote two well-received novels, Le parachutage (The Parachute Drop, 1988) and Rougebêinga (1990), and he served as editor in chief of a newspaper called L’Indépendant (The Independent). Zongo was an extraordinarily well-read person who was well-informed about global affairs. Through his writings, he came to be known as Burkina Faso’s most committed author and journalist. For many Burkinabè, Zongo was appreciated as a man who remained true to his beliefs despite repeated attempts upon his life. Among students, his commitments to justice and truth telling made him a hero and an example to follow. Zongo’s sudden and tragic death on December 13, 1998, shocked many people. His death was a horror and an abomination, but it was a heroic death. For Zongo believed, as does Wole Soyinka, that “the man dies who keeps silent in the face of tyranny.” Thus, Zongo did not die a useless death. He taught Burkinabè people to love freedom and justice through his writings and his vision of life. THE MAN AND HIS WORKS

As a schoolboy in the early 1960s, Norbert Zongo begin contributing to a newspaper called La voix du cours normal, through which he developed his skills as a writer. He later enrolled at the University of Abidjan, where he was ousted for his political opinions; still later, he studied law in Cameroon. These circumstances all shaped his personality. He wrote articles in newspapers like L’Observateur, J. J., and La Clé. He was also known to be friendly, ready to help, and openhearted. 151

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He was a hard-working, soft-spoken, and generous man. According to his close friend Germain Nana, Zongo did not smoke or drink. During his lifetime, he came to be the guiding light of his contemporaries. For many, he represented both the national and the African consciences. As a human rights activist, he probed in his writings the different dimensions of human life in order to enlighten the people. His newspaper, the L’Indépendant, was an investigative newspaper that focused on economic, political, social, and cultural themes. Zongo himself was considered to be not only a committed writer and journalist but also a talented investigative reporter. His friends and colleagues considered him the truest sign of democracy in Burkina Faso. He was an authentic teacher of the people. Zongo wrote his novel Le parachutage to explore postcolonial disenchantment in African society. In this novel, Zongo depicts a corrupt leader named Watinbow Gouama, who is referred to as the “redeemer” and “father” of a newly independent country. Gouama is the most powerful man in his country. The name “Watinbow Gouama” means “speech,” and Gouama is a real demagogue. He never hesitates to resort to violence whenever his power is threatened. Despite his determination to stay in power for life, Gouama is overthrown and killed at the end of the novel by one of his close collaborators. Le parachutage is a hardhitting satire, directed against all corrupt, bloody, and selfish leaders in postcolonial Africa. Whereas Le parachutage focuses on postcolonial Africa, Rougebêinga covers the colonial era. The latter novel depicts the exploitation, oppression, and enslavement of African peoples by corrupt local chiefs. In this novel, Naba Liguidy orders, organizes, encourages, and perpetuates the massacre of his own people, just to show his friendship and faithfulness to white people. Naba Liguidy symbolizes the ultimate corrupt, bloody, and selfish leader. Both novels show how Norbert Zongo condemned tyranny and tyrants in all forms. He was a fighter for social justice and peace. Zongo wrote to denounce not only the legacies of slavery and colonization in Africa but also the injustices that African leaders have committed against their own people. ZONGO’S VISION OF AFRICA’S DESTINY

In the 1960s, most African countries became independent, which gave rise to many hopes as African people took charge of their own destiny. But it did not take long for Africans to understand their situation. Things went from bad to worse in no time. The new leaders were not so

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different from their old colonial masters. It is within this rather broad social context that I situate Le parachutage. In this novel, the leader Gouama deludes himself into believing that he is the most clear-sighted, powerful, and intelligent man in his country. He believes that he is a virtual god. In time, corruption, misery, and impoverishment become part of the daily lives of the people. The leaders care only for themselves, and they use the masses to become more powerful. In Le parachutage, when Gouama’s children return from their vacations with their European friends, Gouama orders the police and military to expel the blind, the beggars, and the homeless from the capital city. This shows that he is ashamed of the misery and poverty of his own people, and since he would like to show the outside world that everything is going well in his country, he simply decides to hide the people who would mar his false image. The reader thus understands that independence has brought no positive change for the people. In fact, it has even worsened their lives. The new leaders have failed them by embezzling public funds. Corruption has increased. The euphoria of the early days of independence has become a nightmare. There is no real freedom, dignity, or self-respect. As Chinua Achebe has observed, the worst thing that can happen to any people is the loss of their dignity and self-respect. In Zongo’s novel, corruption, injustice, and immorality have become common, giving rise to a general distrust of Africa’s leaders among the populace. Gouama no longer trusts even his closest collaborators, suspects nearly everyone of treason, and organizes their assassination. From assassination to assassination, the national situation worsens. Gouama becomes a murderer of his own people and even his close friends. He can no longer stop the continuous and useless bloodshed. A military coup occurs, and Gouama, the would-be god, the most feared and worshipped leader, is at last overthrown. Those who organize the coup announce that the former leaders have failed the people and that they have the power to restore the country. They claim to be the “real” redeemers of the people. “If you don’t listen to the word of the people,” Zongo insists, “they’ll eventually force you to listen to it.” Nevertheless, the cycle begins all over again in Le parachutage: the new leaders plunder the masses, following in the footsteps of their predecessors. The people find no respite from the bloody coup makers because the new leaders care only for their own lives, not the life of the nation. In an article for L’Indépendant, Zongo rightly points out that “[o]ur drama consists not merely in the fact that our national leaders do not behave responsibly, out of fear for their personal lives. The fact is that they actually become

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more and more irresponsible. This is the true source of our troubles, as people die and civil wars continue to ravage our continent” (November 3, 1998, p. 2). These irresponsible leaders cease to be accountable for their actions. They do not hesitate to kill to preserve their power. In the face of such tyranny, Zongo insists that the best strategy is to denounce them by telling the truth, the whole truth to the people. Silence, Zongo would say, means death, for he believed that all citizens of Burkina Faso were responsible for their plight: “We are all implicated. In one way or another, it is up to each one of us to insure peace, liberty, and justice for our country and for our people” (p. 2). In fact, Zongo condemns the silence of the people, even stating, “Men fight. Cowards watch and get heated up over mere theories. When words are not accompanied by actions, cowardice becomes the rule of the day” (Rougebêinga, p. 144). In Rougebêinga, the hero of Zongo’s novel, who is also named Rougebêinga, dies for the sake of truth, justice, and equality. Zongo himself similarly advocated courage, honesty, and perseverance, and he became a martyr for his beliefs. He wanted to persuade the people that they were struggling for a noble cause, not only for their own interests but also for the interests of the coming generations. Of course, there will always be traitors, like Mugo in Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s A Grain of Wheat or Jacobo in Weep Not, Child. Naba Liguidy in Rougebêinga and Gouama in Le parachutage are similar villains who symbolize the bloody and corrupt leaders of present-day, postcolonial Africa. Norbert Zongo did not believe that one person could save the whole society. Only communal efforts could help Burkinabè society find its way to freedom and social justice. Hence, Zongo remarks, “Whenever you meet a man who believes that he can single-handedly liberate his people, because of his own virtues, intelligence, and courage, flee from his presence. True leaders are those who merely echo the voice of the people, not those who themselves become the voice and the brains of the people” (Rougebêinga, p. 242). Today, many African leaders have become thoroughly corrupt. In many countries, there is little respect for human dignity. Similarly, certain intellectuals have become prostitutes, ready to exchange their knowledge for money. They become praise singers, spending much of their time assuring the leaders that they are the most honest and clearsighted men or women in their society, the unique guides and saviors of the people. In Le parachutage, Norbert Zongo rightly speaks out against this kind of prostitution: the intellectual who uses his or her talents merely for personal socioeconomic and political prosperity. In postcolonial Africa, self-aggrandizement often becomes the most important preoccupation of intellectuals, or rather those who constantly

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claim to be intellectuals. Some go as far as helping political leaders hide the misery of the people. Such intellectual prostitution goes hand in hand with moral corruption. For instance, in Le parachutage, human sexuality degenerates into a pathetic hobby for the president. His widely heralded ethical integrity shields the fact that he is actually a deeply perverted man. Zongo refers to such behavior as self-debasement and he gave his life to condemn it. When self-debasement, whether symbolic or literal, becomes the main preoccupation of a country’s leaders, the future grows bleak for the nation. Leaders like Gouama in Le parachutage become social plagues visited upon the people, and progress becomes impossible under such circumstances. As a writer, journalist, and teacher, Norbert Zongo chose to tell the truth, whatever the consequences. He did not mince words in criticizing the leaders of his country. Despite criticism, Zongo kept on writing and denouncing corrupt leaders. He was certain that he was pursuing a noble goal, and he did not stop to respond to petty criticisms. Nevertheless, he accepted criticism, for he believed that one who cannot take criticism should not criticize others. Zongo preferred to die rather than live in enslavement or total alienation. Liberty, he would say, is an inalienable right, and nobody could corrupt him or make of him a murderer of basic social, moral, and intellectual values. To be a man is to be able to resist corruption however it comes; thus Zongo condemned corruption in both his novels. In Rougebêinga, the reader discovers that Naba (king) Liguidy is a bloody and thoroughly corrupt king. He “sells” his people to gain the white man’s friendship. In fact, he worships the white man and dares not go against him. His name itself is telling, for “Liguidy” means “money.” It now dawns on the reader that Naba Liguidy, or King Money, is the embodiment of materialism. Naba Liguidy organizes, orders, and encourages the massacre of the people who refuse to obey him. Yet he is not alone in carrying out these abominable tasks. He is backed by his friends, by notables, and by all those who share his vision of the world. All these characters are corrupt to the core, and there is no one left to say, “Enough!” Enough of this bloody, shameful, and useless massacre of thousands of innocent people, people who only ask for peaceful coexistence. But in Rougebêinga, the hero named Rougebêinga rises against Naba Liguidy and his established order. He has the courage to say “Enough!” This reaction costs him his life. He is publicly hanged on July 14, Bastille Day, or the day when French revolutionaries liberated the hated prison of the Bastille in the eighteenth century. This biting satire is directed against all those who advocate liberty but do not hesi-

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tate to satisfy their greed. Such a contradiction is really unbearable, totally beyond any reasonable human understanding. Norbert Zongo rose up and said “enough” to corruption, impunity, and other injustices. He knew that his life was at stake. He wrote often in his newspaper about the many threats he received. He too paid with his life. He was killed and burned into ashes on December 13, 1998. Zongo was incorruptible, and they killed him in the most inhuman way. In Rougebêinga, the reader is bitterly surprised to discover that Naba Liguidy is still alive at the end of the novel, ready to carry on with his abominable tasks, mass murders, and corruption. Nonetheless, hope persists. The beautiful ones are not yet born. Africans have been the detainees of 2,000 seasons of corruption in a world where things have fallen apart. Their world is truly no longer at ease. Their leaders have failed them. Naba Liguidy is alive. Corruption is not dead yet. The struggle continues. This is the message that Norbert Zongo leaves for any committed freedom fighter. At stake are human freedom and human lives. Those who fight for freedom should not be led astray by the beautiful feathers that corrupt leaders wear in the name of democracy, only to trample underfoot the liberties of the people.

12 The Mobutuization of Burkina Faso l

Norbert Zongo

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE: THE KILLING OF NORBERT ZONGO

On December 13, 1998, the Burkinabè writer Norbert Zongo and three traveling companions—Abdoulaye Ablassé Nikiema, Yembi Ernest Zongo (Norbert’s younger brother), and Blaise Ilboudou—were brutally murdered by six members of the presidential guard of Blaise Compaoré (the Régiment de la Sécurité Presidentielle, or RSP) in Burkina Faso. The Compaoré government at first dismissed this event as a “tragic accident” but under mounting public pressure agreed to appoint an independent commission to investigate the crime. The Commission d’enquête indépendante (CEI) verified the involvement of the presidential guard, as well as the premeditated and savage nature of the crime (the victims’ bodies were bullet-ridden and then incinerated). Additionally, the CEI concluded that Zongo had been pressured to cease his investigative reporting of the murder of David Ouédraogo, who was tortured to death by the RSP. Ouédraogo had been the chauffeur of François Compaoré (Blaise Compaoré’s younger brother). Zongo was Blaise Compaoré’s most prominent critic in Burkina Faso. As Michel Tinguiri shows in Chapter 11, Zongo offered scathing satires of corrupt African dictators in his novels Le parachutage (The Parachute Drop, 1988) and Rougebêinga (1990) both prophetic critiques Reprinted from Zongo, Norbert. “Déstabilisation,” L’Indépendant, no. 186, March 4, 1997: 3–5; “Gare au Négus,” L’Indépendant, no. 236, March 10, 1998: 2; “Le Héron,” L’Indépendant, no. 186, March 4, 1997: 2; “La Moboutisation,” L’Indépendant, no. 193, April 22, 1997: 2; “Requiem!” L’Indépendant, no. 183, February 11, 1997. Translated from the French by Christopher Wise.

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of the Compaoré regime. In his weekly journal L’Indépendant (The Independent), Zongo criticized the fiscal abuses, extrajudicial actions, and human rights violations that have characterized Compaoré’s rule. Following Zongo’s death, the Burkinabè Movement for the Rights of Man and Peoples (MBDHP) presented Compaoré with a list of more than 100 names of people murdered since the bloody coup that originally brought him to power. As one analyst observed, the killing of Zongo “led to the most widespread and sustained popular protest movement in Burkina Faso’s history” (Harsch, “‘Trop, c’est trop!’”). What follows are a series of “fables” written by Zongo for L’Indépendant, illustrating the wit and integrity that won for Zongo the respect and admiration of an entire nation. “REQUIEM!” (L’INDÉPENDANT, FEBRUARY 11, 1997)

In 1933, when Adolf Hitler rose to power, the German people felt as if they had arisen from the ashes. The man was a patriot, a worker, determined and utterly convinced of his vision: the rebirth of Germany, now strong, rich, disciplined, and dominating. The prophetic nature of his speeches made them irresistible. What followed is all too well known: the rapid industrialization of a nation unparalleled in world history. . . . And then, catastrophe. In the beginning, the Germans tolerated his abuses and encouraged his dictatorship. The most evil of all dictatorships! At first, it all seemed an utterly banal affair, harmless: it affected only the Jews and strangers in general. Later came the Germans’ turn. The simple truth is that a dictatorship, no matter where it may be, knows no limits. What’s more, the logic of dictatorial rule always escapes the dictator himself. The dictator ends up the victim of his own dictatorship, in often insidious ways. It all begins with rationalization, with alibis evoked to justify the dictator’s acts. Nobody built up Rome like Nero, who coined the expression (with regard to his subjects), “They can all hate me if they wish, so long as they fear me!” Closer to home, the colonizer justified his cruelty by the number of roads built, schools opened, health units installed, and so on. These achievements were heralded to justify the loss of human liberties and rights (even the right to live). They were somehow supposed to compensate for the implementation of an inhuman order that reduced human beings to the status of brute beast.

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There has never been a dictatorship that could not be justified in its earliest days. From Nero to Hitler, from Idi Amin to Ibrahim Bare Mainassara of Niger, there are certain identifiable elements in all dictatorships. In this regard, two main points stand out:

• All dictatorships insist upon absolute belief. Throughout history, there’s never been a “minidictatorship,” a partial dictatorship, or even a feigned dictatorship. All those incapable of belief disappear. When people under a dictatorship first fall asleep, everything seems fine, but they always awaken with a jolt, an explosion heard somewhere. While they vegetate, it is always in a state of belief; • All dictatorships finally bring ruin and devastation, negating their achievements, the services that they pretend to render to their peoples, and the false sense of “well-being” they first instill. The inevitable conclusion of every dictatorship is chaos, which is its counterpart and corollary.

As a Venezuelan writer once cynically remarked, “The luckiest people under a dictatorship are the first ones to be executed. They at least enjoy the benefit of tombstones and tears.” In the end, there is little time to erect a dignified memorial with the names of all the dead, much less to mourn the dead with our tears. If you forget everything else written here, remember this one lesson: We must fight against dictatorship among our people because not a single person will escape its misery. No one! This is why we have no fear about upsetting our readers. Unhappily, the history of the Fourth Republic has given us plenty to be upset about. A dictatorship has arisen here in Burkina Faso. Often, you’ll hear it said, “It’s worse elsewhere.” Well, we might respond, “It’s better elsewhere.” And it is we who have to live in our own homes. Those who support President Compaoré’s decision to rule for life say, “It’s worse in Niger.” Well, we might respond, “It’s better in Ghana!” which is closer to Ouagadougou. Today, everyone speaks of the social peace in our country; of the relative freedom of speech we enjoy; of the absence of political prisoners; and of fewer murders, assassinations, and disappearances. It is, of course, good to hope for such things. But nothing guarantees that these scourges will not come back with a vengeance. The existing evidence shows that anything is possible. We hear it said, “Things have changed! President Compaoré will

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stop killing people!” His recent trip to the Vatican supposedly confirmed his intention to banish violence from his politics. But the cavalier manner in which he has toyed with our founding texts shows that anything can happen. And make no mistake: Compaoré will kill again. Today, he knows very well that he has given his people a slap in the face. The people are mulling over their anger. President Compaoré knows today that he is crushing his people and that there will be consequences. How can he possibly honor his vow not to kill anymore? How can he possibly stop the nightly abductions, the detentions, the tortures? How can he not continue to transform his people into sheep, ready for the slaughter? In a word, how can he not impose his will upon Burkina’s intellectuals, who know very well what he is doing? Who understand the wider dimensions of his dictatorship and what it means for our people? Only one solution is possible for him: to imprison, to kill, and to cause disappearances. There is no other alternative. There has never been a partial dictatorship! There will be no halfway dictatorships in Burkina. Our esteemed president is fully prepared to commit more violence, which will soon leave us with more widows and more orphans by the dozens. Neither the pope nor the cardinals, much less our local priests, can prevent this from happening. When a single man appoints himself dictator of an entire people, he will not bother to listen to anyone other than himself. President Compaoré has made his choice. He is total. Requiem! Requiem! Requiem! “DESTABILIZATION” (L’INDÉPENDANT, MARCH 4, 1997)

“It is indecent to speak of the rope in the house of the hangman,” says a wise African woman. Recent news events in Burkina have occurred at an alarming pace. The adoption of Article 37, which amended the national constitution, and the university crisis have set in motion the radical acceleration of our history. All of this was a foregone conclusion. A quick glance at our recent history shows that this regime in general and our head of state in particular have lost touch with the true situation in our country. Certainly President Compaoré once knew who his enemies were, their number and their variety. At least we all thought he did. We can

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only assume now that he no longer has a clue. The movement that he has set in motion has happened too quickly. The old tricks do not work! And we can no longer be silent! When you get beyond all the sound and the fury, past the official “enemies” of the regime who are known and catalogued, there are certain disgruntled groups, who are an integral part of the system: the unions, the Burkinabè Movement for the Rights of Man and Peoples (MBDHP), and the oppositional press. Outside of these “allied enemies,” there are those who love the president like fleas love chickens. These vermin paralyze Compaoré’s wings and claws, never ceasing to bleed him dry. We repeat: Article 37 will be the undoing of Compaoré’s regime.1 We also think he knows it. From some of those who agree with us, from the Ouaga “rumor mill,” we have learned that there has recently been the sound of marching boots in our country. We will not sound any alarm because of mere rumors. Besides, President Compaoré will be forced to use his brains far more than his might. His regime has bolted itself up from the inside. Even without grasping all the elements that shape the realities of his power, we remain convinced that his regime is now rushing down a mountain-slope. What will happen? What could happen? What will that rocky ride bring? Certainly, it is true that nothing is for sure in any political system. Still, we cannot help wondering what Compaoré and his military regime will “cook up” for us. We repeat our warning, and we will continue to repeat it as long as we must, since we realize the grave danger of our situation: It simply will not do! It is dangerous to speak of the security of any regime in Africa. We know this from experience. But each time we say to ourselves, despite the many risks, that we must speak out. Much better to suffer the wrath of the ruler and those in power than to remain silent when you know that the well-being of the entire nation might be mortgaged; when you know that, by speaking out, more peaceful solutions to our problems might be found. We repeat that we do not base these observations upon the whisperings of the “Ouaga rumor mill.” Here, we will try to avoid mere rumor and instead offer a responsible analysis of the present situation. We begin with two key elements that could be sources of destabilization in Compaoré’s regime. (We note in passing that it is of little concern to us if the regime of the Fourth Republic pays a steep price for its political investments: “Whoever sows the wind reaps the storm.” But there is a real danger here: Compaoré and his people will not be the only ones who pay). The first element of this destabilization is evident at the level of the Military Council, in its recent history of reckless behavior. In this

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regard, we will not weary of sounding the alarm. The problem of the Military Council remains unarticulated and therefore unresolved. In any event, we do not believe that it has been resolved. In fact, it remains far from being resolved. In the past, we heard about sanctions that might be imposed upon the Military Staff of the Army to curb this lack of discipline. Why do we hear nothing further about this? Why this silence? No one speaks of this systemic problem, and the silence is not reassuring. We do not believe that it has gone away. Nobody in Burkina Faso believes it has gone away. Too many obvious indicators make it impossible for us to accept such a fantasy. Nobody is fooled. The Burkinabè are vigilant. They know whom to trust. They know there is far too much rancor that has been swept under the rug, too many frustrated murders and unrequited vendettas. It is therefore imperative that we communicate with one another. We must lance every boil. There are two camps within the Military Council, and they are not newly formed ones. There has been conflict between these two camps since October 15, 1987 [the day of President Thomas Sankara’s assassination]. And this ongoing silence is far from reassuring. The Burkinabè people must seek to resolve the contradictions between these two camps once and for all. So far, we have been lucky in escaping the consequences of October 15, 1987. If there had been a counterstrike that day, things would have been very grave for Ouagadougou and its inhabitants. If the allies of President Sankara had struck back, there would have been very grave consequences. Today, there are still two separate camps, which worries us. Furthermore, we have the right to express our worries. It is quite appropriate, given the perilous nature of this situation. The deeper we move into this crisis, which some say does not even exist, the more we sense the grave danger that hangs over our country. No doubt, our duty to communicate our opinions also implicates us. Our people want to be reassured that there will be peace and stability to help them in their misery. We have been through all this before, which is why we must speak out now. We think that all those who hold real power in our country owe it the people. If their positions had been reversed, these real powerholders might themselves know the bitterness of month’s end, when one’s salary has long since been spent. Since these folks do not understand this kind of suffering, we must educate them. In short, they owe their good fortune to the Burkinabè people. They owe it to us not to create more problems and misery. And it is clear that more problems are on the way. They will surely come if we leave it up to these characters. It does not take much intelligence to grasp that you do not resolve a

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political crisis, like the recent strike at the university, by arming common street thugs in hopes that they will disrupt student meetings. What kind of politics is this? As we move into the twenty-first century, we must have the courage to speak the truth: “These shenanigans will not do!” The council’s “handling” of the university crisis pretty much tells the story. Then, not long ago, the Burkinabè press, specifically the Journal du Jeudi, casually announced the “demise” of the council, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred! Beyond these incidents, we would have certainly welcomed some signs to reassure us that the Kafando affair was an isolated act of recklessness, later punished by the commander in chief, as we were promised.2 Instead, we are dished out a juicy morsel about a distant “accident” and a vague notice about the “demise” of the council. The separate groups among the Burkinabè military, above all those at the higher strata of the army, wrongly maintain a complete silence about these questions. This is also true at the lower levels of the military. “This is sheer foolishness!” people will say to us. Who would dare get mixed up in these problems? It is extremely dangerous! And they would, of course, be right. But we think that openly discussing these matters is nowhere near so dangerous as a potential confrontation between these opposing clans, which might unleash a civil war. This is not mere apocalyptic rhetoric. We ask that the influential members of our civil society intervene by actively seeking a resolution of this problem in the Military Council. Above all, do not tell us, “No one can do anything. One mustn’t get involved with these very serious problems. They don’t concern us, etc.” There is nothing which we value more than the security and stability of our country. And there are Burkinabè who could help resolve this crisis. We refer, in no particular order, to the army’s highest officers, religious leaders, the unions, individuals like the Mediator of Faso, and the traditional elders and chiefs. The most effective interventions are those made before the skirmishes begin. . . . The greatest and truest courage consists in speaking what comes from the heart, and defending it. It is high time that President Compaoré rethinks his ideas about ruling this country for life. It is not the destabilization of Compaoré’s regime that concerns us; it is rather the disastrous consequences that could be visited upon our people. And, quite frankly, we are worried. The sound of marching boots will not go away so long as Compaoré reigns with eternal power. He will always be tempted to abuse such power. The catastrophe is just beginning.

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“LE HÉRON” (L’INDÉPENDANT, MARCH 4, 1997)

“A heron borrowed the clothes of his friends and went to the festival. He was the most handsome, the most admired . . .” The majority of the participants who came to Ouagadougou for the fifteenth gathering of the Festival Panafricain du Cinéma de Ouagadougou (FESPACO), at least those with whom we spoke, were quite happy about the changes that had been made in Burkina Faso, especially in our democratic progress. There were many who applauded the press in our country, specifically its tone of liberty. For many African countries, we were a good reference point, at least in outward appearance. The television show, “Tirs croisés,” which aired on Thursday, February 28 [1997], convinced many visitors of the high levels attained in our country’s democratic process. However, these pretty images, which charmed so many of the festival’s participants, were largely brought with them in their suitcases. “Democracy is very advanced in Burkina Faso,” we heard reported many times. These properly instructed intellectuals no doubt enjoyed the smooth veneer of our society, its careful polish and shine. But we ourselves know very well that all of this is nothing but pure fantasy; still, it does the heart good to hear others say that our country has made great steps along the road to democracy. How we would have loved all of this, if only it were true! How proud it would have made us, to be citizens of a Burkina Faso that was a land of liberty, peace, and democracy! How we would have loved to be known as a free press that had attained the highest levels of independence, to have become a reference point for all Africa! Even now, we sense that all of this is not completely out of reach. We sense that it might well be possible. But we also sense that it is all very far, very, very far from being attained, precisely because we believe that we have already attained it. Because the regime believes that we are already there, and it has fixed our limits. It is here that the danger lies. In place of a true democracy, we fabricate democratic façades. Like the heron of the fable, we parade around in costumes that do not belong to us. “Hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue,” say the wise people of old. We continue to be fooled in Burkina Faso. We live in tomfoolery: we fool ourselves and others; we fool around with the founding texts, the laws, the very life of our nation. We hold parades. We fool ourselves. We watch dumbly as a man declares himself president for life, and we present ourselves to the world as a democracy. Lies, lies, lies! We repeat it.

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In place of a true democracy, we fabricate democratic alibis. We hold festivals for the eyes of the entire world, decked out in all our democratic finery: We herald our press, our cinema, our theater, and so on. The press, for instance, played its by-now familiar role for uninformed observers, contenting itself with making glib comparisons. “Elsewhere, one cannot write as freely as we do here. Elsewhere, one cannot speak as freely. . . .” Which is not altogether false. But for a long time, we have all known that there are things we cannot say, much less write, about our situation. What if we asked ourselves about the actual results of “free speech” and “democracy” in Burkina? What would we find beyond mere alibis? Mere façades? Beyond the smooth veneer along the surface of our society? What lies hidden beneath our outward appearance? The Burkinabè people must dig beneath the surface of things. The grave danger that menaces us comes from our false satisfaction with mere democratic illusions. The main thing is to avoid playing the role of the heron in the fable, seeking to be beautiful in the eyes of others, with our borrowed finery. What is the value of a free press when the writings of our journalists have absolutely no effect upon the workings of our society? Can we be proud to belong to a nation where we are free to speak what we believe to be true, if our words make no difference in the way our society is run? Can journalists be proud of their work when they feel that, outside of keeping their mouths shut, their only duty is to make an echo within a tremendous void? You say there is freedom of speech in Burkina? So be it! But what rhyme or reason is there in this “freedom” beyond providing Compaoré’s regime with democratic alibis? We cannot see any. Do people get sick because they cry, or do they cry because they are sick? We think we know the answer. We think the Burkinabè people know the answer. “I wound you; I inflict painful blows upon you; but I will allow you to cry out in pain, to let you howl for awhile; you are free to moan in your agony.” Freedom of expression, freedom of the press, is valuable only insofar as it positively impacts the democratic process. When there is a flagrant violation of the constitution and the press denounces it, this in itself hardly suffices. Such a denunciation must be followed by a restoration of the normal order of things. Let others strew the flowers of ignorance upon our democratic process. Let others applaud our “borrowed finery.” We will awaken to

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the reality of our situation. At this moment, we face an important battle for the survival of democracy in our country. This battle concerns all Burkinabè peoples, all those who sincerely care about democracy in our land. If we know that our democratic process needs to be restored, we also know that the regime of the Fourth Republic cannot and will not offer us more than tricks and fakery. In fact, they wallow in such dishonesty. They are utterly complaisant in their lies. Look at us! Admire our “democracy”! “But when the party was in full swing, those who loaned their finery to the heron one by one took back their clothes, this one his hat, another his boubou, and so on. And, at last, the heron stood naked before the eyes of the entire world, a hideous spectacle of brutality and cruelty.” A Burkinabè fable. Burkinabè people, the fight for democracy has hardly begun. Let the tricksters fool themselves! Refuse to be herons! “MOBUTUIZATION” (L’INDÉPENDANT, APRIL 22, 1997)

“I challenge anyone to give the number of a bank account anywhere in the world with my name on it. There aren’t any! For years and years, people have said, ‘Mobutu is filthy rich!’ I challenge anyone to prove it!” With an amused sneer, his leopard-skin fez askew, the Zairian president Mobutu Sese Seko addresses a group of journalists, whom he playfully incriminates. “It is you who give me these astronomical sums in the pages of your newspapers and on your television programs.” The net worth of the Zairian president? Millions of dollars. He may be the richest man in the world. In the opinion of many experts and political leaders, the Zairian president, under false names, through bogus organizations, and so on, is calculated to possess the largest fortune in the world. For thirty years, he has amassed a colossal fortune, surpassing Zaire’s entire foreign debt. As early as 1975, he loaned money to his bankrupt country, and the Zairians actually organized parades to thank him! “Thanks to the nobility and patriotism of Zaire’s founding father, our nation has become the beneficiary of a loan that will save us from international humiliation, from submitting to our lender nations . . .” But it is not only Mobutu’s amazing fortune that calls for our attention. We must also reflect upon the manner in which he accumulated it.

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The richer you are, the richer you have to be. This much we know and take for granted. But in Mobutu’s case, can a leader really fool himself into believing that he truly cares about his country and its people while he spends his life securing his personal fortune, to the detriment of his country and its people? What threshold of moral degradation must be crossed before a leader simply stops caring about the people he represents in the eyes of the world? The case of Mobutu is by no means a unique one in Africa. Thus, we must truthfully ask ourselves this question: At what precise moment can we say that an African head of state has lost touch with the lives of his people and become estranged from the destiny of his country? These questions are crucial in making a diagnosis of whatever regime happens to be in place. Yes or no: Has the head of an African state disregarded the lives of his people, so that he might amass a personal fortune? Yes or no: Can the head of an African state and his entourage plunge their people into civil war, watch them suffer unthinkable misery, and then simply turn away their faces so that they might grow rich? At what moment can we say that an African leader has become “mobutuized”? Two facts can alert us to the “mobutuization” of an African head of state. The first is his refusal to truly democratize his country. Such a state is ruled by autocracy, a cult of power, which is sealed off and ferociously preserved. When a national leader can murder his political adversaries or anyone who refuses to bend a knee without even batting an eye, he will have few scruples about emptying the state’s coffers, about plundering his country’s wealth to increase his own fortune. In effect, he has become mobutuized. Ethical questions of this order are inextricably linked. If an African head of state does not scruple to violate his country’s laws, its constitution, and the moral and cultural values of his people, he has certainly become mobutuized. The second fact that should alert us to the mobutuization of an African head of state is the relative well-being of its citizens within every sector of the regime. When a regime “authorizes” its men to plunder the country’s wealth, when the only fault punished by the regime is opposition to its rule, we can then say that its leader has become mobutuized. Disregard for the public’s well-being, tolerance of widespread corruption, or becoming corrupt oneself all become a matter of course in such a regime. When a president becomes mobutuized, he no longer

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has eyes or ears to bother with those who imitate him. If a leader hopes to impose his moral vision upon others, he must himself be able to recognize the difference between right and wrong, between mistakes and crimes. Above all, he must not commit such crimes himself. Those who reside at society’s base will follow the example that comes from the top. Virtue is learned through example. It imposes its own law, as the people follow their leader’s teachings. Corruption eventually ripens. A national leader and his entourage’s mobutuization inevitably increases. Mobutuization is evident in the refusal of a leader to truly democratize his country and in his desire to rule for life. Such a desire signals an advanced case of mobutuization in a national leader and his regime. Mobutu of Zaire is not alone. In many countries on our continent, there are leaders who play with the laws and constitution so that they may reign as kings for life. So they can pillage and steal from the people, like Mobutu. In numerous countries across our continent, there are heads of state who refuse to leave office, ever strengthening their autocratic powers, monarchies, and antidemocracies: they continue to plunder their countries so they might amass their personal fortunes, like Mobutu in his country. In Africa, whenever we speak of our regimes, we must ask ourselves one decisive question: Has our national leader become mobutuized? The answer is easily enough found, provided we first ask the question. It’s worth the trouble. A WARNING TO NEGUS (L’INDÉPENDANT, MARCH 10, 1998)

The imperial court promenaded down the main street of Addis Ababa, which was deserted as usual. When Negus, the King of Kings, took his walk, it was not to meet and chat with the common folk along the way. According to custom, the Ethiopian people would normally gather along the roadside to applaud their emperor. However, no one had come to admire the royal entourage for over a year. At last, Negus expressed his concern before the court. Numerous theories were put forth to explain the Ethiopians’ behavior. Only one of Negus’s counselors, a very old man named Waldy, worked up the courage to say, “Sire, the people are hungry.”

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Negus had nothing to say. He knew very well that famine had stricken the Wallo and the Tigris. The next day, when the imperial court made its royal tour, a group of young children happened to be returning from school. With their satchels upon their backs, they cried out, “Stop thief! Stop thief!” The emperor’s tears flowed. We could not resist retelling this little anecdote about the fall of Ethiopia’s emperor, which is often repeated by journalists, writers, and historians. We do not hesitate to retell it here because the situation that has befallen certain elements of our rural population, in comparison with the life that we and the current regime now enjoy, bears clear affinities with the situation in Ethiopia before the fall of the King of Kings. While the Ethiopians died by the hundreds and thousands, their emperor passed his days feeding the numerous lions and dogs in his private zoo.3 Images of Negus feeding the royal beasts were presented to the population, to “his people,” on a regular basis, one time each week. The famine in Wallo did not alter Negus’s custom in the least. The emperor failed to understand one thing: the man of state, the good and responsible leader, is the man who thinks about the lives of the most wretched, of those at the lowest rung of the social ladder. In all his royal splendor, the emperor failed to understand what it means to be hungry. He should have been as deeply moved by the famine as were those who lived in the Wallo. He should have thought this crisis through and then worked like a man on fire. He should have done everything humanly possible, concentrating all his efforts to resolve this dilemma for his starving people. For a long time now, the similarities between the situations in Burkina and Ethiopia have been striking. It would be all too easy to reproach the revolutionaries of August 4, 1983. But if we honestly reflect upon those days, we must admit to ourselves that the majority of those involved really did try to think about the lives of the most wretched in our society. It is not enough to merely gesture back to those days. Those who lived through them know better. Let us not merely repeat that if our present leaders had worked and thought as if they themselves were numbered among the most underprivileged of our country, we would have entirely avoided disaster. What about the extravagant expenses that have been lavished upon prestigious festivals in our country? Like a criminal who announces the details of his crime, we must admit our own blunders: “The festivals are for the international prestige of Burkina. They will help challenge us to

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better our condition. . . .” As if the challenges of hunger, unemployment, disease, illiteracy, and thirst are not already clearly laid out for us. Let us not content ourselves with criticizing the behavior of those who lead us. Let us not content ourselves with describing their many escapades, for we can be sure of one thing: they no longer have the capacity to think about the poor, the starving, the sick, the thirsty, and the unemployed. Let us not ask them to do the impossible. No one can amass millions and riches of all kinds and live in spirit with the most disinherited. Surrounded by such wealth, no one can wake each morning with the poor in mind, making ethical decisions on their behalf. Even now, these people boast, “We are the strongest, the richest, and so on. . . .” Let us set this crowd aside for a moment. This way, we might be able to take a hard look at our own situation. It is indeed within our power to live, think, and work as if we ourselves were at one with the vast majority of mothers and fathers who open their doors each morning and send their children (young and old) into the streets to beg. Do we ourselves have enough to eat? Of course we do! What if we really lived like those who are hungry? Do we have jobs? What if we lived as if we too were unemployed and desperately needed a job? Do we have enough to get by? Of course we do! What if we lived like the majority of our countrymen and women, who deeply suffer in paying a 1,000 CFA tax [$1,000 Communauté Financière Africaine francs, or roughly U.S.$2.00] and whose children flood our streets? This is the only way that we can save our country from catastrophe. The problems we confront go far beyond those of our obviously corrupt “leadership,” especially the head of state and his entourage. We can expect nothing from this bunch. If President Compaoré decided tomorrow to organize the world ice hockey championship in our country, we would hear proclaimed, “It will help challenge us to better our condition. . . .” And all those who are authorized to speak in our name will say, “Thanks to the world ice hockey championship, our faith in the future has been restored, set into motion. . . .” This problem deeply affects every single one of us. We will never cease repeating that we are all responsible for the present situation of our country. Individually, we are all responsible. We must own up to this responsibility. We must organize ourselves or integrate ourselves into already organized groups (unions, movements, associations) which reflect and act according to the needs of the most wretched among us, which are entirely committed to meeting their needs. Otherwise, Negus be forewarned! Do not forget the misery of others.

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1. In February 1997, Article 37 amended the Burkinabè constitution, removing presidential term limits and enabling Blaise Compaoré to rule for life. 2. In October 1996, twenty-six members of Blaise Compaoré’s cabinet were arrested, most notably Compaoré’s former military partner Kafando. Although Kafando was most likely executed after he fled Burkina Faso, his fate remains uncertain. 3. The reference to Blaise Compaoré, who maintains a zoo with lions and other animals at his private residence, is unmistakable.

13 Writing Timbuktu: Park’s Hat, Laing’s Hand l

Christopher Wise For nearly 200 years, Euro-American writers have undergone the pilgrimage to Timbuktu, Mali, in order to pay homage to their whiteness, an apparently endless source of wonder and amazement. What white tourist in West Africa does not say, at one point or another, “I must get over to Timbuktu, if only just to say that I’ve been there!” Once there, how many tourists do not reenact the epic disappointment of René Caillié, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and others about the “insignificance” and “squalor” of Timbuktu? Still, it must be admitted that, even for Westerners, the appeal of the word Timbuktu is related to its sound, not only its strange history or sign value. The word Timbuktu signifies the ends of the earth, but it is also a magical sound that charms the ears of the white hearer. In Galbraith Welch’s hagiographic retelling of Caillié’s life, she writes that he “fell in love with a name, with a mystery” (Unveiling, p. 14). Earlier, embittered scholarly debates took place regarding the proper orthography of this obscure city.1 Timbuktu is an incantation evoking the furthest limits of the known world, the place where white people can at last fully know themselves. Like abracadabra, the magical word timbuktu is endowed with quasi-alchemical powers, connoting immeasurable gold and riches. For several hundred years, this modest settlement, named for the navel of a Tuareg slave, was associated in the European imagination with extravagant wealth and revelry, a place where people ate from plates of gold. The etymology of nearby Djenné, which was the actual source of Timbuktu’s wealth, is equally connected to the fame of its gold. 2 Though Djenné obviously suggests the Arabic word djinn (genie), the former is the source for the guinea coin in England, as well as the placename for the nations of Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, all bastardized forms of Djenné. Timbuktu, however, possessed mostly symbolic value 175

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for European imperial powers, especially in creating public support for further colonizing ventures. In the words of an American journalist, “Not only white travelers and adventurers but European governments believed that who first reached Timbuctoo would have all Africa in his pocket” (Woods, “Astounding Story, p. 2); or, as Welch puts it, Timbuktu was “the bulls-eye of Africa” (Unveiling, p. 18), a synecdoche implying ownership of the entire continent. This is perhaps the main reason why the Timbuktu narrative continued to prosper, long after the rumor of the city’s wealth was proven unfounded. “All roads lead to Timbuktu,” Lady Dorothy Mills would write in 1924, whatever its relative obscurity for African peoples themselves (Road to Timbuktu, p. 14). The real scramble was always for the Niger River, “the black Nile” or “strong brown god,” as it has alternately been called, which was hypothesized as a superhighway for trade and commerce.3 Ideally, this thoroughfare would eliminate European reliance upon Moors (Berbers, Tuaregs, and other mixed Arabo-Berber peoples) to facilitate commerce with black African peoples. It is therefore no accident that “Moorish” peoples were most threatened by early European ventures in West Africa, and they are accordingly most stigmatized in extant travel literature by Mungo Park, Hugh Clapperton, Richard Lander, and others. The etymology of the Niger, named by Europeans rather than Africans, is most revealing, a case study in paleonomic theory: niger, of course, is Latin for “black,” but it also means “dark, dusky, gloomy, unlucky, unpropitious, wicked, or evil.” Friedrich Nietzsche’s famous etymology of the words good and evil is fully applicable here: “The Latin malus . . . might designate the common man as dark,” Nietzsche writes, “especially black-haired (“hic niger est”), as the pre-Aryan settler of the Italian soil, notably distinguished from the new blond conqueror race by his color” (Birth of Tragedy, p. 164). 4 The Niger River, as well as modern-day Nigeria and Niger, were given names that summoned the absolute lowest values known to white Europeans. For the Occident, the Niger River never ceases to be a visual spectacle: a sight for white eyes, the color of the brown-black Nig(g)er. The Sahelian term for this amazing river contrasts sharply with its European name. Most commonly, the Niger is called the Djoliba (or Djeliba), the “River of the Griots.” The word Djoliba is etymologically related to dieli (or djieli) which means both “griot” and “blood” in Fulfulde (or Peulh). In folk legend, it is said that all griots once came from the Niger Delta region, hence the name’s connection to the West African bard. However, the precise origin of the words Djoliba or dieli would be difficult to ascertain, for related terms can be found through-

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out the Sahel. The earliest written reference to this word is found in Ibn Battutah’s medieval travelogue, written in 1352–1353 C.E., wherein he describes the “absurd” performances of “the poets called the jula (singular jali)” (Hamdun and King, Ibn Battuta, p. 42). For the Mandinka of Gambia, the term jalo is preferred (Innes, Sundiata, pp. 3–4), whereas the widely used Soninké term is jesere (Hale, Scribe, p. 36). All these terms imply the occult power of the griot, which is connected to the sound or breath of his or her spoken word, its nyama. According to John Johnson and Fa-Digi Sisòkò, “the power of the occult is conveyed in the bard’s words” (p. 23). After performing research on The Epic of Askia Mohammed, Hale wrote, “In my interviews with more than a score of Songhay bards in Niger, I could not find one who differentiated between jesere and nyamakala” (Scribe, p. 36). Within this specific context, the word of the dieli, griot, or nyamakala is always a temporal event, never a reified visual sign. The nyama of the word is more physiological than mystical, its very force able to invade the body of the listener. Among the Songhay, it is commonly believed that a bodily transformation occurs during the praisenaming ceremony, wherein the emotions of the addressee are aroused, altering even his or her bodily fluids (Stoller, Taste, p. 111). Among the Wolof, J. T. Irvine has found that bodily fluids determine the social position of the person towards whom the griot’s words are addressed, a belief that Stoller claims parallels Songhay perspectives on language (Irvine, cited in Stoller, Taste, p. 111). Djoliba’s or dieli’s dual meanings of “blood/griot” are therefore inextricably connected, forming one Janus-faced whole. The radically disparate etymologies of the names Niger and Djoliba hint at the vast cultural differences negotiated within the “contact zone.” Real discrepancies in psychological orientation lead to identifiable patterns of linguistic misrecognition, consistent errors in cultural translation, and self-fulfilling theorizations about the Other’s “laziness” and underdevelopment. In opposition to Sahelian peoples, the European bookman stores knowledge outside the human mind, specifically within public and private libraries that are filled with printed volumes; that is, secondary oral peoples increasingly experience the voice in quasimythological terms, like some vanquished god from bygone days. This development means greater freedom from operational modes of thought but also the loss of meaningful human context. Books dehumanize and rob European peoples of basic communicative abilities, which atrophy from disuse. The bookman is no longer a creature of contingency but is driven inside, into a universe of geometrical abstractions or the chimera

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of the situationless word. The bookman becomes a pair of eyes without ears, the one who reads the world as if it were a book. John Beverley has aptly described such an attitude as “the ideology of the literary,” a delusion that is by no means a vestige of the past. “Everyone reads life and the world like a book,” Gayatri Spivak has stated. “Even the socalled ‘illiterate’” (In Other Worlds, p. 95).5 In the Timbuktu narrative, the Djoliba becomes a visual spectacle for the bookman, a brown-black feast for white eyes. Timbuktu, however, is resemiotized as an unread, virginal book, a “séance of human documents” (Dubois, Timbuctoo, p. 158). In 1894, the Frenchman Felix Dubois wrote of Timbuktu’s inhabitants, “The Songhois resemble a palimpsest on which the first manuscript is dimly decipherable. Fragments are, and always will be, missing, but the omissions are those which it is easy to supply” (p. 181). The image of the sealed book, its leaves uncut and begging for the bibliophile’s knife, serves as a founding trope of the Timbuktu narrative, its most powerful “mobile metaphor.” In fact, this bookish attitude encompasses the furthermost reaches of outer space as well as the most humble Songhay peasant. James Grey Jackson, who wrote An Account of Timbuctoo and Housa in 1820, inscribed on the title page of his book, “The Universe is a kind of book, of which one has only read the first page, when one has only seen one’s own country.” If Jackson’s inscription emphasizes the priority of the visual in the “seeing man,” it also conflates the starry cosmos with a puny human artifact.6 “Tout le monde exist pour aboutir une livre,” Stéphane Mallarmé famously asserted. But long before Mallarmé, the Sahelian travelogue was predicated upon the breathtakingly absurd thesis that universe itself could be reduced to a mere book. PARK’S HAT

In Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa (1799), Mungo Park describes how he was robbed and even stripped naked by Peulh bandits, left to die in the African wilderness. Long before this final crisis, Park had already endured far more suffering than the average epic hero, enough to win him the popular title of “England’s Odysseus” (Jenkins, To Timbuktu, p. 106). The robbery is a crucial moment in the history of European travel literature, as well as the centerpiece of Mary Louise Pratt’s globalizing analysis of travel writing, Imperial Eyes. For Pratt, the image of Park’s humiliation offers us a stunning example of the “anti-conquest,” wherein the European traveler secures his innocence as he symbolically takes possession of the land. The fact that Park finds

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solace from his misery in an obscure piece of moss also links his book to a larger and more complex global enterprise, “a European project of a new kind, a new form of what one might call planetary consciousness among Europeans” (p. 29). Pratt continues, “The epiphany brought on by the fructifying moss is a transcendent moment not because Park has survived but because he has at last lost everything. He is no longer defined by European commodities” (p. 81). In his innocence from commercial exchange, Park has at last “become that creature in whose viability and authenticity his readers may have longed to believe, the naked, essential, inherently powerful white man.” But has Park really lost “everything,” as Pratt claims? Park tells us, for instance, that some of [the bandits] went away with my horse, and the remainder stood considering whether they should leave me quite naked, or allow me something to shelter me from the sun. Humanity at last prevailed: they returned to me the worst of the two shirts, and a pair of [trousers]; and, as they went away, one of them threw back my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums; and this was probably the reason they did not wish to keep it. (Travels in the Interior Districts, p. 243)

Park speculates that it was the writing tucked inside his hat that rendered it worthless to the Peulh bandits.7 What I would like to suggest here is that Park’s discarded hat—bursting with scribbled notes—may offer us a fitting allegory of the Sahelian response to bookish culture. By carefully reading “damaged” texts like Park’s Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa, applying counterknowledge from the disciplines of history, anthropology, and orality-literacy theory, we might learn more about the specific “pretext” of Park’s narrative: that is, the very real Sahelian cultures that Park visited. Park’s travelogue offers us a fascinating image of “deep Sahelian culture,” especially its ancient basis in what Marcel Jousse calls “verbomotor orality.” To begin, I might note that if the Peulh bandits discarded Park’s scribbled notes out of indifference, the African Association took an altogether different approach to Park’s writings. In an appendix entitled “Geographical Illustrations of Mr. Park’s Journal,” every significant detail of Park’s travelogue is carefully scrutinized to confirm or refute existing geographical knowledge of West Africa, especially those details that mark the longitude and latitude of Timbuktu (pp. xxxvi–xxxviii). In fact, no English poem may have enjoyed a “closer reading” than Park’s narrative. Major R. Rennell, the appendix’s author, carefully outlines the ample geographical discoveries of Park, all of which rest upon a certain “occular truth” (p. iv). “Mr. Park’s authority

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[is] founded upon occular demonstration,” Rennell informs his readers. If anyone remains skeptical, the scientific proof of Park’s “ocular truths” may be verified not only against the detailed investigation of their merit but also by virtue of Park’s “original documents themselves, in the form of notes,” which the public was thereby invited to examine (p. xxii). The “ocular authority” of the bookman stems from his ontological status as a white man—that is, the scientific “facts” of the Sahel can only be verified by certain kinds of men—but also because he is a man who experiences words as spatialized objects. Park’s notes are valued by Rennell not only for the geographical knowledge that they provide but also because they are visible objects in their own right, ocular things in the dimension of space. Movable print technologies not only enabled a wider dissemination of printed books in the West, they also accelerated the estrangement of human language from European peoples, who gradually succumbed to the illusion of the word’s thinglike character. In the case of Mungo Park (and others like him), this process is complicated by his deep commitment to a Calvinist interpretation of Christianity, a belief system made possible by the invention of printing technologies. Park’s religious biases are not only bound up with the invention of printed books, but also they are rooted in the radical denial of extrasubjective and oral interpretive traditions of the Christian faith (i.e., Roman Catholicism and Anglican Christianity). Paradoxically then, Park is deeply estranged from the very books he venerates as religious objects. For him, the printed book has already undergone its mysterious transformation into a reified object: “Alphabetic letterpress printing, in which each letter was cast on a separate piece of metal, or type, marked a psychological breakthrough of the first order,” Walter Ong writes. “It embedded the word itself deeply in the manufacturing process and made it into a kind of commodity” (Orality, p. 118). Park is not only blinded by the ideology of the word-as-thing but is also unable to distinguish the traces of human labor latent within manufactured books, resulting in their inevitable alienation from him. Such a process is largely an economic or historical one. The specific content of Park’s narrative, its dominant images and metaphors, is marked by his commitments to the ideology of the printed book, the Jacksonian doctrine that the universe can be reduced to “a kind of book.” Aside from the existential question of the “authenticity” of Park’s religion, it makes a considerable difference that the bookish images and metaphors he embraces fundamentally differ from those of West African peoples. It must also be emphasized that, even if writing preceded Park’s arrival by some 800 years, the printed book was largely

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unknown throughout the Sahel when he traveled there. As the research of Aleksandr Luria, Eric Havelock, Jack Goody, and numerous others has shown, the West’s interiorization of alphabetic literacy, commensurate with the development of movable print technologies, has resulted in the development of specific verbal patterns, modes of thinking, and organizational faculties that are categorical rather than operational. This is not to say that oral-based thought is “illogical” or somehow lacking in complexity, merely that its complexity is of an entirely different order. The most obvious difference resides in the fact that “books” in the Sahel are not, at the time of Park’s travels, alienated objects but are chirographic (or handmade) products, still bearing the visible traces of human labor. “It should not be forgotten that the first Arabic printing press on the African continent was one which Napoleon brought with him to Egypt in 1798,” John Hunwick reminds us. “In North Africa, a few books were lithographed at Fez before this date, but the flow of multiple copies of books from either source is basically a phenomenon of the second half of the 19th century” (Literacy, p. 18). Nevertheless, Sahelian West Africa enjoyed its own distinct forms of literacy, differing according to each group’s cultural and religious affiliations. Hunwick, Elias Saad, Paul Lovejoy, and numerous others have documented the richness of Muslim literacy in the Sahel, although fewer scholars have discussed writing practices among “animist” peoples (i.e., the writing of amulets, charms, and talismans). In fact, there were thriving schools, libraries, and scribal guilds throughout the Sahel at the time of Park’s visit. Handwritten Qurans produced in the Sahel were exported to Tripoli, Egypt, and other places in the Islamic world (Hunwick, Literacy, p. 19). Besides locating Timbuktu and the Niger, Park’s mission was to ascertain the exact dimensions of Sahelian literacy. “I had a passionate desire to examine into the productions of a country so little known,” Park writes, “and to become experimentally acquainted with the modes of life and character of the natives” (Travels in the Interior Districts, p. 2). To this end, Park carefully documents throughout his travels the precise nature of the literacy he encounters, as well as Sahelian attitudes toward literacy. On occasion, his views mirror local perspectives, particularly the Moors’ belief in their own cultural superiority over illiterate blacks. “Proud of his acquirements, [the Moor] surveys with contempt the unlettered Negro,” Park writes, “and embraces every opportunity of displaying his superiority over such of his countrymen” (p. 151). Park’s description of the Moors’ (i.e., Berber, Tuareg, and mixed

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Arab-Berber peoples) more “advanced” literacy is offered as proof of their cultural inferiority to European peoples, affirming a literacy-based hierarchy at one with racialist essentialism. If the universe may be imagined as a printed book, one’s ability to read such a book depends upon two things: First, one must embody a particular racial (and largely gendered) essence, and, second, one must be able to read certain types of books. The Moor, who also professes racial superiority to blacks on the basis of skin color, stands halfway between Park and the “singing men” (or griots) whom Park despises, by virtue of the marginal literacy and marginal whiteness that Moors possess. In The Slaves of Timbuktu (1961), Robin Maugham puts it this way, “It gives one a shock to remember that the Tuareg consider themselves a white race” (p. 177). Park similarly expresses his amusement that Moors “always rank themselves among the white people” (Travels in the Interior Districts, p. 59). He alternately denigrates Moorish literacy and inferior racial coloring, which he compares to that of “West Indian mulattoes.” From the beginning, Park criticizes the Moor for his laughable and “barbarous” degree of literacy (p. 151). “When a [Moorish] boy has committed to memory a few of their prayers, and can read and write certain parts of the Koran, he is reckoned sufficiently instructed,” Park writes, “and with this slender stock of learning, commences his career of life” (p. 151). But later, Park elaborates upon the “unpleasant” complexion of Moorish peoples. “I fancied that I discovered in the features of most of them, a disposition towards cruelty, and low cunning,” Park observes. “I could never contemplate their physiognomy without feeling sensible uneasiness. From the staring wildness of their eyes, a stranger would immediately set them down as a nation of lunatics” (p. 159). The audacity and “shock” provided by the Moors stems from their proximity to European peoples, in terms of both their racial essence and degree of literacy. In other words, Berber peoples are bogus Europeans, not only because of their “mulatto” complexions, but also because of their inflated literary pretensions: “[The Moorish] priests even affect to known something of foreign literature,” Park observes. “The priest of Benowm assured me that he could read the writings of the Christians: he shewed me a number of barbarous characters, which he asserted were the Roman alphabet” (p. 151). The Moor is therefore a charlatan two times over: he is a fake white man and a fake reader of European writing: [B]oasting an advantage over the Negroes, by possessing, though in a very limited degree, the knowledge of letters, they are at once the vainest and proudest, and, perhaps, most bigotted, ferocious, and

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intolerant of all the nations on earth: combining in their character, the blind superstition of the Negroes with the savage cruelty and treachery of the Arab. (p. 160)

At the furthest end of this racial-literacy hierarchy resides the “credulous and unsuspecting” Negro (p. 113), who simply lacks the wherewithal to throw off the yoke of the more literate Moors; that is, despite the denigrating terms used to describe Moorish peoples, they remain for Park “a subtle and treacherous people” (p. 113). Although Park will encounter numerous literate black peoples, the image of the “unlettered Negro” (p. 151), perhaps best embodied in the clownish figure of the “singing men,” emerges most strongly from Park’s text. Literacy is conceptualized as the surest measure of a culture’s superiority and power; hence, Park carefully calculates its relative technological development. Accordingly, Park often hides his own writing abilities, as one might conceal a dangerous weapon, even feigning his inferiority as a writer to gain the trust of various interlocuters. “When I observed any person whose countenance I thought bore malice toward me,” Park writes, “I made it a rule to ask him, either to write in the sand himself, or to decipher what I had already written; and the pride of shewing his superior attainments, generally induced him to comply with my request” (p. 179). It does not occur to Park to reflect any further upon the possible reasons for his interlocuter’s willingness to share his knowledge: for instance, Islamic religion has historically favored public forums for “reading” the Quran as opposed to more individual interpretive acts. Instead, Park finds in this Muslim proclivity yet another opportunity for duplicity and assures himself and his reader of their mutual superiority as advanced readers of literary texts. Later, René Caillié will rely upon Park’s technique to even greater advantage, as he works his way across the Sahel (Travels Through Central Africa, pp. 208–209). To state my thesis more plainly, if black African peoples have suffered among the most outrageous forms of oppression in global history, it is precisely their “illiteracy”—at one with their racial essence as “Negroes”—that has validated their exploitation within the European imagination. In fact, the English word illiteracy is always pejorative. Most often it is synonymous with ignorance, idiocy, stupidity, and inferiority. The conceptualization of illiteracy in such terms cannot be meaningfully separated from the rise of European—but also Arab— imperialism throughout the Sahel. 8 Park reinforces the myth of the “unlettered Negro” not only at the level of unconscious ideology but also through deliberately imputing to black Africans their symbolic

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acceptance of this degraded status. For instance, Park tells us that he meets a Peulh traveler from Sansanding, who requests a saphie (written charm) from him: “If a Moor’s saphie is good,” said the hospitable old man, “a white man’s must needs be better” (Park, Travels in the Interior Districts, p. 206). Park takes great satisfaction in writing such an amulet, partly as a practical joke but, more importantly, as a means of ritually reinforcing the old man’s attitude, itself a result of centuries of Arab imperialism in the Sahel. Park nonetheless documents his encounters with a wide variety of black ethnic groups, all of whom possess considerable libraries, including manuscript copies of the Pentateuch, Psalms, and the Book of Isaiah, which he tells us are “copied with great care” and rendered with “tolerable exactness” (p. 314). In describing the varying levels of literacy within these communities, Park will note how and by whom writing is used; the monetary and bartering value of books; how manuscripts are exchanged among different black communities (p. 314); and the secular as well as religious functions of literacy, as evident in posted notices for public perusal (p. 106). Park tells us, for example, that a copy of the Pentateuch is worth approximately one slave (p. 314) and that an educational degree is also worth the price of one slave (p. 317). Similarly, Park describes paper and scissors as among his most valuable trading items. At times, Park will even denigrate the effects of quranic literacy upon the Peulh, complaining that “[t]he uncharitable maxims of the Koran have made them less hospitable to strangers” (p. 59). More important, Park describes the wide-ranging effects of literacy in the application of Islamic law throughout the Sahel (p. 4). At Koorkarany, a Peulh village, Park is shown a number of Arabic manuscripts, and he cannot help but acknowledge the sophistication of the local legal system, especially its secular rather than mystical functions. Though his remarks are tinged with irony, Park writes that “in the forensic qualifications of procrastination and cavil, and the arts of confounding and perplexing a cause, [the Peulh] are not always surpassed by the ablest pleaders in Europe” (p. 20). If it is important to deconstruct the myth of African illiteracy, given its prevailing currency, nonetheless I insist here that it would be misguided to emphasize the Sahel’s eclipsed literacy or to seek to demonstrate that the Sahel really did have its own extensive books, libraries, and schools. In the end, such an approach merely reaffirms the unconscious literary biases that have characterized bookish culture in the West for nearly half a millennium. For now, I simply note that if books are most often the measuring stick of a culture’s value, it is precisely because they are written by writers, that is, by a group of people who

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have a vested—often economic—interest in securing their value. To dramatize the Sahel’s advanced literacy, lacking only in the technology of movable type printing, merely reinscribes the technological greatness of Europe as an advanced culture—“great” precisely because of its countless printed books and its many “great” writers like Mungo Park.9 The colonizer’s gospel of industrial literacy, functioning as an a priori that precedes dialogue, may be the greatest Tobaubo fonnio of all, or “white man’s lie” (p. 12). To state this more plainly, the literacy of the Sahel is not reducible to either its past or present conceptions in the West: the most basic terms of the argument must be rejected, rethought, and reevaluated until the question itself can be posed in entirely new terms. Park finally resolves the dilemma that Sahelian orality-aurality poses to him by reducing African orientations to language to mere superstition, or “mumbo jumbo.” In fact, Park’s travelogue introduced the term mumbo jumbo into the English language, which two centuries later still means “unintelligible or incomprehensible language.” Mumbo Jumbo is a masked figure who strips the clothes from Mandinka women and scourges them with his “magic rod” (pp. 39–40). The rod of Mumbo Jumbo often intervenes to settle domestic disputes, functioning as a means of ensuring the subjugation of recalcitrant women to Mandinka patriarchy. The Mumbo Jumbo episode greatly amused European readers of Park, and gradually the term passed into popular English. Despite this word’s distinct historical origin, it is curious, if not really surprising, that mumbo-jumbo finally came to mean “gibberish,” given Park’s description of it as “a sort of masquerade habit, made of the bark of trees” (p. 39). The historical significance of Park’s travelogue is that it offers English readers a quick conceptual framework, enabling the reduction of a highly complex cultural system to a few easy categories and code words. Above all, Park must show his readers how the Sahelian orientation to writing is mere “superstition,” as opposed to England’s industrial literary ideology. Besides reinscribing bookish dogma, Park seeks to profitably exploit Sahelian “superstitions” about writing as a means of extending English imperialism in the West African interior. In Park’s own words, “all the natives of this part of Africa consider the art of writing as bordering on magic: and it is not in the doctrines of the Prophet, but in the arts of the magician, that their confidence is placed” (p. 39). If Sahelian peoples misconstrue writing in “magical” rather than “scientific” terms, Park reflects that Englishmen like himself may “turn the popular credulity in this respect to good account” (p. 39). Unlike the European bookman, the “unlettered Negro” is vulnerable to exploitation because

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of his fantastic superstitions about writing. Park alerts his readers to a palpable economic opportunity: “I visited [many little schools] in my progress through the country,” Park states, “and observed with pleasure the great docility and submissive deportment of the children, and heartily wished they had better instructors, and a purer religion” (p. 60). Throughout history, the religion in question—Scottish Calvinism—has upheld its long-standing commitments to a certain kind of literacy, unthinkable before the invention of movable type. For Park, the achievement of biblical literacy in the Sahel is “greatly to be wished” because it will “soften and civilize” the African mind (p. 16). The introduction of printed books in the Sahel promises “cerebral refinement” for black Africans and economic rewards for white Europeans (Dubois, Timbuctoo, p. 278). Meanwhile, Park takes some delight in noting various pagan superstitions about writing. Like many travelers after him, Park describes the writing of amulets and the distinct practices associated with it. “[N]ot withstanding that the majority of the Negroes are Pagans, and absolutely reject the doctrines of Mahomet,” Park writes, “I did not meet with a man, whether a Bushreen or Kafir, who was not fully persuaded of the powerful efficacy of these amulets” (p. 39). Park tells us that “[t]hese saphies are prayers, or rather sentences, from the Koran, which the Mahomedan priests write on scraps of paper, and sell to the simple natives, who consider them to possess very extraordinary virtues” (p. 38). Sometimes, he informs us, the amulet becomes a walha, a charm that is washed away and drunk for its magical effects (pp. 235–236). The written word is “inclosed in a snake’s or alligator’s skins, and tied around the ancle [sic]” (p. 38); it is also believed to offer protection in time of war and from disease, thirst, and hunger; and it may “conciliate the favour of superior powers under all circumstances and occurrences of life” (pp. 38–39). Park even gives a lock of his hair so that an old Peulh man can make a saphie that would give to the possessor all the knowledge of white people. Park sardonically remarks that he wishes “to reserve some of this precious merchandise for a [another] occasion” (pp. 186–187). However, he makes clear that such descriptions are offered so that we may admire the Negro’s “wonderful contagion of superstition” (p. 39). To demonstrate the black person’s proclivity for superstition, Park tells us the story of a guide who kills a chicken as an offering to the spirits of the woods. Park is amazed that his guide had lived for seven years in England and still clung to his native beliefs: “I laughed at his folly,” he writes, “but could not condemn the piety of his motives.” But then he adds, “This circumstance is mentioned merely to

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illustrate the disposition of the Negroes, and to shew the power of superstition over their minds” (p. 71). However, Park himself does not refrain from ceaselessly writing his own saphies that are hidden inside the rim of his hat, notes that reveal “the unvarnished truth” and are “preserved with great difficulty” (p. 92). The truthfulness of these notes is connected to the fact that they enjoy a one-to-one correspondence with real objects and events in time, offering the reader the “humble” truth that “speaks for itself” (p. 92). Presumably, Park’s own veneration of printed words does not constitute idolatry, for his love of them is not directed toward words as things but is intended to lead him on to the worship of God incarnate. For Park, the movement toward the word-thing does not then terminate in the word as a mere thing but tends towards the worship of the Word whose image it bears. The pragmatic effect of Park’s iconoclastic approach is that it denies the magical elements in his own views about writing, implying that his own bookish religion amounts to humble truth rather than humble belief. It also implies the total absence of authentic African forms of writing. If Timbuktu is “the great object of [Park’s] search” (p. 202), it is an object that has yet to be seen, much less written. After Park is attacked by Peulh bandits, he stumbles into the house of a Bushreen slave trader named Karfa Taura. At first, no one will believe that Park is a white man, and he is taken for a “ragged Arab” (p. 253). Miraculously enough, Karfa happens to have in his keeping a bound copy of the Book of Common Prayer. Once Park demonstrates his ability to read this book, he is at last accepted as a European (pp. 253–254). Admission to the status of whiteness may depend upon the ability to read particular books, but books can do far more than assign specific racial identities. They also seem to have healing powers, for Park promptly comes down with malaria and, we are told, recovers from his illness because of “the perusal of Karfa’s little volume” (p. 255). Park cannot grasp his essentially religious relation to certain printed books because, as is true of most deeply felt religious beliefs, his faith in them is largely unconscious, an intermixture of abstract doctrines and specific paleosymbolic imagery. But he remains certain that Africa’s future development hinges on the importation of industrially produced books, especially attractively bound volumes of the Gospels. “Perhaps a short and easy introduction to Christianity, such as is found in some of the catechisms for children, elegantly printed in Arabic, and distributed on different parts of the coast, might have a wonderful effect,” Park muses (p. 316). Nor is Park insensitive to the possible

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rhetorical effect of such printed books upon Sahelian people: “The expense [for such books] would be trifling,” Park writes. “[C]uriosity would induce many to read it; and the evident superiority which it would possess over their present manuscripts, both in point of elegance and cheapness, might at last obtain it a place among the school books of Africa.” Later travelers such as Dixon Denham, James Richardson, and Heinrich Barth followed Park’s instructions to the letter, importing hundreds of Arabic-language Gospels for distribution throughout the Sahel. But like Mungo Park’s hat, these elegantly printed versions of the Gospels were most often politely returned by the Moor and “unlettered Negro” alike, who regarded them with indifference. Fifty years after Park’s “discovery” of the Djoliba, Richardson would report upon the failure of such books to excite even the slightest curiosity. After offering an Arabic New Testament to a Moorish fighi (holy man) named Sfaxee, Richardson notes, “He read a few sentences, and then laid the book aside. I offered it to him, but he refused to accept the inestimable present” (Narrative, vol. 2, p. 21). Richardson further informs us that “[Sfaxee] represents the feelings of all Muslims of these countries. They have not even any curiosity to know the contents of the Gospel, much less the inclination to study or appreciate them. They remain in a state of immovable, absolute indifference. Even the beautiful manner in which the Arabic letters are printed scarcely excites their surprise [my emphasis]” (vol. 2, pp. 21–22). Richardson implies that Sahelian peoples’ “immovable, absolute indifference” to European books may result from their comparative laziness, the fact that “these children of Africa live a life of simplicity little above pure savages” (vol. 2, p. 292). Although he does not fail to note the “happiness” of such peoples, Richardson finally grows irritated by all this illiterate bliss: “I am disgusted to see so many idle people” (vol. 2, p. 285), he writes. Meanwhile, Richardson busies himself with a volume of Milton, deeply regretting not having brought along any Shakespeare (vol. 2, p. 268). Park’s own views of Sahelian orality-aurality are shaped by a certain historical blindness, his own unawareness of how deeply book culture has affected him. As Ong puts it, “writing is a particularly preemptive and imperialistic activity that tends to assimilate other things to itself” (Orality, p. 12). As is true of many European travelers to the Sahel, Park’s writing is more important to him than life itself: “To return to England unsuccessful [would be] worse than death,” he tells us (Park, Travels in the Interior Districts, p. 168). The real epiphany of Park’s travelogue does not therefore come to Park himself as he lies imperially naked upon the forest floor. It comes to Karfa Taura, his

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credulous African friend, who stares agape at a British sailing vessel. This singularly “refined” African, as Park describes him, begins to wonder why Park has even bothered to come to Africa in the first place, so plainly superior do white peoples appear to be. Karfa asks Park, “what can possibly have induced me [Park], who was no trader, to think of exploring so miserable a country as Africa? He meant by this to signify that, after what I must have witnessed in my own country, nothing in Africa could deserve a moment’s attention” (pp. 359–360). Park notes with some satisfaction that Karfa, unlike his fellow Africans, is at last able to grasp England’s “manifest superiority in the arts of civilized life” (p. 359). With an involuntary sigh, Karfa utters, “fato fing inta feng,” or “black men are nothing.” Karfa’s profession of humility leads Park to delight in the fact that Karfa “possessed a mind above his condition” (Park’s emphasis, p. 360); for such a man might be led “from rudeness to refinement.” If the bookish illusions of typographic print cloud Park’s access to the real, they do not then exonerate him in any ethical sense. In fact, Park may be one of history’s great villains rather than a “daft” Scotsman, for he was certainly clever enough to grasp that the black peoples themselves had to be sold on the idea of their own cultural inferiority. LAING’S HAND

In An Account of Timbuctoo and Housa (1820), James Grey Jackson ponders long over the psychological dilemma posed to African peoples by the mania for writing that the bookman exhibits. Nothing is more redundant in the Timbuktu narrative than recorded accounts of the distrust, malaise, and bewilderment occasioned by the traveler’s commitments to writing. At last, Jackson concludes that the bookman must emphasize his desire to trade goods in an effort to circumvent such a problem because no black African will possibly believe that he has come merely to write a book. Commenting upon Mungo Park’s visit to Segu, a colleague of Jackson’s endorses his theory by insisting that the journey to Timbuktu must take on the appearance of a commercial enterprise: It is much easier to persuade the Africans that we travel into their country for the purposes of commerce and its result. . . . Accordingly, it was aptly observed by the Negroes of Congo, when they learned that Captain Tuckey came not to trade nor to make war; “What then come for? only to take walk and make book?” (p. 259; emphasis in original)

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In the case of the Timbuktu narrative, however, the bookman’s primary goal, albeit a irrational and solipsistic one, is indeed to “take walk and make book.” In fact, death itself seems a mere pittance next to the production of a printed volume. Not even Gustave Flaubert or Marcel Proust could match the Timbuktu pilgrim’s fanatical devotion to writing and willingness to exchange the pleasures of earthly life for a posthumous “life” within the pages of a book. Gordon Laing put it this way, “I have not traveled to Tinbuctoo [sic] for the sake of any other reward than that which I shall derive from the consciousness of having achieved an enterprise which will rescue my name from oblivion” (Bovill, Missions, p. 286). In making this profession, Laing further cites the following verse: “ Tis that which bids my bosom glow / To climb the stiff ascent of fame / To share the praise the just bestow / And give myself a deathless name” (my emphasis). Ironically, the “deathless name” that Laing sought could only be found in written texts, specifically typographic ones. However, those who seek such “immortality” must ignore the fact that writing is inextricably bound up with death, that “the kind of life writing enjoys remains bizarre, for it is achieved at the price of death” (my emphasis) (Ong, Interfaces, p. 234). Laing’s life and obsessions can only be described as bizarre, for the “deathlessness” that he achieved was concurrent with his actual death, his beheading at the hands of a Tuareg lackey of Muhammad Bello. 10 Laing’s incredible “courage” might well be described as a form of dementia, originating in the fetishizing of printed words. The 1824 expedition of Alexander Gordon Laing was officially called “the Timbuktu Mission” although he also sought to complete Mungo Park’s earlier mission by determining the main course and terminating point of the Niger River. In his 1825 volume, Travels in the Timanee, Kooranko, and Soolima Countries in Western Africa, Laing had already established his credentials as a writer, which was the decisive factor in gaining the Timbuktu commission. In fact, Laing landed the Timbuktu assignment because he was perceived as a “skillful narrator” (p. 134). Laing’s literary obsessions had even earned him the censure of a superior officer, who had lodged the complaint that “[i]n place of attending to the health and discipline of his Company, [Laing’s] time [in West Africa] was occupied in editing a contemptible Newspaper” (p. 137). Laing’s superior described his newspaper as being “filled with the most fulsome panegyrics upon himself in prose and rhyme, in magnifying into Armies, a few Wild Negroes in the Woods.” However, that Laing was notorious for having embellished his past African exploits in no way detracted from his suitability as a candidate for the Timbuktu

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mission; it may even have enhanced it, given Timbuktu’s largely symbolic value for European imperial powers. Besides his literary credentials, Laing was also credited with having made the discovery that the Niger could not possibly be the same river as the Nile (p. 132), both factors that made him seem ideally suited for the highly coveted commission. Before Laing, it was widely believed that no European had successfully visited Timbuktu, and the fact that Park had once considered the trip too dangerous further added to its luster. To complete Park’s work was “a long cherished scheme” for Laing (Letters, p. 185): “I am sanguine in my hopes of accomplishing a visit to the far famed Capital of Central Africa,” Laing wrote, “the spot where the adventurous Park lost his life” (p. 235). Park did not, of course, lose his life at Timbuktu, but it helped for Laing to imagine such a fitting death, which converted his sentimental journey into a Homeric “Odyssey” rather than a crass economic venture. Laing’s warm filiation to Park as fellow Scotsman would cool as he learned of the diplomatic havoc wreaked by Park’s second journey throughout the Sahel. In fact, Laing, who was thirty-one at the time, grew increasingly alarmed when Sahelian peoples themselves believed that Laing was Park himself, despite the fact that Park’s expedition had occurred twenty-one years earlier. “An extremely ridiculous report has gone abroad here that I am no less a personage than the late Mungo Park,” Laing reported, “the Christian who made war upon the people inhabiting the banks of the Niger, who killed several, and wounded many of the Tuaric” (p. 294). There was good reason then for hostility toward Laing, beyond the fact that he was nasara, a white English Christian. In retrospect, what seems amazing is Laing’s willful blindness in the face of such overwhelming hostility. The remaining evidence of Laing’s letters suggests a man who was so utterly preoccupied with himself that it is difficult to distinguish his courage from his colossal egotism. “What a sad thing it is to be a Lion,” Laing pompously muses (p. 277). Laing will similarly describe himself as a “flying Caesar,” always apprehensive that Captain Hugh Clapperton “will pluck the growing plume from Caesar’s wing” (p. 267).11 The surviving letters that were penned by “Caesar’s plume” reveal a highly irrational and narcissistic man, given over to delusions of grandeur as well as feelings of intense despair. On occasion, Laing’s emotional outbursts affect his ability to produce literature at all, a contingency that seems to him far more perilous than the numerous “swarthy natives” whom he encounters (p. 248). The “bigoted Marabouts and prejudiced Mohamedans” (p. 377) that Laing meets rarely disturb his intensely private obsessions and

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“sanguine” contemplation of his impending fame. Laing writes, “I am not a little pleased when I look at the great improvement I am already making, and contemplate those I shall make in the map of Africa” (p. 276). In fact, he compares the serenity of his present journey with his earlier Falaba expedition of 1822, stating, “I number the seven months I spent in Africa, away from European society, as the happiest epoch of my life” (p. 286). When he is able to momentarily forget his desire for writerly fame, Laing even convinces himself that his quest is a purely disinterested one, motivated solely by curiosity and the desire “to be beneficial in bringing about the civilization of the most ignorant and unfortunate country in the world” (p. 141). In one of his letters, Laing ejaculates, “Oh grant that the retributive day is near at hand [for] the poor unhappy Negroes . . . [for their salvation] from the damnable yoke of slavery” (p. 248). Laing’s abolitionist sentiments are difficult to take seriously, for his remarks occur in the most haphazard and characteristically selfdramatizing way; that is, they are offered to us solely that we might further admire the amazing Major Laing. In the same letter, Laing tempers such abolitionist fervor by observing of African children, “I verily believe that Satan himself was innocent at six years of age” (p. 245). Much later, Laing will modify his views on Sahelian slavery by stating that “[s]lavery is but a name” in this part of Africa where “[slaves] are treated with so much kindness and have so many privileges” (p. 384). Laing did not trouble to develop any coherent ideas or theories about the peoples, customs, and institutions that he encountered, for he was entirely self-absorbed and too busy reading the many books he brought with him, including books of poetry from which he often quoted.12 It is therefore not surprising that El Muktar, an eyewitness to the murder, reported that following Laing’s “cruel death” on his return from Timbuktu, his baggage was searched and “[e]verything of a useless nature, [such] as papers, letters, and books, were torn and thrown to the wind” (p. 313). I set aside for now the debatable historical veracity of El Muktar’s account, which was later to unleash a furor of acrimony and accusations when René Caillié was falsely accused of stealing Laing’s papers.13 As E. W. Bovill puts it, the history of Laing’s purloined books, journals, and travelogue “is so tortuous and involved that it could not be fairly presented within the compass of less than a single volume, which it certainly does not merit” (Missions, p. 330). Following Laing’s death, James Bandinel sent to Edward Sabine of the Royal Society “every scrap which [he] can find of Laing’s handwriting” (Letters, p. 127), which were transformed into fetish items in their own right, including 148 items of letters, drafts, memoranda, brief notes

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on scraps of paper, and two notebooks (pp. 126–127). With the most amazing rapidity, more writing about lost Timbuktu writing proliferated in the absence of Laing’s papers. The related documents surrounding the intrigues of Laing’s “stolen” travelogue “number many hundreds and occupy, almost to the exclusion of other matter, three large volumes in the Public Record Office” (p. 330). Shereef Mahommed Hassuna D’Ghies alone wrote a statement that consisted of more than 200 pages of foolscap regarding accusations about his alleged role in Laing’s death (p. 338). Laing’s own documents lack detail because he deliberately withheld the most interesting information for his masterpiece-inthe-making. Nor was he adverse to misleading his prospective readers about the luxurious “splendors” of Timbuktu. “[I]n every respect except in size . . . ,” Laing writes, “[Timbuktu] has completely met my expectations” (p. 312). If Clapperton admits his disappointment in Kano and Caillié and others routinely acknowledge Timbuktu’s modesty, Laing alone confirms its mythological proportions, deluding even himself into believing that no other European will be able to repeat his heroic accomplishment. On July 1, 1826, Laing informs Warrington that if he should fail to make it to Timbuktu, “the World will ever remain in ignorance of the place, as I make no vain glorious assertion when I say, that it will never be visited by Christian man after me” (p. 303). In fairness to Laing, it should be noted that he makes this observation after he has already been viciously attacked in the desert. One can only wonder if, by this point, Laing’s mental faculties had become impaired, so fanatical and irrational are his actions and observations. Even Bovill, Laing’s most sympathetic critic, states, “[T]hat Timbuktu fully met his expectations, except in size, is incredible.” For Bovill, it was far more likely that “[Laing] was not going to prejudice the great book of travel he intended to write by allowing it to become known beforehand that Timbuktu had proved an anti-climax” (Missions, p. 176). Bovill’s analysis seems reasonable, especially since Laing had by then given up all hopes of learning anything further about the Niger River. After he had been brutally attacked, Laing’s hopes rested solely on Timbuktu for literary fame. For this reason, Laing may have egotistically fueled the fires of the Timbuktu legend, disingenuously confirming the tall tales of its book wealth: “I have been busily employed during my stay,” Laing reported, “searching the records in the town, which are abundant and acquiring information of every kind, nor is it with any common degree of satisfaction that I say, my perseverance has been amply rewarded” (Letters, p. 312). However, it is possible that Laing could not by then disavow his faith in Timbuktu, that the tall tales and brutal attack had finally warped his perceptions of reality. Descriptions

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gathered from René Caillié and from Laing’s letters suggest a selfobsessed man who made a public spectacle of himself: Caillié writes: Laing never laid aside his European dress, and used to give out that he had been sent by his master the King of England, for the purpose of making himself acquainted with Timbuctoo and the wonders it contains. It would appear that the traveler had openly taken a plan of Timbuctoo, for the same Moor told me in his simple way that he had written down everything in it. (Travels Through Central Africa, vol. 2, p. 80; Caillié’s emphasis)

It may be worth pausing for a moment to speculate upon how Laing must have appeared in the eyes of Timbuktu’s inhabitants: the tall Scotsman in plumed cap and full uniform, obsessively “writing down everything” in his journal. Caillié further informs us that Laing suffered no intrusions, even physically assaulting those who disturbed him. “Sidi-Abdallahi, whom I often questioned as to whether the major had been insulted during his stay at Timbuctoo, always replied in the negative; shaking his head, to give me to understand, that they would have been sorry to annoy him” (vol. 2, p. 81). Not even Proust in his corklined bedroom was better insulated than Laing in his egotism, publicly composing his masterpiece of travel literature. Laing’s historical significance may reside not in the absent chef d’oeuvre he created but in the bold performance that he gave for Timbuktu’s inhabitants, for Laing offered a stunning image of the writer-at-work, the bookman from faraway lands. Ong has argued that typographical print technologies have led to intense forms of interiority, as an attribute of bookish consciousness. Laing’s dementia cannot therefore be dismissed as mere idiosyncrasy, a quirk of his own romantic or narcissistic temperament. His spectacular drama of the writing man on tour in the streets of Timbuktu may have announced to Sahelian peoples the coming of a whole new species of human being. For this reason, Laing’s visit is of far greater historical importance than Caillié’s first “successful” visit to Timbuktu, regardless of Caillié’s production of a book, since Caillié’s presence went unnoticed. Laing can even be described as a Christ figure of sorts, albeit a ridiculous one. Hence, Caillié will refer to Laing as “a martyr to the cause of science” (vol. 2, p. 82), a description that became a cliché of future Timbuktu pilgrims.14 The interrelations of Laing’s commitments to Christianity and typographic print, which is a defining feature of Euro-Protestant religion, cannot be fully explored here, except to note that they are inextricable aspects of his identity, for both of which Laing was willing to give his life. It is also significant that, unlike the French Catholic René Caillié,

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Laing would disavow neither.15 “I learned moreover that [Laing] was tormented to say that there is but one God and that Mahomet is his prophet,” Caillié writes, “but he always stopped at the words: ‘There is but one God.’ They then called him cafir, and infidel, but, without illtreating him, left him free to think and pray in his own way” (vol. 2, pp. 80–81). Although we know that Laing died at the command of Mohammed Bello, an order that was executed by the Peulh militant Sékou Amadou, Caillié informs us that Laing was also executed for his refusal to convert to Islam; that is, Laing’s refusal to make the profession of faith was ostensibly the reason for his beheading, although he was apparently offered the choice of becoming a Tuareg slave (vol. 2, pp. 82–83).16 When Laing refused both “offers,” a spear was buried in his chest and his head cut off (Bovill, Missions, p. 316). With mixed admiration and disapproval, Caillié comments that “Laing continued firm, and chose to die rather than yield,” a resolution that was “proof of his intrepidity and foresight” (Travels Through Central Africa, vol. 2, p. 83). Laing deliberately presented himself as an English Christian during his stay in Timbuktu. He also made a point of dressing himself and his three attendants in European clothing as a means of emphasizing his faith, “lest it should ever be supposed that we attempt to pass ourselves for what we really are not” (Letters, p. 230). As an integral part of this ritual assertion of Christian and English identity, Laing writes, “it is my intention to read prayers to my three attendants always on Sundays, on which day we shall appear dressed as Englishmen” (pp. 230–231). From a Sahelian perspective, it could not have escaped anyone’s attention that Laing publicly read his prayers from a printed book rather than recited them out loud, which would have at once marked both his inferiority to and difference from Sahelian Muslims; that is, it would appear that Laing had not even bothered to or was perhaps incapable of memorizing his prayers. Ever confident that Christians such as himself “bear in this world the stamp of civilization and pre-eminent superiority” (p. 290), Laing most likely failed to take into account how such a public ritual might have affected those surrounding him. A few years after Laing’s journey, James Richardson reported the difficulties he encountered when his party was observed reading—rather than reciting—his prayers. Unlike Laing, however, Richardson’s party elected to read prayers inside their tents (Narrative, vol. 2, p. 95). Among Sahelian peoples, Laing’s strange religious ceremonies, along with his incessant note taking and book reading, might well have harkened to quranic images of scribal “donkeys laden with books.” His behavior undoubtedly surprised and possibly infuriated nearly all those he encountered.

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Before his arrival in the city, Laing was first attacked by those very peoples who observed him on a daily basis. According to Laing’s camel driver Mohammed, Laing’s attackers simply entered his tent “and before [Laing] could arm himself, he was cut down by a sword on his thigh. He again jumped up and received one cut on the cheek and ear, and the other on the right arm above the wrist which broke the arm. He then fell on the ground where he received seven cuts, the last being on his neck” (Bovill, Missions, p. 299). The other six cuts that Laing received, while he lay helpless upon the ground, were inflicted upon his hands—one on his left hand and five on his writing hand. In a letter to Warrington, Laing describes the wounds to his hands in some detail: he informs Warrington that he has received “five saber cuts on my right arm and hand, three of the fingers broken, the hand cut three fourths across, and the wrist bones cut through” (Letters, p. 302). On his left hand, with which Laing will retrain himself to write, he receives only a slight cut “across the fingers of my left hand [that is] now healed up.” Although he makes rapid advances in writing with his left hand, Laing is never again able to use his right hand for writing. After the attack, he states to Warrington, “I write with my left hand with much pain and difficulty” (p. 302). To his fiancé, Emma Warrington, Laing downplays his wounds: “I write with only a Thumb and Finger having a very severe cut on my fore Finger” (p. 299). Laing notes how “absolutely painful [it is] to hold the pen” (p. 287), but such pain in no way deters him from his literary ambitions, from his dreams of winning a “deathless name” (p. 286). To the spectacular image of Laing’s writerly performance in Timbuktu, I must therefore add the further layer of his obvious physical mutilation. No doubt, Laing’s ruthless assailant could not have fathomed that his attack on Laing’s writing hand would prove insufficient, that Laing would miraculously learn to write with his profane left hand.17 In fact, Laing’s lost Timbuktu narrative was reputed to be bursting with the minutest details: “That ‘detailed Journal’ was the private repository of the mass of information [Laing] was accumulating,” Bovill states, “the writing up of which must have made grievously heavy demands on his time after he had lost the use of his right hand” (Missions, p. 177). As is evident from surviving letters, Laing had spent a great amount of time writing. Given the few short weeks he actually stayed in Timbuktu, it is apparent that Laing must have done nothing but write. “Between the writing of his letter of 10 July and that of 21 September, almost certainly the last he ever wrote,” Bovill states, “there was such a marked improvement in his writing that it cannot be doubted that he had recently had a great deal of

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practice” (p. 177). Aside from the cultural differences Laing exhibited, he was very probably taken for a spy. “Travelers, especially when they venture to use the pen in public, are looked upon as spies,” Richardson informs us, “which may in part account for the rough treatment they sometimes receive” (Narrative, vol. 1, p. 293). Nor was Laing entirely unaware of the impending danger represented by the coming of the Macina Peulh (Sékou Amadou’s followers): “[M]y situation in Tinbuctoo [sic] is rendered exceedingly unsafe by the unfriendly disposition of the Foolahs of Massina,” Laing writes, yet he did not bother to reflect further upon this potentially fatal development. It is difficult to imagine what exactly it would have taken to get Laing’s attention. To brutally maim the writing hand of the colonizer may not exactly qualify as an act of “transculturation”—a creative manipulation of “materials transmitted from the dominant culture” (Pratt, Imperial Eyes, p. 6)—but then, no autoethnographical text can quite match it for dramatic emphasis. Obviously “discursive” messages of this order call for careful interpretation, but Westerners will not begin to grasp their deeper meaning unless they set aside textualist biases. CONCLUSION

The cultural misrecognition that occurs between European and Sahelian peoples is a result of different attitudes about writing, literacy, and books in two parallel but separate universes. In cultures as deeply literate as the West, it is difficult to grasp the profound differences in the complex experiences of primary oral and verbomotor societies. “Freeing ourselves of chirographic and typographic bias in our understanding of language is probably more difficult than any of us can imagine,” Ong states, “far more difficult, it would seem than the ‘deconstruction’ of literature, for this ‘deconstruction’ remains a literary activity [my emphasis]” (Orality, p. 77). The Sahelian travelogue may not then tell the reader much about the symbolic interpolation of any colonized or “Manichaean” subject within a discursive universe centered in Europe, an interpolation that is more or less unsuccessfully resisted. On the contrary, the Timbuktu narrative lends significant evidence to the fact that Sahelian peoples consistently refused colonization at the level of the symbolic, including European attitudes about books, writing, and their proper role in daily life. Throughout the history of Sahelian travel literature, European and American peoples have

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exhibited astounding ignorance about their own textualist orientations to reality. Laing and Park were deaf to the messages of their Sahelian interlocutors, maniacally venturing forward in their separate failed quests, and both accordingly paid the ultimate price. NOTES

1. Perhaps James Grey Jackson’s major contribution to Timbuktu discourse, which he is “flattered to see” widely adopted in 1820, is that his orthography of Timbuctoo, as opposed to “the old and barbarous orthography of Tombuctoo” is now employed in England. The fact that he was able to alter a syllable in the magical word itself proves profoundly gratifying though he laments England’s adoption of French orthography for African-Arabic placenames (Account, pp. xiii–xiv). 2. In the Tarikh es-Soudan, es-Sa’di identifies Djenné (Jenne) as the main reason for Timbuktu’s prosperity. “Jenne is one of the greatest markets of the Muslim world. There the salt merchants of Teghaza meet merchants carrying gold from the mines of Bitou. . . . Because of this blessed city, caravans flock to Timbuktu from all points of the horizon (pp. 22–23). 3. See, for instance, Peter Bryant’s The Black Nile: Mungo Park and the Search for the Niger (1977) or Sanche de Gramont’s The Strong Brown God: The Story of the Niger (1976). 4. For Nietzsche, as for theorists like Jacques Derrida, Spivak, and others, such “words carry certain charges on their shoulders” (Spivak, Post-colonial, p. 25); they are unavoidably permeated with the residue of their previous meanings. 5. Beverley critiques reflexive literary bias in the following terms: “I know that her intention is to empower cultural practices that can go beyond the patriarchal, colonial, and imperialist construction of the world system. But I am hesitant to endorse the self-satisfaction of the literary (and the general appeal of deconstruction to a notion of social ‘textuality’) displays. Is there not in fact a way of thinking about literature that is extraliterary, or as I prefer here, ‘against’ literature?” (Against Literature, pp. 1–2). 6. See Pratt, Imperial Eyes. 7. It should also be noted that Pratt fails to give enough credit to Sahelian peoples for their awareness of Park’s importance as a potential trading partner. “These puzzled African interlocuters open to question the very structuring principle of the anti-conquest,” Pratt writes, “the claim to the innocent pursuit of knowledge. . . . They reinforce Park’s anti-conquest—the Africans, in the end, do not find him threatening, just daft” (Imperial Eyes, p. 84). However, a third possibility also exists, namely that black Africans (i.e., the Bozo, Bambara, Mandinka, etc.) were simply not threatened by him, as were Berber and Arab peoples, but were cognizant of the potential economic importance of Park’s visit. This dynamic is made explicit in Park’s second visit, when Park describes to Bambaran dignitaries at Ségou the economic advantages of eliminating the Moor as a middleman (Bryant, Black Nile, p. 148).

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8. The theme of Arab imperialism in the Sahel and the uses of literacy in furthering it are important aspects of Yambo Ouologuem’s controversial novel Bound to Violence. See Wise, “Introduction: A Voice from Bandiagara,” in Yambo Ouologuem. 9. Park himself, for instance, felt that writing a book was “the single, particular purpose of his life” (Bryant, Black Nile, p. 143), a goal that earned him the criticism of even his parents, who had hoped that he’d become a minister. “You poor useless thing,” Park’s mother once remarked to him, “do you think you will ever write books?” (Bryant, Black Nile, p. 22). 10. Bovill comments, “Bello’s fears of European penetration being what they were, and his relationship with Seku Hamadu being as close as it was, it is not surprising that he cautioned him against Laing, and advised, if not ordered, his banishment from Timbuktu. It was his intervention that cost Laing his life, and scholarship the fruits of a great journey” (Missions, p. 173). Clapperton was also informed that Sékou Amadou and the Macina Peulh were “subject to our Lord the Prince of the Believers, Mohammed Bello” (Journal, pp. 330–334). For his part, Bello had received disturbing communications regarding the Napoleonic excursion in Egypt, regarding “abuses and corruptions” of the European Christians (pp. 310–311). Bello stated to Clapperton, “If the English should meet with too great encouragement, they would come into [the] Soudan, one after another, until they got strong enough to seize the country . . . as they had done with India” (Clapperton, Journal, p. 197). 11. The rivalry of Clapperton and Laing was mutual because their missions historically coincided. Clapperton described Laing as an “unwelcome interloper” (Bovill, Missions, p. 162). Along with Laing, Clapperton had also been instructed to visit Timbuktu, unless he heard advance word that Laing had already completed his mission (p. 162). Laing’s letters are filled with anxious references to Clapperton, with whom he feels himself to be “running a race” (Laing, Letters, pp. 280–281). In a more sanguine moment, Laing writes, “I smile at the Idea of his [Clapperton’s] reaching Tombuctoo before me” (p. 232). 12. In 1880, the Austrian explorer Oscar Lenz claimed to have seen many of Laing’s books, along with his clothes, underwear, medicine, and forty-five Spanish duros in money, in the possession of the Berabich shaikh of Arawan (Lenz, Timbuktu, vol. 2, p. 93). 13. Caillié reported having heard this same account, in nearly identical terms, not long after Laing’s death. However, in Caillié’s account Laing’s papers and journals were “scattered among the inhabitants of the desert” (Travels Through Central Africa, vol. 2, p. 83). 14. For instance, see Barth (Travels and Discoveries, vol. 2, p. 579). 15. This is not to say that a Protestant may be either more sincere or more bullheaded than a Catholic Christian, merely that their commitments to printed books are not identical. 16. Bovill comments that in August 1826, when Laing arrived in Timbuktu Seku [Amadou] had probably not yet occupied the town, but that he could and would do so at his convenience was so generally accepted that the sheikh who governed the town did not dare to resist his bidding. It was this that sealed

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the fate of Gordon Laing. When Seku heard of a European approaching Timbuktu he at once ordered his expulsion. He was to return by the way he had come, and it was to be made clear to him that there could be no question of his returning. . . . [Sékou Amadou] had done so at the bidding of Sultan Bello of Sokoto, who in 1817 had succeeded his father Usman dan Fodio as Sarkin Musulmi of Sokoto. (Missions, p. 172)

17. Throughout the Sahel, the left hand is reserved for excremental purposes.

14 The Bello-Clapperton Exchange: The Sokoto Jihad and the Transatlantic Slave Trade l

Paul E. Lovejoy

Debates over slavery reflect perspectives that are situated in specific historical and cultural contexts.1 In western European thought, enlightened rationalism legitimized slavery by defining the “nature” of Africans with reference to natural science and medicine as inferior as a race. Inevitably, appeals for the abolition of slavery also focused on race, initially outlawing the import of more enslaved blacks into the Americas and later freeing black slaves. However, in the Islamic context, the practice and discourse of slavery centered on religion and not race; that is, the Islamic debate concentrated on cultural and social categories rather than on biological distinctions. Both the European and the Islamic debates claimed universality, although each was dependent upon incomplete and culturally filtered bodies of knowledge. Hence the abolition of the slave trade across the Atlantic and the struggle to emancipate slaves must be seen as more than products of the European Enlightenment and the concern for the “rights of man” as articulated in the French Revolution and the Christian-based reform movement in Britain. Such a partial perspective overlooks the discussion within West Africa over the legitimacy of enslavement and therefore ignores the efforts of Islamic governments to develop their own slavery policies. An Afrocentric perspective raises questions about the dominance of a “European” tradition of abolition. Muslims, at least, viewed the issue of slavery and the African diaspora across the Atlantic from another perspective, although the Muslim critique was also situated within a context that was only partial. Because perspectives on slavery were situated differently, the aims and methods of abolition were different. Whereas European abolition was directed at the transatlantic trade, the Islamic debate concentrated on the emancipation and protection of Muslims. The contrast in these perspectives was highlighted in 201

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1822–1825, when the first official British mission visited the courts of Borno and the Sokoto caliphate. The British mission may have been informed by the ideas of the Enlightenment in discussing matters of slavery in the central Sudan, but the debate among Muslims over “just” and “illegitimate” enslavement provided the context for how these ideas were received. As Donna Haraway has argued, perspectives on knowledge imply the limitations of the viewpoint. In the first third of the nineteenth century, perhaps a third of the deported slave population were Muslims from the interior, including those identified as Hausa, Nupe, Borno, and increasingly northern Yoruba as well. The presence of enslaved Muslims in the exported slave population was a consequence of the political situation in central Sudan, most especially the jihad that led to the consolidation of the Sokoto caliphate after 1804. The questions raised here address the policies of this Islamic state toward the transatlantic slave trade, specifically those reflected in the negotiations with Britain to abolish that trade. A. Adu Boahen, Robin Hallett, and E. W. Bovill have examined the British mission to Borno and the Sokoto caliphate in 1822–1825 as an exercise in European exploration and diplomacy, but the concerns of the Sokoto caliphate, especially as articulated by Caliph Muhammad Bello (1817–1837), with the condition of enslaved Muslims in the countries along the routes to the Guinea coast and in the Americas have been overlooked. As Humphrey Fisher has noted, the Muslim leadership of the early nineteenth century addressed issues relating to slavery in their writings, teachings, and political actions; indeed, the slavery issue was “a major grievance stimulating the Sokoto jihad” (“A Muslim William Wilberforce?” p. 551). Among their concerns were the issues of “just” enslavement and the status of Muslims as slaves. This intellectual and political discourse dated back several centuries before the outbreak of the Sokoto jihad and predated the European Enlightenment. Legal scholarship, which derived from the shari’a according to the Maliki school of law as interpreted by Abu Zayd al-Qayrawani (d. 996), considered that slavery arose from a condition of unbelief. The freeborn, whom by definition had to be Muslim, could not legally be enslaved, or so it would seem. However, there was considerable room for qualification and doubt, and hence the subject of slavery was much studied. For example, Ahmad Baba (1556–1627) examined issues of enslavement and the legitimacy of slavery in Islamic society. In 1615–1616, Baba wrote that “whoever is taken prisoner in a state of unbelief may become someone’s property, whoever he is, opposed to those who have become Muslims of their own free will” (Hodgkin, Nigerian Perspectives, p.

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156). Since religious identification was not always clear to Muslims, Ahmad Baba discussed slavery in terms of ethnicity, thereby attempting to categorize populations according to the legitimacy of enslavement in both religious and ethnic terms. Two centuries later, the shaikh of the Sokoto jihad, Usman Dan Fodio (1754–1817), was also concerned with matters of slavery, particularly the enslavement of free Muslims and restrictions on the conversion of the enslaved to Islam. The context is important in understanding the possible motivations and influences underlying the policies of the Sokoto leadership as well as the actions of enslaved Muslims. Muslims, at least, were engaged in an active debate over their identities both as free people and as slaves to Muslims and non-Muslims, even the possibility of enslavement to Christians. Muslim reformers were particularly worried about the justification for enslavement when the status of the individual as a Muslim was in doubt. Needless to say, in the context of war, the preoccupation with this issue suggests that many slaves could claim to be Muslims, whether or not they were. The issue pitted those who supported the jihad, defined as Muslims, against those in opposition, whether or not they were Muslims and how they were otherwise categorized. This intellectual and legal tradition involved a degree of reflection that affected the institution of slavery in West Africa and provided context for the actions of enslaved Muslims, notably in the Ilorin mutiny of 1817 against Oyo, the resistance of Muslim “Aku” (Yoruba) in Sierra Leone in 1831–1832, or the series of disturbances in Bahia culminating in the abortive 1835 Malé uprising. Each of these responses to the ordeals and adjustments along the slave route was different, but they all involved Muslims from central Sudan. Disjuncture characterized the slave route, even as groups of slaves tried to maintain links with the past through reference to a common tradition. The similarities and differences in these responses are suggestive of the complexities of an alternate perspective on abolition. Muslim perspectives on issues of slavery were indeed different from those of Enlightenment Europe. The debate over slavery in Islamic Africa was the context in which diplomatic relations between the Sokoto caliphate and Britain were established in the 1820s. An examination of this context reveals the limitations of Eurocentric approaches to abolition. Caliph Muhammad Bello and the British representative, Captain Hugh Clapperton, reached an accord in 1824 that, although never ratified, shaped British-caliphate relations until the last quarter of the century. A prohibition on slave sales to Europeans was a cornerstone of this relationship.

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In challenging an approach that emphasizes the intellectual tradition of the European Enlightenment and the political repercussions of the French Revolution, this chapter addresses African writings on the question of the legitimacy of slavery. The transatlantic slave trade was the subject of written and legal debate within West Africa that reflects another perspective on the struggle to confront slavery as an institution. In different ways, this Muslim debate was also partial, not centered on the trade across the Atlantic but concerned about the fate of enslaved Muslims and slaves who might otherwise have converted to Islam. The Sokoto leadership, at least, could promote abolition of the transatlantic trade on its own terms. There was no need to coerce the Sokoto government into compliance, which could not have been achieved in any case. THE SOKOTO JIHAD AND THE SLAVERY QUESTION

The deep concern expressed by the Sokoto leadership over the issue of slavery has prompted Fisher to suggest that Usman Dan Fodio may have been a “Muslim Wilberforce.” According to Fisher, “one of the major causes of the jihad which began in Hausaland in 1804 was the increasing enslavement of free Muslims” (“A Muslim William Wilberforce,” p. 537). Whether the incidence of enslavement had increased in the years before 1804 is uncertain, although slaves from central Sudan became more common in the export ledgers of the Bight of Benin in the last third of the eighteenth century than previously, which suggests such an increase. Inevitably, the eighteenth-century wars among the Hausa states resulted in extensive enslavement (and re-enslavement), and many captives were Muslims. According to a Borno praise song dating to the late eighteenth century, “you can put chains around the necks of the slaves from other men’s towns and bring them to your own town” (Patterson, Kanuri Songs, p. 25). The problem was that many Muslims were slaves, and in those turbulent times, Usman Dan Fodio and other Muslim leaders were concerned with their status and welfare. It was difficult to establish who was being re-enslaved and who should have been protected because of their previous status as free. By 1800 there were many complaints about the enslavement of Muslims. Jibril ibn Umar, the teacher of Usman Dan Fodio, wrote that “the selling of free men” was forbidden because he was aware that Muslims were being sold. For Jibril, this prohibition, along with similar ones on adultery, alcohol, and manslaughter, were the ways in which “our people are distinguished” (Bivar and Hiskett, “Arabic Literature of Nigeria,” p. 143). Similarly,

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Muhammad Tukur, a Fulani scholar, composed a song that castigated those people “who reduce free people to slavery without a legitimate reason.” Their actions were in discord with those of the Prophet, and Tukur classified such villains as unbelievers (Haafkens, Chants, p. 147). In his discussion of “important matters” in Masa’il muhimma, written at Degel in 1802 (1217 in the Islamic calendar), Usman Dan Fodio specifically claimed that the sale of any Fulani as a slave was illegal, basing his ruling on the long-standing recognition that most Fulbe (Fulani or Peulh) were Muslims. In a Fulfulde poem, Tabbat hakika, he predicted that “one who enslaves a freeman, he shall suffer torment. The Fire shall enslave him, be sure of that!” (Hiskett, Sword, p. 77). In another song, he attributed the “troubles” of central Sudan to the disregard of freedom, condemning those actions that led to the “capture of a free man, not a slave; then follow this with enslavement” (Usman, Studies, p. 205). In response to the questions of al-Hajj Shisummas ibn Ahmad, a Tuareg cleric, Usman Dan Fodio reiterated the criteria for the enslavement of captives, specifically addressing the concerns of freeborn people who had been enslaved (Zahradeen, Abd Allah ibn Fodio’s Contribution, p. 21). Similarly, Muhammad Bello insisted in Miftah alSadad that it was “not lawful to enslave the Fulani,” despite the fact that in central Sudan there were some Fulani living between Katsina and Kano and to the west of Katsina whom Bello did not consider to be Muslims.2 Such frequent pronouncements appeared to reflect a serious problem. The extent to which slaves were Muslim at the outbreak of the 1804 jihad is difficult to establish, although information from Oyo and the Guinea coast demonstrates that enslaved Muslims were traded south, apparently increasingly so after the 1750s. Many of these slaves were retained in Oyo, in Dahomey, or on the coast itself. By the early nineteenth century, enslaved Muslims had become a recognized and significant element in the Oyo military, especially the cavalry stationed at Ilorin, and in certain crafts in the Oyo capital (Law, Oyo, pp. 205-207).3 Enslaved Muslims were also found at Porto Novo in the 1780s and 1790s and apparently in Dahomey as well, where they were also frequently engaged in crafts and the military.4 As Robin Law has demonstrated, the slave trade with the Muslim interior entered a new phase after 1748, when the Dahomey-Oyo wars finally ended in an agreement whereby Dahomey paid tribute to Oyo. Muslim merchants, who had been at the coast before the outbreak of hostilities in 1726, now returned to Abomey and even to Oujda (“Islam,” pp. 100–109). In 1756, Dahomey and Portugal reached an

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agreement allowing the reconstruction of the Portuguese fort at Oujda, which effectively established direct trade to Bahia and the eventual concentration of enslaved Muslims there. Trade developed rapidly after 1770, when merchants began to buy slaves at Porto Novo, Badagry, and Lagos as well (Côrtez de Olivera, “Retouver,” p. 38). Dahomey, Porto Novo, and Lagos each sent embassies to Bahia and to Portugal in the effort to compete for this trade. According to Peter Morton-Williams, Oyo developed a new route to Porto Novo after 1750 by settling slaves in the largely deserted Egbado districts, thereby creating a safe outlet to the coast that bypassed Dahomey (“Oyo Yoruba,” p. 25). Muslim merchants took their slave caravans south from central Sudan, crossing the Niger River near Raka, which was located a few miles from the Niger River and its confluence with the Moshi River, and then proceeded through Oyo to Porto Novo. By the end of the eighteenth century, there was a large Yoruba population in Raka, even though the town was originally Nupe. According to Samuel Johnson, “nearly all the children of influential Oyo chiefs resided there permanently for the purpose of trade” (History, p. 217).5 In the 1780s and 1790s, the wealthiest merchant in Porto Novo was Pierre Tamata, Hausa by origin and educated in France. After his emancipation he set up business at Porto Novo, his former master “granting him credit to a considerable amount” (J. Adams, Remarks, p. 83). According to the king of Porto Novo, in a letter to Prince Joao of Portugal dated November 16, 1804, “this is the port where there is the greatest abundance of captives; the Ayos [Oyo] and Malés [i.e., Muslims] bring them here,” clearly along the route from Raka through Oyo (Verger, Trade, p. 234). In 1812, Muhammad Bello described this trade in his geographical description of central Sudan on the eve of the jihad. He described “Yarba,” or Oyo, as an extensive province, containing rivers, forests, sands, and mountains, as also a great many wonderful and extraordinary things. . . . By the side of this province there is an anchorage or harbour for the ships of the Christians, who used to go there and purchase slaves. These slaves were exported from our country, and sold to the people of Yarba, who resold them to the Christians. (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney, Narrative, vol. 2, p. 454, as translated by A. Salame)

Bello’s comments are instructive. They reveal that the Sokoto leadership was aware that merchants, who inevitably would have been Muslims since all trade passed through a commercial network that was Muslim, were involved in the sale of slaves to Oyo and hence to Christian merchants on the coast. As reports from the early nineteenth

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century make clear, merchants traveled overland to Porto Novo through the “country of the Joos [Oyo],” “the principal negro nation,” passing through the country of the “Anagoos [Anago] and Mahees [Mahi]” but avoiding Dahomey, along “rivers, morasses, and large lakes which intersect the countries between Haoussa and the coast,” apparently referring to the lagoons between Porto Novo and Lagos (R. Adams, Narrative, p. xxxviii). Indeed, before 1807, Hausa traders “were continually to be met with at Lagos.”6 This identifiable community of enslaved Muslims and a parallel community of Muslim traders from central Sudan carried over into the diaspora. Beginning in the late eighteenth century, Muslims were concentrated in Brazil, specifically in Bahia. According to Stuart Schwartz, Bahian planters took advantage of the collapse of sugar production in St. Domingue after 1793 to expand their own output, which required importing slaves. As a result, “the ratio of Africans in the population rose to new heights as the wave of slaves inundated the captaincy . . . , most of them young adult males” (Sugar Plantations, p. 351). Many of these came from the Bight of Benin, so that Hausa, Nupe, and Borno slaves were common by 1800. Their numbers were sufficient that in 1807, 1809, and 1814, Hausa and other Muslim slaves were implicated in conspiracies to revolt against the colonial state in Brazil. The fact that Muslim slaves were common along the routes stretching through Yorubaland to Bahia by the early nineteenth century has prompted Fisher to argue that the jihad erupted “precisely because Muslim slaves were arriving in Yorubaland and Bahia, torn from Hausaland and dar al-Islam. . . . The shock waves, flowing into Hausaland, helped ignite the jihad; then, flowing out again, spread that example” (“A Muslim William Wilberforce?” p. 555). In accusing the Hausa governments of enslaving free Muslims and thereby providing slaves for southern export, Usman Dan Fodio encouraged slaves to escape or otherwise assert their Islamic identities.7 Hence the proponents of jihad found justification for their actions in protecting Muslims, which directly challenged the authority of all the governments of central Sudan. Indeed, pronouncements on the illegality of enslaving freeborn Muslims bordered on advocacy of partial emancipation. In Wathiqat ahl al-Sudan wa man sha’a Allah min al-ikhwan, which is often considered the manifesto of the Sokoto jihad, Usman Dan Fodio decreed that “to enslave the freeborn among the Muslims is unlawful by assent, whether they reside in the territory of Islam, or in enemy territory” (Bivar, Wathiqat, p. 240). In Bayan wujub al hijra ‘la ’l-‘ibad, he cited numerous authorities to support his ruling that fugitive slaves were free if they fled to the side of the jihad and that free Muslims who

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had wrongly been enslaved could also claim their liberty. Among the laws that he decreed were the law concerning giving freedom to slaves of unbelieving Belligerents if they flee to us; . . . the law concerning one who has been found as a slave in the hands of Unbelievers and claims to be a freeborn Muslim but has not emigrated; And the law concerning one who has been brought from a land where the selling of free men is commonplace and claims to be a freeborn Muslim. (U. Dan Fodio, Bayan, pp. 117–120)

Many enslaved Muslims took advantage of the jihad to assert their freedom after 1804, often by fleeing to the camps of the jihad armies. The incident at Gimbana in 1804, which touched off the jihad, encapsulated the conflict over protecting Muslims who had been enslaved. Gobir attempted to check the flight of Muslim slaves through a decree that recognized individuals as Muslims only if their parents had been, thus not recognizing conversion or claims of uncertain parentage and denying the grounds for protection through flight. To enforce this decree, as Usman Dan Fodio complained, “The Sultan of Gobir attacked the Sheikh’s people; they fled, for they were afraid. The Gobir army followed them and captured some and slew others, seizing children and women, and selling them in our midst” (Zahradeen, Abd Allah ibn Fodio’s Contribution, p. 190). It is likely that many of those taken prisoner had in fact escaped from slavery. Abd al-Salam, one of Usman Dan Fodio’s Hausa supporters, led a raid on the Gobir detachment, freeing the Muslim captives and clearly demonstrating active rebellion against Gobir authority. The flight of the enslaved to the cause of jihad is most noticeable in the case of Ilorin and Nupe, probably because of the availability of documentation. The Ilorin garrison, which comprised Hausa and other slaves from further north, mutinied in 1817 in a bid by its commander, Afonja, to topple the Oyo government. Afonja lost his life, but the jihad forces came to the support of the rebels (Law, Oyo, p. 258). As Ali Eisami reported from his own experience, “all the slaves who went to the war, became free; so when the slaves heard these good news, they all ran away” (Koelle, African Native Literature, pp. 115–121). Ali, a Borno slave, was sold to merchants at the coast for sale overseas because his master feared that he would join the Muslims. The jihad continued into the 1820s, and the Muslims offered “liberty to all the Mahometen slaves, and encouraged others to kill their pagan masters

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and join them” (Clapperton, Journal, pp. 55–56).8 Ilorin became virtually autonomous, which contributed to an ongoing crisis that resulted in the eventual destruction of Oyo in the early 1830s and the incorporation of much of its territory into the caliphate as the Emirate of Ilorin (Law, Oyo, pp. 255–258). Similarly in Nupe in 1831, it was declared that “all runaway slaves are encouraged to join the ranks on condition of receiving their freedom; and they are joined by a vast number from the surrounding country” (J. Lander and R. Lander, Journal, vol. 2, p. 71). Inevitably, efforts to protect Muslims focused on the status of individuals at the time of their capture in war. As Muhammad Bello informed “the people of the east,” apparently in 1813, “all those captured by the enemy from among the communities that followed us, and who were sold to the merchants who sold them to you, are free Muslims whose enslavement is forbidden, haram. You are to do your utmost to rescue their necks from bondage. May God reward you for that” (alNaqar, Pilgrimage Tradition, p. 142). Some of those enslaved were Muslim children (p. 54). As these instructions demonstrate, it proved to be difficult to enforce restrictions on the sale of prisoners, and indeed Abdullahi Dan Fodio, in Tazyin al-waraqat (1813), criticized some of his fellow Fulani Muslims as “sellers of free men in the market” (p. 122). This was one of the reasons that he became disillusioned with the jihad and emigrated eastward. He was particularly critical of excess, condemning the extent of concubinage as well as ostentatious clothing and other displays of wealth (Yamusa, “Political Ideas,” pp. 270–285). From the perspective of the caliphate leadership, slavery was closely associated with issues of religion but also required the recognition of Sokoto. Islamic law and, frequently, local custom inquired into the religious status of slaves; those slaves who had not been born into slavery were usually allowed to contact relatives. In Diya’ al-sultan wa ghayrihi min al-ikhwan, Abdullahi Dan Fodio discussed the status of prisoners captured in the jihad, including the categories of persons who were liable to enslavement, ransom, or freedom. At Bodinga in 1813, he outlined the laws on the distribution of booty, including a description of seven categories of spoils (Tazyin al-waraqat, pp. 121–122). The distribution of slaves, of course, figured prominently in these instructions. According to Abdullahi, prisoners of war should be able “to pay ransom for their freedom and the ransom money would be paid into the booty.” It was also possible to exchange prisoners, although if “the ransom was in the form of Muslim prisoners of war then the value of the ransom must be deducted from imam’s fifth,” that is, the share belonging to the caliphate (Yamusa, “Political Ideas,” pp. 270–285). Legally, freeborn Muslims should not have been enslaved, but many were. Hence procedures for

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ransoming attempted to safeguard such captives. Muslims who owned slaves were supposed to instruct their slaves in matters of religion, and the ideal master-slave relationship involved a Muslim master whose trusted slave was committed to Islam, whether recently acquired or not.9 The predominant reason for restricting the sale of slaves was intended to assure their inevitable conversion to Islam. Procedures for emancipation, including self-purchase and redemption by third parties, integrated individuals, as Muslims, into free society.10 As far as Sokoto was concerned, enslaving free Muslims was not acceptable, although attacking enemy countries opposed to the imposition of Sokoto’s authority was sanctioned. In Siraj al-ikhwan, Usman Dan Fodio justified “the legality of fighting those among the learned, the students, and the masses who aid the Unbelievers and the legality of fighting those who neglect to put themselves under the authority of a Muslim ruler” (Zahradeen, Abd Allah ibn Fodio’s Contribution, p. 30). At this time, the status of Muslims in neighboring Borno was specifically in dispute. When the supporters of the jihad destroyed the Borno capital at Ngazargamu and lay waste a considerable district around the capital, they also enslaved many people who could not flee. The experience of Ali Eisami reveals the extent of destruction at this time. Son of a Muslim cleric, Ali attended quranic school until he was eleven. Yet he was enslaved in 1808 when the jihad forces sacked the Borno capital (Smith, Last, and Gubio, “Ali Eisami Gazirambe,” pp. 206–209). Shehu Muhammad al-Kanemi, who rallied Borno against the jihad after 1808, accused the Sokoto leadership of hypocrisy on the slavery issue, elaborating on the arguments of Islamic scholarship, including the views of Usman Dan Fodio himself, to demonstrate the illegality of enslaving the inhabitants of a Muslim country.11 Since Borno was a Muslim country, al-Kanemi asked Bello: “Tell us therefore why you are fighting us and enslaving our free people?” (Hodgkin, Nigerian Perspectives, p. 262). Between 1808 and 1812, al-Kanemi staged a series of counterattacks on Sokoto territory that delivered a punch in the diplomatic offensive against the jihad regime. Strained relations prevailed between Borno and Sokoto thereafter, with open war erupting again in 1826–1827. SOKOTO AND THE ABOLITION OF THE TRANSATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE

The caliphate specifically banned the sale of slaves to Christians, and this law predated any possible direct influence from the British aboli-

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tionist movement or the European Enlightenment more generally. In Infaq al-maysur (1812), Muhammad Bello condemned the “Yoruba” (i.e., Oyo) for selling slaves to Christians: “The people of this land would get captured slaves from our land here and they would sell them to the Christians. . . . I have mentioned this so that you should not purchase a Muslim slave if someone captures such a slave and brings him to you.”12 Moreover, Abdullahi interpreted the commercial law on slave sales through verse in order to reach the rank and file of the jihad movement. In 1824, Bello reiterated the prohibition to Clapperton, who learned that “their own Law . . . forbids them to sell their Slaves to Christians” (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 775). Writing in the 1830s, al-Hajj Umar Tall was equally clear: “To sell Muslim slaves to the Europeans or to others, is totally prohibited” (Jah, “Effect,” p. 239). The Sokoto ban on slave sales was implicitly and explicitly directed at the transatlantic slave trade, as the evidence given in this chapter establishes, and for religious reasons. As a result, Muhammad Bello was willing to reach an agreement with Britain to abolish the external slave trade to the coast. Despite the official prohibition on slave sales, a significant proportion of enslaved Muslims from central Sudan were exported from the Bight of Benin in the decades after the beginning of the jihad in 1804. Elsewhere, I have estimated that 75,000–125,000 slaves from central Sudan were sent to the Americas, especially Bahia, in the first half of the nineteenth century, and most of these would have left in the three decades after the start of the jihad (Lovejoy, “Central,” pp. 361–362). At the height of this trade, as reported by Clapperton in 1824, “the greater part of the young Male Slaves [for sale in the Central Sudan] are carried down and disposed of in the Bight of Benin” (Clapperton to Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 774). A collection of 108 biographical sketches of slaves from central Sudan in the first half of the nineteenth century supports Clapperton’s observation; 95 percent of the exported slaves in the sample were males, almost all of whom were young adults. Moreover, most of these young men appear to have been Muslims. 13 Bello’s willingness to abolish this trade was consistent with his earlier criticisms of illegal enslavement and sale. The disruptions of the jihad fed the slave trade after 1804, and Muslim traders were heavily involved. In 1816, according to Simon Cook, editor of Robert Adams’s journal, reports from Lagos noted that Hausa merchants “still came down to that mart, though in smaller bodies” than before 1807 (R. Adams, Narrative, pp. xxxxvii–viii).14 The resident Muslim population included “a number of Haussa Mallams”

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who in 1830 followed their master, Oba Adele, into exile at Badagry. These slaves, who had been owned by Adele’s father, were “supporting themselves by trading for slaves which they sell to Europeans” (Hallet, Penetration of Africa, n. 44). 15 How long these Muslims had been active in the trade is unclear. In Dahomey, the accession of Ghezo in 1818 ushered in a period of active trade with Muslim merchants. Initially, Dahomey looked to Oyo and its links with the north, but after 1823 attention was directed at the Bariba towns (Law, “Islam,” pp. 102–103). The full extent of Muslim commercial involvement in the transatlantic trade is the subject of ongoing study, but by the early 1820s, at least one Hausa merchant was trading directly between Bahia and the Bight of Benin. Known by his Portuguese name, Francisco da Rocha lived in Pilar parish in Bahia, where he had freed himself from slavery and married a Hausa woman (Silveira) whom he probably freed, but apparently not her children. Da Rocha carried on an active trade in slaves and other goods with Lagos, even traveling there himself. Details of his affairs are reported in his 1830 will (Nishida, Gender, pp. 43–44). Although his connections in Lagos are not yet clear, his knowledge of Hausa would have been useful in trade with Muslim merchants from the Sokoto caliphate. As this evidence suggests, there appears to have been a network of Muslim commerce that stretched from central Sudan to Bahia, as well as an enforced movement of enslaved Muslims along the trade routes of this same network. Bello’s own account indicates that the Sokoto government was fully aware of this trade, and Clapperton even thought that “Bello exacts an annual Tribute from the Traders for permission to carry those unfortunate Beings down to the Coast” (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 774). Clapperton did not explain the apparent contradiction between the caliphate prohibition and this “tribute,” unless Clapperton was mistaken in confusing efforts to restrict the trade to the coast with the general tax on caravans. Whether or not the caliphate was taxing the slave trade, Muhammad Bello revealed a willingness to suppress the transatlantic portion of the trade, which is unsurprising unless it is assumed that he was as ignorant about the transatlantic route as contemporary Europeans were about the course of the Niger. Official discussions between Bello and Clapperton lasted several months, resulting in a preliminary accord that abolished the transatlantic slave trade in exchange for various concessions and a promise of arms, ammunition, and other goods. As Clapperton reported:

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I remained with Bello nearly three Months, and from a daily intercourse with this Prince I am thoroughly convinced that he is sincere in his wishes for a friendly footing with England; Indeed I cannot speak too highly of this excellent Man, whom,—should he live and the Government here feel disposed to cherish a friendly Relation with him,—would be able, with very little assistance from us, to put an End to that detestable Traffic in Slaves, by opening to him a free and uninterrupted Passage to the Sea Coast, from which he is now no more than ten days distant. (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 773)

Clapperton’s concerns about whether Bello would live were unwarranted, although Clapperton could not really have known whether Bello could have stopped the export of slaves from his domains. However, as a naval officer with experience from Canada to the Sahara, Clapperton was not prone to exaggeration. Moreover, Bello seems to have fully understood the significance of British abolitionist measures. Clapperton believed that “the sultan could easily prevent all slaves from the eastward passing through Haussa and Nyffee” (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney, Narrative, vol. 2, pp. 342–343, 348). Bello asked whether or not “the King of England would send him a consul and a physician, to reside in Soudan, and merchants to trade with his people,” given his opposition to the slave trade. The implications of appointing a British consul at a port in Sokoto territory were also clearly understood: “it would be the consul’s duty to see that engagement [to abolish the slave trade] faithfully fulfilled.” Bello not only agreed, but he told Clapperton: “I will give the King of England,” says he, “a place on the coast to build a town: only I wish a road to be cut to Rakah, if vessels should not be able to navigate the river.” I asked him if the country he promised to give belonged to him? “Yes,” said he: “God has given me all the land of the infidels.” This was an answer that admitted of no contradiction. (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney, Narrative, vol. 2, pp. 342–343, 348)

Bello meant a port on the Niger River itself, not the coast, and a “road” would have replaced the existing route from Raka to Porto Novo, Badagry, and Lagos. According to Bello, “Fundah [Panda] is the name of the place where the Quarra [Kwara, i.e., “Niger” in Hausa] enters the sea, during the rainy season; and that Tagra [Atagara, i.e., Idah], a town on the sea-coast, where many Felatahs reside, is governed by one of his subjects, a native of Kashna [Katsina], named Mohamed Mishnee” (p. 353). 16 Panda, the capital of Koton Karfe, was located near the

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confluence of the Niger and Benue Rivers, whose floodplain was inundated during the rainy season, creating the “lakes of Nupe.” The combined rivers flowed south through hills whose identity had mystified European geographers for a century or more. Bello insisted that “a total stop should be put to the Traffic immediately” (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 775). He expressed his views in an official letter to King George IV, dated Ramadan 1, 1239 (April 18, 1824). In desiring to promote a “friendly relation,” Sokoto would henceforth “prohibit the exportation of slaves by our merchants to Atagher [Atagara, i.e., Idah, on the Niger], Dahomi [Dahomey], and Ashantee.” Bello informed George IV that there had been an agreement “on account of the good which will result from it, both to you and to us” (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney, Narrative, vol. 2, p. 420). This translation suggests that the trade to intermediary states was also abolished, although only Idah, Dahomey, and Asante are specifically mentioned. At this time, caliphate trade passed through these three states and no longer through Oyo, with which the caliphate was at war. In 1824, moreover, Idah was trading heavily with Bonny, although merchants appear to have gone to Lagos as well. Despite the intention of the Bello-Clapperton accord, could Sokoto, however sincere, actually have implemented a prohibition? Bello assured Clapperton that “he was able to put an effectual stop to the slave trade” (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney, Narrative, vol. 2, p. 367), and Clapperton thought this could be achieved with “very little assistance” from Britain. The means would be through opening to him a free and uninterrupted Passage to the Sea Coast, from which he is now no more than ten days distant; By doing this he would disperse those Gangs of Slave Dealers, who dwell in that short distance from the Bight of Benin, receiving whole Kofilas [caravans] of Slaves from the interior of Soudan. (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, p. 773)

In Clapperton’s assessment, “With regard to the Foreign Slave Trade, I should think that through our intercourse with Bello there is a fair opportunity of cramping, if not totally abolishing, this nefarious traffic” (Clapperton to R. Wilmot Horton, June 6, 1825, in Bovill, Missions, p. 775). The Bello-Clapperton agreement was tied to military, commercial, and technical concessions. Bello wanted arms and ammunition and regular trade to maintain supplies; he “dwelt much on receiving in return cloth, muskets, and gunpowder” (Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney,

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Narrative, vol. 2, p. 367). Clapperton promised that Britain would send a ship to “the harbour of Racka [Raka] with two cannons, and the quantities of powder, shot, &c. which they require; as also, a number of muskets.” We will then send our officer to arrange and settle everything with your consul, and fix a period for the arrival of your merchant ships; and when they come, they may traffic and deal with our merchants. Then after their return, the consul may reside in that harbour (viz. Racka), as protector, in company with our agent there, if God be pleased. (p. 420)

Perhaps because of the northern connection, Raka sided with Ilorin in the revolt against Oyo in the 1820s and thereby was recognized as a possible port for British ships. Raka was destroyed in the late 1820s and replaced by a series of other river ports, most notably Raba in the early 1830s, which was the key port until its destruction in 1844–1845. Bello told Clapperton, “Let me know the precise time, and my messengers shall be down at any part of the coast you may appoint, to forward letters to me from the mission, on receipt of which I will send an escort to conduct it to Soudan” (Bovill, Missions, p. 136). Hence, before leaving Kukawa for Tripoli, Clapperton wrote to Bello that he would be at Oujda in July 1825 and that he expected messengers would be there to meet him (p. 140). In fact, Bello never received Clapperton’s letter (p. 211). Given the tension between Borno and Sokoto, this interruption in communication is perhaps not surprising, and in any event Clapperton was unable to reach Oujda before December 1825. Nonetheless, the Clapperton-Bello exchange demonstrates that Muslim governments might well have had their own reasons for abolishing the slave trade. BRITISH INTERVENTION AND THE TRANSATLANTIC TRADE

According to Boahen, abolition was not the primary reason for British interest in the Sahara and Sudan, which may explain why the accord reached by Bello and Clapperton was never ratified in London (Britain, pp. 55–56). Determining the course of the Niger River and the establishment of British trade in the interior took precedence over the suppression of the slave trade. The British consul in Tripoli, Colonel Hamer Warrington, took advantage of the renegade status of Pasha Yusuf Qaramanli (1795–1830), who had asserted his independence from the Ottoman Porte, to finance or otherwise promote expeditions

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across the Sahara in the quest to locate the outlet of the Niger. The pasha provided a military escort for Dixon Denham, Clapperton, and James Oudney in the hope that a British alliance would lead to a flow of credit and the sale of military hardware. In 1822, Tripoli was already deeply involved in the politics of central Sudan, even nurturing imperial ambitions. According to Kola Folayan, Qaramanli supported al-Kanemi as a first step in establishing an empire south of the Sahara (Tripoli, pp. 71–72).17 Major Denham accompanied several expeditions that caught slaves, including one that successfully defeated a Bagirmi force, resulting in the enslavement of many people. British arms are credited with making the difference; William Hillman had built the carriages on which the Borno cannon were mounted, and Denham had supervised the manufacture of cartridges for the Borno guns (Bovill, Missions, vol. 3, p. 412). Otherwise, British support was not necessarily effective but was nonetheless present. In southern Mandara, for example, the combined Tripoli-Borno force faced a Fulani contingent loyal to the caliphate and was heavily defeated. Denham, who had accompanied this expedition as well, lost even the clothes he was wearing and very nearly his life (Denham to Warrington, May 15, 1823, in Bovill, Missions, vol. 4, pp. 555–559). One unintended result, perhaps, was confirmation that Borno was relying on foreign troops and British weapons, which must not have been welcome news in Sokoto. In both campaigns, the Tripoli forces clearly intended to seize slaves, which specifically violated the instructions of the British mission. Their participation in military campaigns in the African interior involving enslavement might have proven embarrassing to the British government, but abolitionists either did not notice or were not yet concerned. Although the actions of the British mission compromised abolitionist principles, the association with Tripoli guaranteed the safety of travel across the Sahara and provided the necessary introduction to the governments of both Borno and Sokoto. Such participation and support inevitably conflicted with the thrust of British abolitionist thought. The official accounts of the mission indicate that involvement in slaving activities was incidental to the main purpose of the British venture, but Denham, Clapperton, and Oudney were less than candid about what they knew of the intentions of Yusuf Qaramanli. They certainly must have known that Tripoli was recruiting a slave army through capture. They may have cast their personal observations in antislavery rhetoric to minimize their own complicity. Far from being principled, the British mission supported enslavement out of expediency. The close relationship

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between the British consulate and the Tripoli government overlooked the contradiction inherent between British abolitionist policy and Tripoli’s intention of military recruitment through slavery. In this context, officials of the British mission discussed abolition with the governments of both Borno and Sokoto. As we have seen, the Bello-Clapperton accord, had it been ratified, would have committed both Sokoto and Britain to the abolition of the slave trade from central Sudan. What were these discussions of abolition supposed to have entailed, considering the activities of the Tripoli regime, the support of British agents in acts of enslavement, and the official correspondence between Bello and al-Kanemi? What was the commitment of al-Kanemi and Bello to abolition, when the consolidation of their power resulted in the continued enslavement of political opponents? Muslims may have questioned the legitimacy of enslavement, but once again expediency and political issues won the day. Rather than receive an escort into the interior, as Bello had promised, Clapperton faced a distinctly cold reception in 1826. He had to arrange for his own transport to Kano at considerable expense, even though “Bello had promised to have 2 Fellatahs as escort & people ready at the sea side to carry a letter up for me and to bring me and my baggage up to Sokoto but I found no one.” Every country through which I had come was at war with the Fellatahs; that even at Niffe in the territory of the Magia [Majia, etsu of Nupe] who the Fellatahs were assisting I had not—though I had given him a large present—received the least assistance and only for my paying a 100£ to an Arab merchant to carry my things to Kano I might have been there yet.18

Clapperton was confused about the situation in Nupe. The “territory of the Magia” was now in the control of Malam Dendo, after the defeat of Majia in the battle of Ilorin (1824–1825). Majia had sided with Oyo in an attempt to subjugate the increasingly autonomous Muslim city, which was firmly committed to the jihad. The “Fellatahs” supported Malam Dendo, not Etsu Majia. By the time Clapperton reached the interior, Majia was in exile in Kamberi territory to the north of Nupe, and Malam Dendo was in power at Raba (Mason, Foundations, p. 27). Dendo’s capital at Raba, located on the Niger River, became the focus of trade and emerged as a rival to Raka across the river. According to Mason, Dendo was committed to the development of the river route, whereas Majia had favored the overland route from Raka to Oyo and the coast (p. 27).

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Unfortunately for Clapperton, the first British mission to central Sudan had become involved in the military exploits of Borno, which seriously compromised the second British expedition to Sokoto. In 1822–1825, Borno and Sokoto had been at peace, although the bitter exchange between al-Kanemi and Bello over the activities of the jihad forces in Borno indicates that the truce was uneasy. When Clapperton returned to the caliphate in 1826, Borno and Sokoto were at war, and British arms were being used by Borno against Sokoto. Clapperton insisted on the right to travel to Borno despite the hostilities, and in so doing he further compromised any diplomatic immunity he may have thought he had. His entourage was ordered from Kano to Sokoto; his baggage for Borno was found to contain arms and ammunition that would no doubt have been used against Sokoto (Lockhart, Clapperton, p. 224). This embarrassment, in the wake of the earlier military assistance, still might have been overcome, but further negotiations to confirm the Sokoto-British accord on abolition and commerce were terminated. Indeed, Clapperton, the vice-consul designate, and the medical doctor all died, and only Clapperton’s servant, John Lander, survived to tell the tale. Bello’s commitment to abolition was both ideological and pragmatic. He was committed to the consolidation of the jihad and the prohibition against the enslavement of free Muslims and the sale of enslaved Muslims to Christians. However, he continued to prosecute a war that resulted in the enslavement of many people, some of whom, at least, claimed to be Muslims. Ultimately, the tentative moves toward partial abolition that emerged in Bello’s writings, the debate with al-Kanemi over “just” enslavement, and the negotiations with the British came to naught. From the perspective of the caliphate, especially as articulated by Bello, the concern over the rights of Muslims was comparable to the European preoccupation with the “rights of man.” In the European debate, the attack on the transatlantic slave trade also contained its own contradictions that protracted the movement to end slavery. The increasingly racialist arguments that were subsequently imposed seriously limited the effectiveness of the antislavery movement as a humanitarian endeavor. Similarly, Bello’s concerns about the enslavement of and the trade in Muslims reveal a fundamental contradiction in the jihad movement that prevented its vision of partial abolition from being fully realized. How was it possible to determine who was a Muslim and therefore subject to the protection of the Islamic state? The issue was not settled, and the export of slaves to the Americas continued.

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RESTRICTIONS ON THE CALIPHATE SLAVE TRADE

By the early 1830s, if not earlier still, caliphate authorities were inspecting caravans traveling to North Africa. They were looking for Muslims who had been wrongly enslaved. According to the Tuareg caravan khabir (leader), Cheggueun, who traded between North Africa and the caliphate in the early 1830s, merchants had to establish in public that they were not trading in enslaved Muslims. The caravan was first inspected in Katsina. Each section, “as it passed through the gate . . . was searched by the chaouchs (guardians) of Mohammed Omar who had been given the task of ascertaining that we were not carrying off either Fulanis or Negroes who were Muslims or Jews [i.e., craftsmen].” The caravan was searched again at Tassaoua and in Damergu, to the north of Katsina. After leaving Katsina, Cheggueun’s caravan was still subject to the decrees of Muhammad Bello. Even though the territory through which the caravan passed was “inhabited by black Muslim Touareug, the chiefs had to make sure that the returning caravans do not carry with them Foullanes [Fulani] or black Muslims as slaves” (Daumas and de Chancel, Le grand désert, p. 231). The law was clearly being enforced at these checkpoints. According to Cheggueun, the purchase of Fulani, pregnant Negresses, and black Jews [Nègres juifs] is strictly prohibited by the order of the sultan. The purchase of Fulani is forbidden because they claim to be white, pregnant Negresses because the child who is born will be the property of the sultan if he is an idolator and will be free if he is a Muslim; Jewish Negroes because they are all jewellers, tailors, useful artisans or indispensible intermediaries in commercial transactions; for under the skin, in the Sudan, in the Sahara and along the coast, Jews everywhere have the same instincts and the twin gifts of language and commerce. To prevent cheating, no caravan leaves the Hausa country without the slaves having been closely examined and the same is done at Tassaoua, at Damergu, at Agades, with the Tuareg, where [Muhammad] Bello has agents (oukils) charged with the same task. A merchant who contravenes his orders exposes himself to the confiscation of all his merchandise. (Daumas and de Chancel, Le grand désert, p. 244).

Daumas and Chancel must have misunderstood whatever Cheggueun told them about “Nègres juifs.” There was no Jewish population of merchants and artisans in central Sudan; rather these occupations were almost entirely in the hands of Muslims. The reason people with commercial and craft specialization were not supposed to enslaved was because such people were inevitably Muslims, not Jews.

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At Damergu, the authorities searched the tents of the merchants because “some of their own people, they told us, had been carried off by horsemen from Zinder and no doubt sold at Katsina where we might have bought them.” Two men were recognized and then released. As Cheggueun observed, “for the owners of the slaves it was a real loss.” One merchant from Ghat was caught with a Fulani slave, “who was immediately recognized and set at liberty.” “How is it that you have bought this man?” said the chief of the chaouchs. “He is a Muslim, he is your brother in religion. Like you he recognizes only one God. Do you not know our laws? Could you not have recognized him by his color?” The foolish man objected that having bought him during the night, he had been deceived and that the next day he had not been able to find the person who had sold him to him. Despite these clever denials he had to pay a fine of fifty douros [silver dollars]. Moreover, he was very lucky not to have had his merchandise confiscated and then been put in prison, but his good faith, whether genuine or pretended, saved him from this plight. (p. 268)

Given the extensive grid of trade routes, it would have been easy for individual traders or small caravans to bypass such outposts but not as easy for merchants buying slaves from the caliphate government or traveling in the large caravans that characterized the main trade routes. Whether slaves were routinely inspected to identify free Muslims on the southern routes to the coast is not clear. Certainly the Niger route was not policed well, as contemporary reports attest. British assistance very well might have been welcomed. After returning from pilgrimage and settling in Sokoto in the early 1830s, al-Hajj Umar Tall issued a report condemning the external slave trade of the caliphate. In Risalat shawa al-habib ila Ibrahim al-labib, he described improper practices that resulted in the enslavement of people through “legal” proclamations. In his view, “no one can be more ignorant and arrogant than sinful and criminal people who legalize enslavement of free people by an act of fatwa.” Umar specifically condemned the continuation of the transatlantic slave trade, even though it was “totally prohibited,” but despite this prohibition, people who pretend to be knowledgeable, let alone the ignorant are still competing in this hated transaction . . . worse still we do not see anyone condemning it, nor is there any one from among the ‘ulama’ or the amirs, trying to put an end to this illegal practice. They act as if it were no longer obligatory upon them to do so. (Jah, “Effect,” p. 239)

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By 1835, Umar had become a close confidant of Muhammad Bello, even marrying his daughter Mariam (Robinson, Holy War, pp. 102–108). His comments on the continuation of the transatlantic trade indicate that Bello’s abolitionist policies had been implemented but not successfully enforced. At least Umar did not think so. Nonetheless, a shift in the slave trade appears to have begun in the 1830s (Mason, 34–35). Whereas previously there was an extensive movement of slaves southward, thereafter most slaves appear to have been sold north. Hence in 1833 or 1834, a caravan from Ghadames and Ghat purchased 3,000 slaves in Nupe who might otherwise have gone south (Daumas and de Chancel, Le grand desert, pp. 199–247). By the late 1830s, the Nupe wars continued to generate large numbers of slaves, and much of the west bank of the Niger River below the confluence had been depopulated. Throughout the 1830s, Muslim traders from central Sudan maintained their position in the trade to the coast. As Samuel Ajayi Crowther reported in 1844: all the Mohamedans learn to understand and speak the Hausa language and through it the Koran is explained and interpreted in their mosques throughout Yoruba [country]. So that from Lagos, Badagry, and Porto Novo, and upwards to the Niger, where Mohamedans are found, the Hausa is spoken by them. (Adamu, Hausa Factor, p. 129)

The use of Hausa reflected not only the extent of Muslim commerce but also the relative ease of communication between the interior and the coast. In this context, the naval expedition to the Niger in 1841 displayed a shift in British policy. Under the inspiration of Thomas Fowell Buxton, the expedition attempted to “open” the Niger River for “civilization, commerce and Christianity” and thereby sought to establish firm relations with the non-Muslim governments along the lower Niger and also establish a permanent settlement and model farm near the confluence of the Niger and the Benue Rivers. Whereas abolition had been secondary to the British missions of the 1820s, Buxton hoped to undermine the external slave trade by encouraging local agricultural production for export, even using slave labor if necessary. The mission’s settlement at Lokoja, founded seventeen years after the Bello-Clapperton accord of 1824, eventually emerged as the port for Sokoto-British trade, but its location at the confluence was in the disputed and virtually deserted territory on the west bank of the Niger River, not the flourishing port that Raka had been in the mid-1820s. Lokoja was eventually

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incorporated into the Nupe emirate of Bida after the destruction of Raba in 1845, so that when the site became a permanent settlement, it was in the caliphate and therefore fulfilled the position for which Raka had been designated in 1824 (Mason, Foundations, pp. 60–61). The decline in the southern trade appears to have reflected the collapse of Brazilian demand for adult male slaves from central Sudan, especially after official abolition in 1831, although the slave trade to Bahia continued through the 1830s and 1840s (Eltis, Economic Growth, p. 199). However, after the Malé uprising in Bahia in 1835, there appears to have been reluctance to proceed with, if not an outright ban on, the importation of Muslims. Hausa and other Muslims had been involved in a series of revolts and disturbances in Bahia before 1835, but the Malé uprising appears to have been significantly different in its scale and direction. The slaves responsible for this revolt were subjected to extreme repression thereafter. At the public trial that followed the revolt, Muslims revealed, both through their testimony and their denials, that Hausa, Nupe, Borno, and Yoruba Muslims had perpetrated the conspiracy. Many rebels were executed, imprisoned, or deported to the Bight of Benin. The collapse of the Bahian market did not end the trade; instead, Spanish slavers from Cuba picked up the slack.19 Slaves continued to be sent overland to Lagos or purchased on the Niger, but apparently not as extensively as in the previous three decades. CONCLUSION

Partial perspectives and situated knowledges are aptly demonstrated in British efforts to establish diplomatic relations south of the Sahara in the wake of the Napoleonic adventure in the Middle East.20 The difficulty of incorporating new information is apparent. Despite the clarity of the geographical information, the informed British public was slow to accept the facts of where the Niger River reached the coast of Guinea. The broad details of the Niger River’s flow were known in Britain and elsewhere in Europe at least since the 1780s, if not earlier still. This geographical knowledge was certainly known in learned Islamic circles for centuries. For European “scientific” circles, however, “confirmation” of its course, including its termination in the “sea,” required “European” observation, clearly an early manifestation of racism. The Niger question remained a subject of dispute, although no one doubted that the Sokoto caliphate and Borno were closer to the Guinea

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coast than to Tripoli. Reports of the “lakes of Nupe” had been widespread for years, but still there was doubt, even among the members of the British mission. 21 Although Denham remained unconvinced, Clapperton and Oudney realized that confirmation had to be secured in the Sokoto caliphate, not Borno.22 Influential English geographers and publicists, especially Barrow, refused to believe the early reports. Hence theories that had no basis in fact still influenced policy until 1830.23 In discussing the abolition of slavery, the racial component of British policy should be highlighted for further discussion. Knowledge had to be processed, and it was done in racial terms. Situated knowledges, as Donna Haraway has argued, arise out of partial perspectives, whether determined by gender or other factors associated with the subaltern or the non-European. Knowledge is situated within a particular discourse, which may reveal incomplete and inaccurate perspectives. Hence the European debate over the flow of the Niger River affected policy and actions, differentially even within the various spheres of British influence. Interpretations of geographical information changed, but the course of the Niger did not. In addition, Muslims were preoccupied with religious issues that arose from an entirely different tradition within West Africa. Hence debate over matters of slavery assumed a different form arising from a perspective that envisioned the methods for the amelioration of slavery in an Islamic context. These differences in perspective expand consideration of the slavery debate beyond the Eurocentric. Sokoto abolition reduced neither enslavement nor the incidence of slavery in central Sudan. Quite the opposite, slavery remained a key institution of the caliphate until the early twentieth century. Rather, Sokoto abolition was directed at the protection of Muslims and prohibition on the sale of slaves, especially Muslims, to Christians. Although British policy emphasized abolition and the suppression of the slave trade off the West African coast, British officials cooperated with regimes in North Africa and in the central Sudan whose interests in abolition related to religious issues far different than the humanitarian sentiments of the white abolitionists of Britain and North America. The Bello-Clapperton accord reveals another perspective on the course of abolition—the Muslim dimension. The impact of the Islamic discourse on Western thought may have been marginal, but the effects on diplomatic history were important nonetheless. British policy was as mixed as that of Sokoto and Borno. In these cases, abolitionist ideology was employed, but its practical application permitted the continuation

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of slave raiding. The British mission excused its support of enslavement as expedient in the interest of “scientific” observation. For Bello and alKanemi, abolition was desirable with respect to Muslims, but not always under the conditions of war. Shaikh Usman Dan Fodio was indeed a contemporary of William Wilberforce, as Fisher reminds us, and Muhammad Bello was a contemporary of Buxton, both of whom emphasized economic and social development. Abolition and commercial “progress” found proponents in both Britain and the caliphate. Attitudes toward the emancipation of slaves were another matter, however. Inevitably, seeing events through the distorting lens of European diplomats presents problems, which is one reason why it is fortunate to have so much documentation in Arabic and other languages. The difficulties are compounded when European diplomats are perceived as “explorers,” and scientists are referred to simply as “travelers.” The incomplete and often inaccurate information of the period can disguise historical change. For example, the ignorance of late eighteenth-century geographers in Britain resulted in a preoccupation with “discovery.” Hence the search for the outlet of the Niger River was a “European” search; where the Niger flowed was well known in the Nigerian hinterland, of course. Similarly, the Enlightenment review of the morality of slavery was conducted within a European world that had created the plantation economies of the Americas but understood little about the lands from where slaves had come. The Islamic debate over slavery concentrated on religion and enslavement in a different world not generally perceived by European outsiders. British-Sokoto negotiations provide some insight into the relationship of Muslim states to Christian Europe in matters of slavery, however. British abolition came into force in 1807, the same year that the first phase of the Sokoto jihad reached its conclusion, and Borno resistance, under Muhammad al-Kanemi, repulsed the jihad armies. The issue of slavery was paramount; al-Kanemi defended Borno by arguing that nobody should legally have been enslaved. As the correspondence between al-Kanemi and Muhammad Bello demonstrates, the issue of abolition was a subject of study among people other than those involved in the European Enlightenment. By ignoring other perspectives, the Eurocentric debate tends to marginalize slaves through the construction of an artificial dichotomy between the abolitionist actions of free Europeans and the resistance of enslaved Africans. Such a discourse over the legitimacy of slavery is perceived largely in racial terms. Of course, former slaves and free blacks were influential in the evolution of abolitionist thought, but they

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are often dismissed as pawns of the movement. Rather than authors of their own thoughts, they are assigned the role of victims whose examples of salvation from the barbarities of slavery inspire the political drive to outlaw the slave trade. The heroes (and heroines) of slave studies who resisted through revolt, flight, or more subtle forms of action or inaction are pictured as rebels divorced from their backgrounds. The European abolitionist “movement” and its North American counterpart is often assumed to have opposed the institution of slavery in its entirety, when in fact the initial aims were directed only against the transatlantic component of the trade in slaves, rather than against slavery as an institution. Abolition and the struggle to emancipate slaves advanced in partial stages, geographically specific and variable in time. The British stage involved abolition of the slave trade in 1807, the emancipation of slaves in the Americas and South Africa in 1833, and the abolition of the legal status of slavery in India, Ceylon, and Burma only in 1843–1844. Hence the debate over slavery tended to be relative. Whether opponents of slavery declared themselves ultimately against all forms of slavery everywhere, their actions were directed at particular elements of the slavery curse, not the whole institution. Modern scholarship has tended to concentrate on the partial measures of European abolition without realizing that the focus of research itself reveals a partial perspective isolated from the total setting of the transatlantic world.24 NOTES

1. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the conference, “Rethinking the African Diaspora: The Making of a Black Atlantic World in the Bight of Benin and Brazil,” Emory University, April 17–18, 1998. The research was supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. I wish to thank James Bruce Lockhart for his work on Hugh Clapperton and his many insights into this period of British-caliphate relations. 2. Muhammed Bello, Miftah al-Sadad, quoting Ahmad Baba. I wish to thank John Hunwick for translating this manuscript. 3. Clapperton and Lander met Hausa malams and craftsmen, whom they identified as slaves, in Lagos and Badagry (see R. Lander, Records, p. 259; and R. Lander and J. Lander, Journal, pp. 24–27). 4. John Adams referred to Porto Novo as Ardrah (Allada) because the ruling family had been forced to flee Allada earlier in the century to escape Dahomey (Remarks, p. 78). For Dahomey, see Law, “Islam.” In the 1840s, if not earlier, there were also Muslim slaves in the Dahomey army (Law, “Islam,” p. 107). 5. The Yoruba name for the town was Ogodo/Ogudu, and Raka was the Hausa and Nupe name.

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6. Simon Cook, editor of Robert Adams’s journal, learned about the activities of the Hausa traders from a merchant whom he does not name but who had “resided, at different intervals, a considerable time at the settlement of Lagos, and at other places on the coast of the Bight of Benin” (R. Adams, Narrative, pp. xxxvii–viii). 7. In Tanbih al-ikhwan (1811), Usman Dan Fodio noted the complaints of the Gobir government over the number of people who had joined him at Degel (Hodgkin, Nigerian Perspectives, pp. 244–247). Although slaves were not mentioned in this account, other evidence suggests that enslaved Muslims were part of this exodus. 8. In 1830, the Landers learned that the jihad loyalists had made “an offer of freedom and protection, and other promises of the most extravagant nature” to Hausa and other Muslim slaves in Oyo (Journal, pp. 189–190). 9. This is especially evident in oral testimonies; see various interviews in the Lovejoy/Maccido Collection, Yusufu Yunusa Collection, and Ibrahim Jumare Collection (transcripts and translations available upon request). 10. In Nur al-albab, Usman Dan Fodio condemned the “impious practices which affect this Hausa country, both those which have particularly disrupted it and those which are a general evil.” He claimed that “most of our educated men leave their wives, their daughters and their captives morally abandoned, like beasts, without teaching them what God prescribes should be taught them.” He believed that the education of these dependents in Islam was “a positive duty” (Zahradeen, Abd Allah ibn Fodio’s Contribution, p. 25). 11. According to Louis Brenner, at least twenty letters were exchanged between the jihad leadership and al-Kanemi between 1808 and 1812. Many of the letters are in Bello, Infaq al-maysur (1812); two are translated by Abdullahi Smith and Muhammad al-Hajj (Hodgkin, Nigerian Perspectives, pp. 261–267). Another letter from el-Kanemi to Goni Mukhtar, the leader of the jihad forces in Borno, dated Rabi‘al-Awwil 17, 1223 (May 13, 1808), is in the University of Ibadan Library (Mss. 82/237) and is translated by Brenner (Shehus, pp. 39–41). Also see Last and al-Hajj (“Attempts,” p. 239). 12. I wish to thank Mohamed Kassim for this translation. 13. See, for example, the accounts of d’Andrada, a former government minister in Bahia and author of a geography of Portugal, who interviewed seven Hausa and one Fulani who came from Kano, in 1819 (Drumond, “Lettres,” pp. 203–205) and the biographical sketches in Castelnau, Renseignements. 14. This comment was first published in “The Niger,” in the Times (London), May 18, 1816 (I wish to thank Robin Law for this reference). For an overview of Lagos in this period, see Mann, “World.” 15. Also see Oroge, Institution (pp. 170–172). 16. Atagara is to be identified with Idah; see Lovejoy and Kanya-Forstner, Agents (p. 144, n. 60). 17. Tripoli troops were engaged in military campaigns in Borno in 1819, 1820, and again in 1822–1824. 18. The quotation comes from an unpublished version of Clapperton’s second expedition, which is filed under HMS Brazen, the frigate on which Clapperton sailed from Plymouth to West Africa in August–November 1825; see Admiralty Series 55/11 (Public Record Office). There is no punctuation or

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capitalization in Clapperton’s notes. I wish to thank James Bruce Lockhart for this reference. 19. It is likely that Muslim slaves were taken to Cuba before the collapse of the Bahian trade; see the report of circumcised boys on board the “Prineria” of Havana, as reported for March 1831 (Leonard, Records, p. 71). 20. Although Haraway concentrates on issues of gender, she makes it clear that analyzing the Other exposes other issues; see “Situated Knowledges.” 21. Clapperton wanted to confirm the flow of the Niger River to the south; like Oudney, he believed the Niger flowed into “the lakes of Nupe.” The idea can be traced to an Arab report of “years before,” probably an allusion to early reports to the African Association (Bovill, Missions, p. 108). 22. Also see the letter written by W. Oudney to R. Wilmot, dated Kukawa, July 14, 1823, in which Oudney wrote that he “suspects very much it [the Niger] ends in the lakes at Nyffee” (Bovill, Missions, vol. 3, p. 567). 23. In 1789, Henry Beaufroy, secretary of the African Association, had been told that “Below Guinea is the sea, into which the river of Tombuctoo disembogues itself. This may therefore be considered the prevailing idea at Houssa and Tombuctoo.” Beaufroy’s source was a merchant who had lived in Timbuktu “altogether about 12 years” (Bovill, Niger 4). There is no reason to believe that this was the first source of such information. 24. But see the discussion of gender ideologies and female enslavement in Beckles, Inside Slavery.

15 Wanderings: Bamako, Moscow, Delhi l

al-Hajj Sékou Tall After Bamako, after its hills, clay, and rock piles, I saw and crossed the Sahara. I saw the sprawling sand, the immense carpet of undulating dunes, their shadows ever moving, as if to give shelter from the hammer of the blazing sun. Then it was Tunis-Carthage, 1,400 hours. After fifty minutes on the ground, we were flying again. Below us loomed the Mediterranean, bluer than blue, shimmering with silver from the afternoon sun. At 4:30 P.M., Western time, and 7:30 P.M., eastern time, I saw the fairy-tale spectacle of the sun setting far off in the Western sky, while the moon arose in the East. I saw this spectacle through the windows of the airplane. For a brief moment, it seemed to me, I had crossed the threshold where the Western countries ended and the Eastern ones began. On one side, I saw a purple sheet of water, embossed with orange and yellow markings; on the other, the water’s milky surface scintillated. I saw the sun and the moon, each within their own domain, carefully sizing one another up, as if to say: “Tomorrow, we shall meet again.” As the plane followed its course, the East showed me its many faces. I saw the various towns beneath my path, springing up like wild Reprinted from Tall, al-Hajj Sékou. “Peregrinations: (Bamako—Moscow—Delhi), 1970,” in Écritures d’El Hadjj Tall Sékou, Jean-Claude Naba and Christopher Wise (eds.). Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso: Sankofa, 2001. Translated from the French by Christopher Wise and Karl Steel.

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mushrooms in clusters. I admired their gracious dimensions and contours, which the village lamps illuminated in starry constellations. I saw at 9:30 P.M., eastern time, and 6:30 P.M., Ouagadougou time, I saw . . . I saw Moscow . . . Moscow immensely sprawling in all its boundlessness: 109 kilometers across, someone told me, from one end to the other, that city populated with 9 million souls. By car, I traveled Gorky Street, which runs through the center of the city. Behind me lay Leningrad, then, much further, Stalingrad, where Paulus bowed before Joukov. Before me was Red Square and the Kremlin, which we skirted in circling Moscow, before finally exiting at the Hotel Rossia. My hotel was one of the biggest in the world (6,000 rooms), a gem like so many others in Moscow that amaze travelers and tourists with their extravagance. I saw Moscow; I saw it from the Spaskaya Tower to the summit of the Red Star, ruby red, raised under the great clock, as if to symbolize and immortalize both socialism and the great October Revolution. Thus did I come upon this historic place. The Kremlin, the Congressional Palace, two architectural giants, old and new, with their many delicate carvings of both artistic and practical purpose, expressed the imagination, willpower, and spiritual refinement of those who had conceived and built them. Beside the Kremlin, I saw five majestic cathedrals, rich with splendid colors, rich with revolutionary history. They stood side-by-side, in a ring, with their arcades, their domes and their golden steeples, proclaiming to all the Annunciation and Ascension. For the Russian people, the Kremlin is the chapel of Soviet history. I saw and noted for the occasion the Cathedral of Basil-the-Happy and the Cathedral of Arkanguelsky. I saw there the coffins containing the bodies of all the Russian tsars, except a few buried at St. Petersburg (Leningrad). Their numerous frescoes, works of fine art, conceived by grandly inspired poetic spirits, presented to all visitors the pure images of saints, enshrined with their many exploits, hardships, miseries, and toils. Throughout history, one may also discover and read their hope. Around the Congressional Palace, I saw the prisoners’ cannons recalling Moscova—Iena—the Retreat! . . . I saw the monument of Ivan the Terrible (weight: 200 tons; height: 6 meters). I saw Red Square, not red because of the surrounding buildings with red walls, but red with the red blood of the revolution, reddened with the blood of the “martyrs.” The Mausoleum of Vladimir Ilich Lenin is there too, as imposing as it is fascinating, as majestic as it is rich in memories.

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I saw and read the names associated with these memories. These names, they are nineteen, written in capital letters on a high and white column with pure and fine lines! . . . I read nineteen names! Nineteen philosophers! Nineteen heroes! Nineteen of Lenin’s philosophical allies, from Karl Marx to Kampnella, through Plekhanov, Jaures, Saint-Simon, and Friedrich Engels. They symbolize the battles of socialism. I saw, I saw Pushkin Square and Pushkin’s statue, while crossing Gorky Street. Further on, beside the same street, on the Mayakovsky Place, I saw the monument consecrated to Yuri Dolgoroky, founder of Moscow in 1147. There, also, is the Museum of the Revolution, with all important documents of the revolution. After crossing General Koutouzov Street, I saw the Russian Arch of Triumph, in a style that recalled the French Arc de Triomphe in Paris. It symbolizes the Russian victory over Napoleon. Nearby is the Museum named Borodino’s Panorama. There one will find displays of photographs and paintings reproducing the battle that Napoleon waged against the Russians in 1812 at Borodino, 120 kilometers from Moscow, where General Koutouzov won renown. What did I not see? There were throngs of sparrows before the Lenin monument where, not so long ago, Lenin and his friend Guertzen strolled, reflecting, carefully considering, before finally making important decisions about the future of their country. There are universities (old and new). The old one, with the statue of Appolon, occupied an entire quarter. The new and modern one, immense and imposing, bore the name of Lamonsov University, the first Russian scholar, founder of that institution. There are museums: the Lenin Museum, the Polytechnical Museum. Two names and one statue in honor of revolutionaries held my attention: The name of Kalinin, on the street bearing the same name, who was a famous revolutionary and starosta, or president, and the statue of Dzerzhinski, another famous revolutionary, first commissary of public safety and friend of Lenin. I saw streets named “prospects” or “perspectives,” built by Lenin, with all his hospitals and clinics, science academy, research institutes, and big, packed stores. Not only did I see historical landmarks and other evidence showing the will to build, I also saw amusing entertainment: I saw the circus. I saw there a spectacle performed in honor of the cosmonauts.

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First, there is a rocket that shoots up from the ground to the sky (the tent’s ceiling), to the tune of a shiny saraband and loud, crackling sounds. Then, there’s the black night and, suddenly, up in the pure, starry sky, the trapeze artists are suspended upon invisible lines, imitating with acrobatics and skillful maneuvers the weightless cosmonauts. Like dazzling, white fairies with haggard eyes and open mouths, they float smugly across space. Their oscillations between earth and sky (platform and circus net) are even more terrifying. I saw feats of equilibrium and dizzying somersaults upon a suspended cable, upon the backs of trotting and galloping horses. I saw perilous dances of all sorts. I saw balancing games performed with loafs of bread, balloons, glasses, and liquids upon a stage. The performer tosses them up, successively lifting them from the stage, being first upright on a horse’s rump. The horse trots or gallops at the command of a young girl, who whips him as the performer wishes. I saw an elephant reciting his tables of addition, subtraction, and multiplication. I saw a orchestra made up of four elephants and a monkey. The monkey played castanets while the elephants beat drums with their trunks. The dogs and bears danced. Young people, young girls, dogs, monkeys, elephants—everyone was in the act. The famous comedian Anatolli was not absent from the scene. Lastly, I saw a performance of Swan Lake. The scenery was made by a brush as skilled as those of da Vinci, the varied, colorful ballets were performed as if by fairies. It was spectacular! . . . In the orchestra, more than fifty musicians played airs and ballets, the work of the famous Russian composer Tchaikovsky. An unforgettable evening for me, I carried it home in my suitcase! . . . I saw all that. I saw it. I saw it well! . . . Ah, what did I not see? What can be said about the men and women of Moscow and their doings? I saw the teaming masses, scurrying in haste, jogging, even running, in Moscow. No idlers strolling the sidewalks. No poor folk tossed into the streets or alleyways, their hands outstretched for a pittance. The snow and cold alone would be the death of them. “Even bad things can bring about good!” Everything in movement, everything rolling across the earth and under the earth, across the water and under the water, through the air.

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It was easy to be happy, for I saw only people full of flesh, life, and blood. You could not help but notice their bright eyes, their ruddy and round cheeks. You would see it in the size of their muscles as they moved. You would see it in their appetite. . . . I saw people lined up, men and women, outside restaurants, cafés, theaters, waiting to buy their lunch or show tickets. I saw Muscovites in single-file lines for taxis, cars, and buses. Everything was carefully planned out, as regulated as possible. Nobody gets in the wrong line, even accidentally, or takes the place of another. I saw how precious time is here, how precisely time is coordinated with economic and social development. I saw Moscow. All those who would like to be even more hasty than the Russians in Moscow, who would like to move faster than the Muscovites, will die of hunger and despair in Moscow. These people are more rapid than time, more long-suffering than the earth, more cold than marble. I did not seek to penetrate the minds of the Russians. I went there to drink milk, not to take inventory of the cows that live and graze there. After Moscow, I flew toward the capital of India, New Delhi, about 4,500 kilometers from Moscow, six hours in flight, in an enormous plane carrying 144 passengers. I saw the land of Tagore—I saw the land of Gandhi, of “nonviolence,” and of the Pandit Nehru, who advocated “coexistence,” to “live and let live.” I verified and saw the value of development, the cost of misery, and the scorn of the miserable. I saw and verified the contrast between two giants: Russia and Asia, between two social groups of the same nation, in Asia, and singularly at Delhi. In effect, I saw India, infinite in its faces; infinite in variety; infinite in its arts, in its activities, and in its forms. I saw the India of antiquity, of ancient civilization, where the past and present coincide, interpenetrate, and infuse one another in building for the future. I saw the country of multiple religions where Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma cast their shadow over millions of beings. Here, Jesus and Mohammed are newcomers. I saw the sisters of “Mangala” and of “Al Bella” with their marked foreheads, a sacred mark that a brother once made for his sister, to stave off death from Bahayadouzi. I saw a country where the sacred is respected, where the ambassadors and accolades of disloyalty and perfidy are excluded and banished, where each greeting expresses deep humility, where a handclasp signifies love from the heart, the asking or accepting of forgiveness.

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I saw misery in the faces of the most frightening ghouls: the ragged and wretched elderly, seeking food, crippled, moving their stumps of arms or feet to gain pity, to obtain their goal, their faces wretched with cracks or blisters. I saw the lame dragging their sore-ravaged bodies, ever following you, employing every possible means to get a rupee from you. I saw little girls taking care of their brother or sister, running behind you and clinging to your coat, begging for a pittance to buy an orange or a mandarin. I also saw the little shoeshine boys, their multiple brushes and shoe polish in sacks, chasing behind you. If you said “no,” they threw white shoe polish on your shoes, so you needed their services after all, or they stooped before you, as if to remove their paint. I saw, in the midst of all this, the abundance and scorn of the middle-class Delhians for the misery of their countrymen. Big and fat, pot-bellied, rolling in the rupees, they sit amid 1,001 varieties of silk and drapes, of rubies, agate, marble, and amber. High and mighty, their palaces and chalets scintillate with golden decorations, emitting 1,000 perfumes and odors from incense. They pass their days in happiness, without care for the poor, for they believe that human beings are predestined, irreparably predetermined and thus they should live and die just as they are, without attempting to understand the reasons for their misfortune. Those who seek to better themselves are simply wasting their time. Those who challenge the established order do so against the will of the gods, and so much the worse for them. I saw buildings erected by ancient design, where the vitality of the human spirit is infused among the most diverse forms, the finest sculptures and bas-reliefs, the most subtle arabesques and mosaics. I saw domes, cupolas, and columns, mosques and temples, bizarre arcades, and evocative statues, all mysteriously arranged according to the symbols they represented. I saw all that spoke of cults and cultures: statues, with burning incense and unspeakable images; consoles and carpets; masks of ivory, dirt, and rock; and rings, belts, and pendants. All these things provoked many questions for me because I desired to penetrate the aspirations of these Indian communities, their essence and even quintessence. I saw writings, which were actually drawings. To understand them was a science in itself, requiring patience and much courage. Within and all throughout this multifaceted world, I saw girls and women who seemed like dragonflies in their “sari” dresses, where the tones, colors, and hues are rivaled only by rare sylphs, fairy women, or female djinn, whose voices bring Orpheus to mind.

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Finally, I saw Agra, the city of the Taj Mahal, the jewel of India, the site of our last visit. Agra is the city of the Taj Mahal, that famous monument often called a “poem in marble.” It lies 169 kilometers from Delhi, bordering the Yamuna [River]. The city of Agra bears the name of Agraban from the Hindu era. Skidan-der, Emperor Lodi of the last dynasty of the Afghans, made it his capital. Much later his youngest son, the Emperor Akbar, made it the capital of the Mongol Empire to beautify its splendid monuments; and they are to be found everywhere. From an architectural point of view, the city of Agra reached its peak in the seventeenth century with the youngest son of Akbar, the Emperor Shah Jaham, who built that most famous monument that I saw in the midst of so many others: the Rai Maha, built to memorialize his well-loved wife Muntaz. In 1773, the city of Agra was delivered into the hands of Muslim rulers under the reign of Najaf-Khan. Hindu architecture and central Asian decorations wondrously blend together in the Taj Mahal monument. It took twenty-two years and 20,000 workers to complete this architectural marvel. I entered into this monument. To conclude, I cite the words of one surprised and stupefied tourist who visited Agra: The immediate reaction of the traveler who contemplates the Taj for the first time is that he has at last reached the end of a long journey. The perfect harmony of its architecture evokes an aesthetic pleasure, but at the same time, the traveler is seized by a profound emotion, wholly enthralled by the disturbing atmosphere of that monument, which symbolizes the highest expression of love of a man for a woman. This emotion is further accented when one considers that this man was the Emperor of India and that the woman for whom this immortal monument was built, Arjumand-Banu-Begum, known in history as Mumtaz Mahal, was the niece of the authoritarian Nurjaham, and was even married once before to the nonchalant Jahangir. Usually, such extraordinary beauty is associated with monuments of smaller dimensions. In other words, the grace and charm encountered there is more often met in buildings of much more modest proportions. The Taj Mahal is the exception. The visitor contemplates innumerable plaques of marble that are carved with an incomparable skill, surpassing the imagination and confounding the spirit. One finds one’s self confronted with a giant of the most majestic scale, which nonetheless possesses the grace and elegance in monuments much smaller.

Two rulers lie in two tombs, completely covered by chiseled marble. It is colossal.

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The Indians do not exaggerate when they say, “One must see Agra, if only for a day, and then die.” That night, at ten o’clock, we returned by motorbus [to the airport to catch a plane] for Moscow, where we arrived at nine o’clock [the next morning]. One monument stayed in my memory after leaving New Delhi, the “Trimurti,” or triad of gods, symbol of the great Hindu religion: it symbolized Brahma, creator of beings and of gods; Shiva, the god of destruction; and Vishnu, the god who preserves 410,000,000 Hindus. While visiting the tombs of Gandhi and Nehru, I had chanced upon the scattering of human ashes to the wind and lake, the Indian form of burial. I saw at Delhi herds of cattle, arrogant and macabre. These animals block the roads, sidewalks, public places, and shop fronts. They are content to watch the Hindus die of hunger, while in the sky, high above them, airplanes transport the frozen meat of their sisters, held to be reincarnated beings. The cows of India are fetishes, under the control of the Trimurti, who hold them sacred. They are somber in their allure and comportment. They compound the underdevelopment of this country, where they live and die, not unlike vultures in our own country. THE “INTERLUDES”

Within all these wanderings, instigated by the meeting of Afro-Asiatic Writers, I must note a few “Interludes” that were given for our “refreshment,” so we might “catch our breath,” both for our “diversion” and to divert our attention. We were received for lunch by the president of the Association of Indian Writers at an unusually picturesque hotel, to taste and appreciate typical Indian food. There my history lessons at primary school were verified regarding the onslaughts of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the “marathon” voyages of the English, Portuguese, and Venetians, of whom Vasco da Gama, Ca Da Mosto, Magellan, and so on . . . were the best known “runners,” along those famous routes for “the Indies,” the country of spices and precious gems. The president gorged us with truly succulent dishes with strong spices, even for Indians. Though elderly, this man remained in solid health. He had fought within the ranks of the British army during the

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last two wars. This kept him well-preserved, with his long-standing military habits, giving him the martial carriage of an English soldier. A good-humored talker without equal, he fed us conversation about India during the British occupation, while he kept us eating dish after dish of the most original food, succulent dishes that were peculiarly Indian. Our meal was followed by a reception of Indian writers and academics, especially intended for Africans, where we drank glasses of tea and coffee accompanied by “croquettes.” Our hosts recited for us the history of Indian literature. They also sketched out their perspectives on the future of their literature, vowing to continue our association as fellow artisans involved together in the development of a pure, AfroAsiatic literature for the benefit of both continents. To this end, they urged that we work more closely together, welcoming one another and encouraging exchanges between our students and professors. Then they invited us to speak about our own literary views and the main literary genres of our countries. Despite obvious difficulties and interruptions due to linguistic barriers, which we all deplored, the exchange of ideas was highly satisfying. To speak fully of India and of its spices, I must say that I was a justly rewarded victim of its ingredients. After an extraordinarily copious meal with equally copious spices at the Hotel Agra, I found myself in an awkward spot on the autobus, which was supposed to take us to Delhi (169 kilometers). Somewhat rundown after frolicking about with my friends Mouloud Mammeri of Algeria, Tati Loutard of the Congo, Ratsiféhéra of the Grand Island, Prudencie the Dahomean, and Zinziber Mahomed of Morocco, I was suddenly seized by dizziness and sickness. At once, I slouched down in my seat of the autobus with a dreadful burning sensation in my intestines. My brother Malian Gaoussou Diawara hastened to my aide, guiding me off the bus in search of a remedy for my illness. Upon my request, he conducted me into a store where I might gain access to the toilet. I had diarrhea like a horse. Despite the fact that I evacuated most of the spices I’d eaten, the pain nevertheless persisted. Couched once again in my bus seat, I became nauseous. Thus, I threw up whatever remained from the dishes and spices of Agra. Feeble and trembling, I reclined in my bus seat. An Australian woman, Mrs. Setty Collins, took care of me like a mother cares for her child. Her hand upon my temples and hair, she lavished me with caresses, while soothing the veins of my forehead with her fingers. When the pain that tormented me lessened, she offered me a

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compress and water to swallow, aided by my brother Malian. I was out of danger. This woman with her compresses cared for me for three full days. I concluded from this, that across all the earth’s continents and azimuths, man will always come to the aid of his fellow man; man remains the providence of man. At Moscow, on November 22, we were received by the Friendship Association at the House of Friendship. At this gathering, after sketching out the goals proposed by the association, the president asked us to join his circle, to give our impressions of the Delhi conference, and to tell him about the literary centers of our countries. After Alex La Guma, the South African poet, and Jawa Appronti, the Ghanian writer, it was my friend’s turn, Eustache Prudencie of Dahomey, to recite a few passages from his poem “Because I have black skin, people say . . . ,” which was an unprecedented success at Delhi. This reading raised the issue of negritude, a topic that caused much ink to flow. I found myself in the center of a debate in which my views were closely scrutinized. After a long discussion, many tumultuous questions and disputes followed involving African university students and two Russian students. I was obliged to empty everything in my sack. In any event, it was a lively evening, and these students did not have the final word. As a last resort, my friends Prudencie of Dahomey and Zinziber Mahomed of Morocco tactfully intervened, bringing a conclusion to that unforgettable and instructive gathering. We went our separate ways after being mobbed by photographers. On November 27, it was Radio Moscow’s turn to welcome me for its listeners, in a program especially aimed for the countries of Africa and Asia. The interview focused upon my impressions of the Delhi conference and my Impressions of my visits to Moscow. (This part of my voyage was summarized within the “I saw” section.) After the twenty-sixth, some of our colleagues returned to their countries. They had stayed as long as their governments had allowed them. The Association of Soviet Writers had organized, for the remaining writers, diverse voyages throughout the Soviet Union, according to the inclinations of each individual.

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I found myself once again with my friend Zinziber Mahomed of Morocco, the only Africans in the midst of writers from Japan and Mauritius, before our visit to the far south (Tashkent and Samarkand), a region that is picturesque and rich with ancient history. Mr. Vladlen directed the convoy. Miss Macha and Mr. Volodia, our two guides throughout our stay in the Soviet Union, remained by our sides, as alert as guardian angels. Affable, serious, courageous, and humane, they helped us to love their country because of their willingness to satisfy our daily needs. I will add that Mr. Vladlen, known by all Africans who have studied in the Soviet Union, is a man of substantial and rare qualities. His education and his culture, combined with his magnetic humanism, deepened our love and appreciation for his country. TOWARD UZBEKISTAN: TASHKENT AND SAMARKAND

Ten hours to Moscow [from India], and the taxi drops us off at the Domodevo airport, where planes depart for central Asia. The trip covers 50 kilometers. My vision revels in the two sides of the road we travel. On one side, immense pine forests, squat, bare and gray, whipped by snow; on the other side, clumps of dark green firs, majestic, with haughty leaves combed but not tangled by the long filaments of snow hurried by a harsh and evil wind. These filaments run aground and pile up in long white parallel tufts. Our plane, a superb four-engine turbo reactor, takes off under a gray and somber sky where the sun is hidden by thick clouds of vapor. We pierce this compact layer of clouds and hover over it. A radiant sun shines on us then and dazzles us. Above us a blue, royal, limpid sky grows visible. Below, I regard a fleecy sea of layered clouds, and many appear to me like an immense moving ocean and milky like gray furrows broken in places. Two hours later, we cleave a jarring space that pitches and tips our airplane, while the sun is lost for a while in the mist. A few kilometers from our landing point, we are terribly shaken by an air pocket, and I am seized severely by sickness. Then it is night, and we arrive in Tashkent, capitol of Uzbekistan, 3,300 kilometers from Moscow. It is one o’clock in Ouagadougou, four o’clock in Moscow, and seven o’clock in Tashkent. In the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, or the “city of stone” (Tash

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means “city,” and Kent means “stone”), the highlight of our visit was the Lenin Museum, affiliated with the great museum of the same name in Moscow. It shines with “modernity and modernism” in style and in the luxury of its materials, its tones, and its colors. We penetrate it. To the left, I see, engraved in the wall, the portrait of a young man and a young girl, arms proudly stretched with a martial bearing, pointing out to a group of youths (girls and boys) opposite them with the same bearing as their guides the road to follow under the banner of the red flag. Then, there is the statue of Lenin, where follows in chronological order all the scenes in the life of this man idolized by the socialist revolution. I observe successively images of the days of February 1917, termed the “Bourgeois Revolution,” and the portraits of Lenin haranguing the crowd in a factory, as well as those of his companions in the struggle. A moving scene of the October Revolution captures my attention. I observe there the revolutionaries who, machine-gunned by the police and the army, strew the ground while others flee, haggard, pursued by the junta of repression. Further off, I saw on a wall a portrait of Lenin, made while he was trapped by torturers. The images of Dzerzhinski, Svordlov, Chaomien, Milyutin, Roubnov, Osseryritch Dobrenine, Roussacov, Vladimersky, are there, symbolizing those who inflamed the revolution and the revolutionaries. Across from them, portraits of the trio: Marx, Engels, and Lenin, showing the pride of their heroism, their efforts, and their sacrifices in the national cause. On the second floor, I observe a copy of the office where Lenin worked not so long ago and finally where Gorky spent his last day. Farther off, regalia: masks and flags of mourning that symbolize the end. In visiting the interior of Tashkent, I could see and take note of the tomb of General Abdourakim, the first president of Uzbekistan, and that of the first Uzbekistani soldier to fall in the October Revolution. Not far from this, I bow before the stele erected in memory of the fourteen commissars sent by Lenin to Tashkent, Bouchara, and Samarkand to support Uzbekistan in the revolutionary struggle, all massacred by the gang of “Basmath” in 1919. The roads of Tashkent bear their name. I visited the Uzbekistan party committee and the park created in honor of Yuri Gagarin. After this tour to the edges of sorrow, suffering, and effort borne by

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the people of Uzbekistan for their liberation, progress, and happiness, we were brought into the display room, where we were obliged to oversee and appreciate the finished plans and projects for the future. An ancient portrait of a Uzbekistani woman was attached to the wall. Not so long ago, she was veiled like an Arab woman whose singular traits and attitudes she bore. Finally I see an image of Kalinin, commissar under Lenin, president of the celebration of the Uzbekistani revolution in 1924. To its side, there are portraits of heroes fallen in fields of honor for the national cause. Following this are a series of models created by the students of different technical schools: the Lenin Museum; pavilions dedicated to cotton; a general plan of a village in reconstruction; a plan for drilling, pumping, and refining oil 500 kilometers underwater; an electric station; and finally, a model of the city of the future. We are shown a chart of cotton exports, the pride of Uzbekistan in its tons of production (4,670,000 tons in 1970). The centers of mineral production reveal to us the region’s different resources: gold, coal, oil, gas, chemical products, and marble of all sorts. Rice, silk, and sheep and all their products are not neglected. Creations in leather, skins, and silk are there, tempting us to buy them. Twenty-two institutes of scientific research are onsite to promote the full output, in quantity and quality, of agriculture, livestock, and industry; in short, the national economy. To close this chapter, a film on culture and folklore, varied in tone and color and in chanted rhythms and dances gave us a sample of pleasure of living with the stars and singers of Uzbekistani dance and song. Let us announce that three years ago, Uzbekistan endured a horrible earthquake: eight deaths and 30,000 people without shelter, wounded, living through the winter, the catastrophic results of the tremors. The reconstruction in standardized, modern materials is almost finished, and the city has all the allure of the most modern cities of this century. TOWARD SAMARKAND, THE FAMOUS LAND OF TAMERLANE, ALIAS TIMUR DECEMBER 1, 1970

A one-hour flight, 350 kilometers from Tashkent, in a two-engine plane carrying 60 second-class passengers. Through a huge mist, only the light of a million hanging lamps informs me that I am flying over an immense city.

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For a long time, it seems to me that we are traveling on a vast blue ocean, a uniform blue enclosed by a horizon with the appearance of fire, yellows and reds thrown by the rising sun. High up, a pure sky pierced by lingering stars, from which bursts a colorless light. From time to time, glimmers of light spread across our route reveal to me the presence of some city or some country hamlet. Then the sky is covered in compact clouds, black, traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly, our airplane finds itself caught between two blue seas, one calm and smooth, which dominates, and the other agitated, which hangs over us. This lasts approximately five minutes, before a succession of continuous layers of gray clouds and layers of black clouds all run and overlap above us, traveling in the opposite direction. At another time, the sun dissipates the mist, allowing me to see through and distinguish details, villages and fields, trails and forests. Then we hang over an area of calm sea where black water and milky water alternate, and the sky appears serene and limpid. I survey the mountains, which I contemplate in all their contours, their details, their slopes and peaks, their valleys and indentations. The airplane, it also goes up or goes down, floating or pitching, following the caprices of the mountains or air pockets that strike us. Here is Samarkand, royally spread out beneath a multitude of hills, slopes, and rocks, last foothills of Mount Pamir. This is the country of Timur the terrible and the famous Tamerlane. From the Zarapchan hotel, we go to visit the city, its mausoleums, and its historic monuments. THE HIGH PLACES OF CULTURE

We began our visit at the observatory of Oulough-Ber, which was built in the fifteenth century by the person whose name it carries, OuloughBer, the grandson of Tamerlane. This observatory dominates the entire village and its environs. It is constructed on a rock surrounded by the foothills of Mount Pamir. Oulough-Ber, we are told, loved culture and centralized all efforts in the development of science, art, letters, and mathematics. He was killed in a plot hatched by a religious sect that feared the observatory. This observatory, here, was rebuilt by the learned Russian astronomer Vashkin, who died in 1932. The tomb of this scholar is on the grounds of the observatory. . . . I saw the consecutive mausoleums where Tukan-Atta, sister of

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Tamerlane, and Chad Mulkaka, his daughter (in the fourteenth century), are interred. After these follows the tomb of general Oustaz Ali of Timur’s army and the tomb of the princess Ouloug Sultan Beguin. One can read in Arabic, “Baghaoul illahi,” which is to say, “God alone remains,” or “Only God is immortal.” I enter a mosque where Koussan Ibn Abasse rests, majestic with its columns, its frescoes, and its arabesques. Then come the monuments sacred to Alicher Novoi and a group of mosques erected in homage to the “Great mother and son,” Bibi Khanum, spouse of Tamerlane. The secrets surrounding the colors given to the stones and the drawings decorating the monuments are unknown, even in our day. A gigantic and astounding group of monuments where the marble runs in torrents, the Gour-Emir protects Timur; his two daughters, Raz Miranchah and Chak-Rouh; his two grandsons, Oulough-Ber and the Emir Zandah Mohamed Sulaniou, the great general of Timur’s army. After Timur died in war with this general, his beloved grandson decided to construct this group for his final rest. He himself joined it later. In this one Mohamed Said Baraka, the spiritual mentor of Tamerlane, was also entombed. We went to visit, crossing the steep and rocky hills named “Chalik,” the foothills of Mount Pamir, the area where the “Stroitiel” (Young Pioneers) camp in the summer. For a distance of more than 20 kilometers, on the abrupt escarpments of the hills, the shelters of the youth are hidden. We made an excursion here to get water to drink and stretch our muscles. Finally, in the town, we go to see a tomb, the one of Emir Mohammed Issa Khan, the uncle of Mohammed Zahir, the current shah of Afghanistan. This dates from the fifteenth century. After a trip rich with astounding discoveries and full of learning, I cannot prevent myself from reflecting and rejoicing in having visited this high place of culture, where human beings labored to better themselves, to better their knowledge and science. This is what I most cherish of my memories of Samarkand and Uzbekistan. “The bright point of the globe,” “the jewel of the Muslim world,” “the oriental Rome”—many are the definitions, each one more ostentatious than the other, given to Samarkand by the geographers, historians, and poets of the past. At Pinstar is the center of an ancient civilization like Babylon, Thebes, or Rome. Samarkand knew debacles well in the course of its

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long history; it was taken by Alexander’s army, conquered by the Afghans, and destroyed by the hordes of Genghis Khan. It was in Samarkand that Timur, “the iron Kharezmien,” better known as Tamerlane, in his ambition to make it the capital of the world, brought together his innumerable armies. But these armies were not its chief glory. The most beautiful pages of Samarkand’s history lie immutably in the names of its geniuses, its writers and artists, as prestigious as Nizami, Luttu, Oulough-Ber, Roumi, Hassidim, Diamohid, Djami, Novoi, Ali, Kouchti, Sakkoki, and Abdourrazak-Samarcandi, Sadriddin. As for the work of its architects, it is a place that still enchants the eye. One could speak of these as an actual city: the most prestigious museum in this group is the Reghistan, a sort of forum surrounded on three sides by a medersa, one for Oulough-Ber, one for Shir-Dor, and one for Tilla Kari. This medersa of Oulough-Ber was built in 1417–1420. Clarity of composition, elegant proportions, design of great distinction, perfect harmony in its colors—all of this makes it possible to speak of classic art. It differs from the others in that it teaches not only theology but also the secular sciences. On the east border of Reghistan stand the majestic ruins of the mosque of Bibi-Khanum, built in 1399–1404. Curiously, scholars have established that the cathedral of Milan is conceived on a similar plan. Another jewel, even still, is the group of the shah. It is composed of important groups of mosques and mausoleums dating from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, all elegant and with an astounding variety of forms. Under the vault of the mausoleum of Gour-Emir, begun in the sixteenth century, lies Timur, the redoubtable conqueror who created an immense empire, the man who ruled in terror over a great part of humanity. Timur hoped that the Gour-Emir would demonstrate the grandeur of the personalities that were to rest there. Nevertheless, the affective presence of this mausoleum does not come from its expense nor from its tomb, but from its simplicity of artistic methods, its sober monumentality of simple forms considered with its marvelous outer skirting. The remainder of the observatory, Oulough-Ber built from 1428 to 1429, equipping it with the most sophisticated technology of his day. All the historic monuments of Samarkand are under the protection of the state. The Uzbekistani government has dedicated millions of rubles to restorations, carried out by methodical plans and erudite procedures. Samarkand is one of the great centers of culture and science and is

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home to the University of Uzbekistan. In addition to the university, in Samarkand one finds superb schools of medicine, agriculture, cooperative teaching, architecture and construction, and pedagogy; several centers of research, technical colleges, professional schools, and other designated establishments; close to eighty schools of general instruction; trade schools; and seventy general and scientific libraries, with a central library containing in excess of 2,000,000 items. The citizens have at their disposal twenty cinemas, three opera houses, a theater of Uzbekistani drama and a theater of Russian drama, two concert halls, seventeen nightclubs, and one of the most ancient museums of history in all of central Asia. But the most extraordinary changes wrought by Soviet power concern public health. More than 2,000 doctors, aides, and other medical attendants ensure Samarkand’s citizens access to free medical assistance in hospitals, clinics, outpatient facilities, and other municipal establishments, professional and scholarly. Such is the face of Samarkand, a city old as well as young, in the valley of Zarapchan, a city with a legendary past, with a radiant beauty in its present. On Monday, December 2, 1970, I left this enchanted land for Moscow, where a plane for my country waited. Passing through a thick storm that rerouted our airplane over three Soviet republics, we arrived at our landing place thanks to the skill of the pilots and also to the trustworthiness and precision of the equipment on board our machine. RETURN TO COLD AND HEAT

Moscow receives us with snow, with a storm, and with cold (10 degrees below zero). I leave Moscow under snow, a storm, and cold for the heat, the radiant, glaring sun. Thus I leave the Soviet capital, on December 2, at 10:15, for Bamako. This is the flight. I am the only black among four Tunisians, a Russian and his wife, a woman I do not know, and her child. The pilots and the stewardesses complete this crew. The airplane quickly eats the 4,500 kilometers that separate us from Tunis. In my exhaustion, my mind refuses to think. I sleep. From sleep I awaken, and I am near Tunis. “Only forty minutes before landing,” says a Tunisian. I was happy to hear him speak French because I had been living in silence since my departure from Moscow, for lack of any interpreter who spoke the same language as I did. The airplane takes to the air again. I find myself here a “king living

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without a kingdom,” alone in a place with fifty-nine vacant seats. The airplane flies for me, and Martianova Raya, a superb Russian maiden, very friendly and attentive, deploring my misfortune, made an effort to deal with me. She transformed three seats of our cabin into a splendid bed that she built up with wool carpet and cushions. She then asked me to sleep in this bed all the while asking me at what hour I would like to take my lunch. It was 4:30. “At six o’clock,” I answered her. Lowering another seat that she covers with a carpet, she asked me to put my feet up, and I was seated across from her. Then she gave me two magazines, Culture and Life, and Soviet Women, which I read while waiting to become sleepy. After half an hour of reading, I go back to my makeshift bed. I then sleep the sleep of the enchanted, so to speak, one eye shut and the other partially closed. I should say that I sleep without really sleeping because, at 12,000 meters in altitude, I think mostly of the ground. During this time, my airplane dares to cross the Sahara. At 5:30, I wake up and think about myself, looking through the airplane window. Where am I going? To the left, a long, large, purple-red band. Above me is a band of the same breadth. Behind me, a mauve band, smoking with storms. Below me, a blue sea, limpid and calm. Above, a clear sky marked with three stars in a vertical line, where the largest and brightest seems to say to all to ready ourselves to meet the king of the desert and of Africa who, several minutes later, presents himself to us round and red, then flaming and dazzling. I am back in the desert. Its sand, its dunes, its stones, and its many landscapes. After the sea of sand without apparent life, after several scattered oases and their peculiar vegetation, my eyes are distracted by the contemplation of landscapes no less captivating. Tower after tower parades under my sight, rocks for a little while compact, black basalt, large and scattered, for a little while indented slabs, long and parallel with intersecting coloration. Then, there is clay and sand, rocks and clay, then clay, then sand, and finally sand, water, plants, and life. And there is Bamako with the Niger feeding it, the Djoliba, pride of Mali, at the edge of which, more than once, Africa and its destiny has been debated. I rediscover my Africa. I rediscover more than ever the object of my tenderness and my

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feeble affection for the charms of those immense foreign towns I visited. I rediscover my Africa, beautiful, majestic, cosmic, enticing, unique, grandly seating on its granite foundation. And I write with the poet, “Inanimate objects, do you then have a soul which lovingly reclaims my soul?” —Ouagadougou, Upper Volta [Burkina Faso], 1970

16 Reflections in Conclusion: Bridging the Shore l

Christopher Wise Much of the research and translation performed for The Desert Shore took place in the summer of 1998, at the time of the bombing of U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, in which 257 people were killed and nearly 5,000 were injured. These tragedies were followed by U.S. air strikes on Afghanistan and Sudan. In the United States, many foreign analysts were frustrated to observe how these incidents became mere footnotes in the Bill Clinton–Kenneth Starr affair. Outside North America, however, the larger implications of these exchanges could not be so easily ignored: the bombing of Khartoum, like President Ronald Reagan’s missile strikes against Libya in the mid-1980s, made clear that the United States is ready to assert its military power anywhere on the African continent. With little historical understanding, the United States increasingly adopts the colonizing postures of its Western imperial predecessors and accordingly suffers the resentment of millions of people. As a U.S. citizen, I have assembled this volume in the conviction that such a historical understanding is indeed possible, a conviction that implies both a hermeneutics and a neohumanist bias. Obviously, such a bias signals my own cultural handicaps, my own limitations as “expert” on the Sahel. However, a weakness once acknowledged can also be a strength, a vulnerability that can build bridges between two radically different “shores” of human experience. If such bridges are inevitably frail constructions, meant to be abandoned at the appropriate moment, they are also desperately needed to enable dialogue in an ever more volatile global community. It is urgent and necessary to clarify the limitations of Western belief systems. In fact, Barbara Harlow has suggested that this is the fundamental task of the “first world” scholar and critic (Resistance Literature, p. 65). We must therefore acknowledge the failure of previ251

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ous European and U.S. writing about the Sahel, its pretensions and irrelevance. The chief irony of this book consists in the fact that many of its contributors write to show writing’s limitations and that its publication comes at a particular historical juncture: the era of expanding U.S. global hegemony. If critical studies like this one unavoidably reinscribe a certain U.S. and English-language hegemony or, at the very least, a Western and metropolitan-centered colonization of “our” imagined peripheries, they may also serve to ameliorate living conditions for impoverished and struggling peoples, specifically by creating greater understanding of “our” cultural limitations. In their essay “Oral Art, Society, and Survival in the Sahel Zone,” Thomas Hale and Paul Stoller are far from coy about the connection of their research with governmental and nongovernmental relief agencies in places like Mali, Niger, and Burkina Faso. Hale and Stoller state their hope that their research “will be of use not only to scholars who are studying the area, but also . . . to scientists, development administrators, and diplomats who work to solve the immediate problems of the Sahel” (p. 168). Members of Réseau d’Etudes Littéraires Sahéliennes (RÉLIS) also have emphasized the necessity of alleviating the material sufferings of Sahelian peoples. However, ethical appeals like these unavoidably imply a certain politics, a politics of writerly commitment. On the one hand, the sufferings of contemporary Sahelian peoples are of a strictly geophysical order, related to the Sahel’s harsh climate: its aridity, droughts, famines, diseases, and desertification. On the other hand, the Sahel has experienced centuries of oppression by way of external imperialism (Arab, European, and U.S.), the profoundly destabilizing legacies of the American slave trade, nearly four decades of bloody coups and often corrupt leadership, and the more recent pressures of structural adjustment programs imposed by the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank. The human misery experienced within such a context cannot leave us indifferent. The harsh realities of such crises leave little room for academic equivocation: For better or worse, the United States is involved in West Africa and needs to become even more involved. The issue then is the quality and character of U.S. involvement, not its imagined neutrality.

Works Cited l

Achebe, Chinua. Hopes and Impediments: Selected Essays. New York: Anchor, 1990. Adams, John. Remarks on the Country Extending from Cape Palmas to the River Congo. London: Cass, 1966. Adams, Robert. The Narrative of Robert Adams. London: J. Murray, 1816. Adamu, Mahdi. The Hausa Factor. Zaria, Nigeria: Ahmadu Bello University, 1978. Adorno, Theodor W. Aesthetic Theory. Trans. E. B. Ashton. New York: Seabury Press, 1973. Amoa, Urbain. “Fondements drummo-bendrologiques du discours de Frédéric Titinga Pacéré.” In Mélanges offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré, ed. Albert Ouédraogo. Paris: Éditions L’Harmattan, 1996, pp. 281–303. Amnesty International. Mauritania 1986–1989: Background to a Crisis, Three Years of Political Imprisonment, Torture, and Unfair Trials. New York: Amnesty International, 1989. Appadurai, Arjun. “Introduction: Place and Voice in Anthropological Theory.” Cultural Anthropology 3, no. 1 (1988): 16–20. Bâ, Hamadou Ampaté. Vie et enseignement de Tierno Bokar: Le sage de Bandiagara. Paris: Seuil, 1980. Bachelard, Gaston. La poétique de l’espace. Paris: Gallimard, 1957. Baikie, William B. Narrative of an Exploring Voyage Up the Rivers Kwóra and Bínue, Commonly Known as the Niger and Tsádda in 1854. London: Frank Cass, 1966. Barbour, B., and Jacobs M., “The Mir ’ aj: A Legal Treatise on Slavery by Ahmad Baba.” In Slaves and Slavery in Muslim Africa, vol. 1, ed. John Ralph Willis. London: F. Cass, 1985, pp. 125–159. Barth, Heinrich. Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa. London: Frank Cass, 1965. Beckles, Hillary. Inside Slavery: Process and Legacy in the Caribbean Experience. Kingston, Jamaica: Canoe Press, University of the West Indies, 1996. Bello, Muhammed. Miftah al-Sadad. Accra: Legon, Institute of African Studies, University of Ghana, 1964.

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———. Embodying Colonial Memories: Spirit, Possession, Power, and the Hauka in West Africa. New York: Routledge, 1995. ———. Sensuous Scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997. ———. The Taste of Things Ethnographic: The Senses in Anthropology. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989. ———. “The Word and the Cosmos: ‘Zarma Ideology’ Revisited.” Bulletin de l’Institut Fondamenetale d’Afrique Noire, no. 40, series B (1979): 483– 497. Stoller, Paul, and Cheryl Olkes. In Sorcery’s Shadow: A Memoir of Apprenticeship Among the Songhay of Niger. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Stuckey, Elspeth J. The Violence of Literacy. Portsmouth, NH: Boynton and Cook, 1991. Taine-Cheikh, Cathérine. “Le pilier et la corde: Recherches sur la poésie maure.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 48, no. 3 (1985): 516–535. Tall, Sékou. Écritures d’El Hadjj Tall Sékou. Ed. Jean-Claude Naba and Christopher Wise. Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso: Sankofa, 2001. ———. “Mysticisme, conception africaine du monde et similtudes dans l’oeuvre de Maître Pacéré.” In Mélanges offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré, ed. Albert Ouédraogo. Paris: Éditions L’Harmattan, 1996, pp. 257–279. Tauzin, Aline. “A haute voix: Poésie féminine contemporaine en Mauritanie.” Revue du monde musulman et de la Méditerrannée 54 (1989): 178–187. Taxier, Louis. Moeurs et histories des Peuls. Paris: Payot, 1937. ———. Le Noir du Soudan. Paris: Editions Ernest Leroux, 1912. Tempels, Placide. Bantu Philosophy. Trans. Colin King. Paris: Présence Africaine, 1959. Tine, Alioune. “Notes sur la problématique des littératures nationales.” Annales de l’Université de Ouagadougou. Special issue (December 1988). Usman, Y. B. Studies in the History of the Sokoto Caliphate: The Sokoto Seminar Papers. Zaria, Nigeria: Ahmadu Bello University Press, 1979. Verger, Pierre. Trade Relations Between the Bight of Benin and Bahia in the 17th–19th Century. Ibadan, Nigeria: Ibadan University Press, 1976. Villasante–de Beauvais, Mariella. “Génèse de la hiérarchie sociale et du pouvoir politique bidan.” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 147, no. 3 (1997): 587–633. Voisset, Georges M. “Enquête sur la littérature mauritanienne: Formes et perspectives.” Revue du monde musulman et de la Méditerrannée 54 (1989): 188–199. ———. “The Tebra’ of Moorish Women from Mauritania: The Limits (or Essences) of the Poetic Act.” Research in African Literatures 24, no. 2 (1993): 79–88. Welch, Galbraith. The Unveiling of Timbuctoo: The Astounding Adventures of Caillié. New York: William Morrow, 1939. Whitman, Daniel. “Interview with Amadou Hampâté Bâ.” In Bâ’s Kaïdara: A Fulani Cosmological Epic from Mali. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1988.

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The Contributors l

Georg M. Gugelberger is a professor of comparative literature at the University of California at Riverside. He has published numerous books, including Marxism and African Literature (1985) and The Real Thing: Testimonial Discourse and Latin America (1996).

Hawad is a Tuareg poet from the central Sahara and Aïr Mountains region. Numerous books of poetry by Hawad have been published in French. “Anarchy’s Delirious Trek” is the first of his poems to be translated into English. Sean Kilpatrick grew up in northern Cameroon. He recently published an article on Frantz Fanon in Voices: The Wisconsin Review of African Literatures.

Paul E. Lovejoy has written numerous studies in Sahelian history, especially the history of slavery. He is a professor of history at York University in Toronto, Canada.

Lisa McNee is a professor in the Department of French Studies at Queen’s University in Ontario, Canada. She has published articles in journals such as Research in African Literatures.

Albert Ouédraogo is the dean of arts and sciences at the University of Ouagadougou. He is the editor of Mélange offerts à Maître Titinga Frédéric Pacéré (1992) and numerous other writings on Sahelian literature.

Titinga Frédéric Pacéré is Burkina Faso’s most famous poet, writer, and cultural figure. A well-known lawyer and founder of a museum at 265

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Manéga, Pacéré has been the subject of numerous critical studies and has won a wide variety of awards for his writing.

Joseph Paré is the author of Écritures et discours dans le roman africain francophone post-colonial (1998). He is also the coeditor of Littératures du Sahel (1998) and a professor at the University of Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. Salaka Sanou is the coeditor of Littératures du Sahel and current president of Réseau d’Etudes Littéraires Sahéliennes (RÉLIS). He has contributed numerous articles to literary journals such as Analyses.

al-Hajj Sékou Tall was one of the Sahel’s grand figures before his untimely death in 1998. Born in Bandiagara, Mali, as the direct heir to al-Hajj Umar Tall, he published numerous articles during his lifetime.

Michel Tinguiri is a translation student at the University of Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. He has published translations and other writings, most recently an interview in Écritures d’El Hadjj Tall Sékou (2000). Christopher Wise is an associate professor of English literature at Western Washington University. He recently edited Yambo Ouologuem: Postcolonial Writer, Islamic Militant (1999).

Norbert Zongo was Burkina Faso’s most distinguished journalist and editor before he was assassinated in a car bombing in December 1998. Zongo also wrote two novels, Le parachutage (1988) and Rougebêinga (1990).

Index l

Absous, Dahbia, 109 Achebe, Chinua, 42n11 Adams, Robert, 207, 211 Agustín, José, 101 Ali Ber, Sonni, 4, 22, 89–90, 94, 97n8 Amadou, Sékou, 200n16 Ambga, Larlé Naba, 139 Amoa, Urbain, 42n Animism, 89, 93 Appronti, Jawa, 238 Arabs, in the Sahel, 4–5, 108–109, 125n15; literature, 7, 88, 188 Article 37, 160–161, 171n1

Bâ, Amadou Hampâté, 11, 12, 28, 42n4 Baba, Ahmad, 202, 225n2 Baikie, Lord William, 21 Baraka, 92–93 Barry, Amadou (Cissé), 17 Barth, Heinrich, 7, 22, 87, 188, 199n14 Bayo, Guéladjo (also known as Guélaadjo Ham Bodeejo), 13–15 Bazié, Joseph P., 2 Beasley, Bruce, 124n1 Beaufroy, Henry, 227n23 Bello, Muhammad, 7, 190, 195,

199n10, 200n16, 202, 205–206, 209–215, 218, 221, 224, 225n2 Bendrology, 4, 12, 27–29, 46–48, 75–76; debates, 36–40; and drummologie, 37, 42n12, 75, 81–82 Benjamin, Walter, 3 Beverley, John, 8n4, 178, 198n5 Beyala, Calixthe, 101 Boahen, A. Adu, 202, 215 Bodeejo, Guélaadjo Ham. See Bayo, Guéladjo Boni, Nazi, 139 Bouah, Niangoran, 37, 75, 78, 81 Boullosa, Carmen, 101 Bovill, E. W., 192–193, 196, 202, 211–212 Burkinabè revolution, 142, 162, 169 Buxton, Thomas Fowell, 221

Caillié, Réné, 175, 183, 192, 195 Césaire, Aimé, 25n9 Christianity, 93, 107, 117, 123, 180, 187–188, 194–195, 199nn10, 15, 210–211, 223; Roman Catholicism, 41, 195; Calvinism, 180, 187 CILSS (Le Comité Inter-Etats de Lutte contre Secheresse au Sahel; 267

268

INDEX

the International Committee for Combatting Drought in the Sahel), 1 Clapperton, Hugh, 7, 176, 191, 193, 199nn10, 11, 211–215, 217–218, 223, 226n18, 227n21 Claudot-Hawad, Hélène, 103–104, 106, 112, 124n1 Clinton, Bill, 251 Compaoré, Blaise, 157–158, 159–161, 163, 165, 170, 171nn1, 2, 3; and Adolf Hitler, 158; and Nero, 158; and Mobutu Sese Seko, 166–168 Compaoré François, 157 Cook, Simon, 211, 226n6 Corruption, 143, 145, 154, 156, 164. See also Compaoré, Blaise Crowther, Samuel Ajayi, 221

Davy, G., 15 Delafosse, Maurice, 21 Denham, Dixon, 188, 216, 223 Derrida, Jacques, 41, 43n15 Desertification, 1, 56, 252 Diabaté, Makan, 2 Diawara, Gaoussou, 237 Dictatorship, 143, 154–155, 156, 159, 167. See also Compaoré, Blaise Dieng, Anta Bouna, 129–130, 133 Diop, Cristiane, 101 Diouf, Abdou, 130 Djenné, 175–176 Drought, 1, 48, 252 Dubois, Felix, 87, 178

Epic of Askia Mohammed, 4, 88, 92–94 Epic of Son Jara, 88, 92–93 Eroticism, 131–132 Escarpit, Robert, 76–77

Ethics, and Sahelian literature, 5, 7–8

FESPACO (Festival Panafrican du Cinéma de Ouagadougou), 75, 141, 164, 169–170 Fischer, Humphrey, 202 Flaubert, Gustave, 190 Fodio, Abdullahi Dan, 209 Fodio, Usman Dan, 17, 18, 21, 200n16, 204, 205, 207–209, 224, 226nn7, 10 Freedom of speech, 159, 164–165 Fulani: culture, 12–25, 64; literature, 3–4; philosophy, 13–15 Gande Koy movement, 102 Gnougnossé, 23, 25n8, 63nn21–25, 65nn39–44 Goody, Jack, 181 Griot, 82, 87–88, 132, 144, 176–177; griotique, 75 Gugelberger, Georg M., 5

Hale, Thomas, 4, 87, 95, 177, 252 Hallet, Robin, 202 Hama, Boubou, 16 Harlow, Barbara, 251 Harsch, Ernst, 158 Havelock, Eric, 32, 181 Hawad, 2, 5, 101–109, 112 Heath, Deborah, 131 Hunwick, John, 181 Hybridity, 133–136

Ilboudo, Patrick G., 6, 139–150 Ilboudou, Blaise, 157 Imperialism, 40, 47, 127–128, 146–147, 183, 199n8, 251–252 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 252 Islam, 4–5, 34, 87, 89, 93, 95, 117, 123, 129, 195, 223; quranic

INDEX

hermeneutics, 87, 96, 183–184; sufism, 92–93; Tidjaniya, 3, 11–12, 93

Jabès, Edmond, 109 Jackson, James Grey, 178, 189–190, 198n1 Jeffreys, Letitia D., 16 Johnson, John Williams, 88, 92, 177 Johnson, Samuel, 206 Journalism, 6, 78, 140, 151, 155, 165 Jousse, Marcel, 6, 179 Judaism and Jews, 16, 22, 41, 43n15, 93, 102, 117, 158, 219 al-Kanemi, Shehu Muhammad, 210, 217, 224 Kassaye, 89, 95, 97n9 Kati, Mahmoud, 18 Kéré, Catherine, 32 Kilpatrick, Sean, 4 Ki-Zerbo, Joseph, 2, 139

La Guma, Alex, 237 Laing, Alexander Gordon, 6, 190–197 Lander, Richard, 7, 176, 226n8 Law, Robin, 205 Laye, Camara, 82, 87–88 Lefebure, Francis, 82 Lenin, Vladimir Ilich, 230–231, 240 Lenz, Oscar, 199 Literacy, in the Sahel, 6, 28, 31, 144, 177–183, 184–185, 252 Literature: cultural, 29, 35–36, 75–76, 78; decolonization of, 29; national, 2, 139 Loutard, Tati, 237 Lovejoy, Paul, 6–7, 181 Luria, Aleksandr, 181 Luxemburg, Rosa, 107, 114

269

Mahomed, Zinziber, 237–239 Maïga, Mohamed Abdoulaye, 93 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 74 Malio, Nouhou, 4, 88, 95 Mallarmé, Stephane, 178 Mammeri, Mouloud, 237 Manéga, 40, 46, 71nn15–18, 73, 80 Marchesin, Philippe, 136 Martinent, André, 77 Marx, Karl, 231, 240 Marxism, 134 Massoudy, Hassan, 108 Maugham, Robin, 182 Mauritania: poetry, 5 McNee, Lisa, 5 Meek, Charles Kingsley, 22 Mills, Dorothy, 176 Mobutu, Sese Seko, 166–167 Mobutuization, 166–168 Mohammed, Askia, 4, 88–90, 92, 94 Monémbo, Tierno, 101 Monsiváis, Carlos, 101 Moret, Alexandre, 15 Morton-Williams, Peter, 206 Mumbo Jumbo, 185–186

Nationalism, 2, 139. See also Literature, national Ngugi wa Thiong’o, 154 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 176, 198n4 Nikiema, Abdoulaye Ablassé, 157 Norris, W. T., 129–130, 132 Nomad writing, 109 Nyama, 92–93; nyamakala, 96n4

Olkes, Cheryl, 89 Ong, Walter, 32, 37, 41, 42n7, 180, 188, 197 Oral “literature,” 30, 76, 78, 87, 137n9 Ouédraogo, Albert, 4, 27, 29, 32, 36–40, 41 Ouédraogo, David, 157

270

INDEX

Ouologuem, Boukary, 11 Ouologuem, Yambo, 11, 199n8 Oumarou, Idé, 2

Pacéré, Titinga Fredéric, 2–4, 12, 27, 43n14, 71nn113, 115–118, 72n121, 73–74 Palmer, Herbert, 16 Pan-Africanism, 2 Paré, Joseph, 2 Park, Mungo, 6, 7, 176, 178 Peulh. See Fulani Photography, 108 Porquet, Niangoran, 75 Pratt, Mary Louise, 7, 8n5, 178–179, 197, 198nn6, 7 Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph, 107 Proust, Marcel, 190, 194 Prudencie, Eustache, 237–238 al-Qayrawani, Abu Zayd, 202

Reagan, Ronald, 251 Regino, Juan Gregorio, 101 RÉLIS (Réseau d’Etudes Littéraires Sahéliennes; Network for Research in Sahelian Litertures), 1–3, 7–8, 252 Richardson, James, 188, 195, 197

Sahel, 1–3, 7–8; sahelity (sahelité), 2–3, 8, 179 Sanou, Salaka, 5–6, 32, 42n6 Sankara, Thomas, 162 Sardan, Olivier de, 90 Sèbe, Alain, 108 Sebgo, Henri (H. S.), 151. See also Zongo, Norbert Schwartz, Stuart, 207 Sisòko, Fa-Digi, 88 Slavery, 7, 128, 132, 201–225, 252 Songhay Empire, 88

Soninké, 90 Sorcery and occult, 90–92, 94, 97n9 Soyinka, Wole, 101, 151 Spivak, Gayatri, 178, 198n4 Starr, Kenneth, 251 Starvation and famine, 142, 169–170, 252 Stewart, Charles, 134–135, 137n11 Stoller, Paul, 4, 89–91, 95, 96nn7, 8, 177, 252

Taaya, Ould, 130 Talking drums. See Bendrology Tall, Mountaga, 11 Tall, al-Hajj Sékou, 3–4, 7, 8, 11–12, 27, 35, 36–40 Tall, al-Hajj Umar, 12, 16–17, 211, 220–221 Tall, Tierno Bokar, 11 Tarikh el-Fetach, 18, 87–88, 96n1 Tarikh es-Soudan, 87–88, 96n1, 198n2 Tauzin, Aline, 132, 136n7 Tennyson, Alfred, 170 Tifinagh alphabet, 102–103, 113, 124n8 Timbuktu, 175–176, 194–195 Tinguiri, Michel, 5–6, 157 Toilettage (cleaning up), 6, 142– 146 Transculturation, 197 Translation, 28, 149 Tuareg (Targui): culture, 12–13, 101; literature, 2, 5, 101–109 Tukur, Muhammad, 205 Tumert, Ibn, 107, 115

Umar, Jibril ibn, 204 UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund), 140–141 University of Abidjan, 151

INDEX

University of Ouagadougou, 1, 12, 27, 36–37, 39, 85, 140

Women: and poetic practice, 131–133

Welch, Galbraith, 175 Wilberforce, William, 224 Wise, Christopher, 4, 6, 11, 93 World Bank, 252

Zapatistas, 107 Zongo, Yembi Ernest, 157 Zongo, Norbert, 6, 151–156, 157–158

Voisset, Georges, 132, 136n6

Yassirou, Ougbata Ibn, 17–18

271

About the Book l

Though Sahelian culture likely dates back more than 5,000 years— encompassing Africa’s greatest empires—the Sahel remains little known in the English-speaking world. Redressing this situation, The Desert Shore offers a rich sampling of the contemporary literatures of the region, along with contextual chapters by critics from Africa, Europe, and North America. The authors not only demonstrate the resilience and cultural wealth of modern Sahelian society but also provide startling insights into its distinct perspectives on writing, literature, and language itself. They reveal Sahelian literatures to be a body of work that challenges Western scholars to reexamine many of their deepest presuppositions.

Christopher Wise is an associate professor of English literature at Western Washington University. He is the editor of Yambo Ouologuem: Postcolonial Writer, Islamic Militant.

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