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Welcome to Outside the Gates
Why 'Outside the Gates'? There are many gates isolating people from each other. 'Gated communities' being the most obvious, where the affluent try to segregate themselves from the poor.
The most insidious though are the gates within our minds which separate us from, make us
think we are different to, even better than the 'other'.
Yet we all experience the same emotions, feelings, wants and needs irrespective of gender, colour, race or creed.
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Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 12 |
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Saturday, 05 November 2005 |
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Kamara was in Dakar when the rumours that Captain Blood was dead caught up with him. They circulated furtively at first, afraid of their own veracity. He dismissed them, “mere rumours”, refusing to have his vengence thwarted, not lose the comfort of the hate he had for his old friend. But the news grew loud and became real with the detail of the death broadcast on radio. Captain Blood's notoriety had travelled far. Relief, even in Dakar was palpable. Sergeant Burnhouse's death wasn't reported. His part not high enough up the cast list. “To quick”, was Kamara's acceptance to the fact of his old friends death.
He had picked up a smattering of French in Conakry, found he was adept with language, enjoyed playing with the sounds, the phonetics. The more he practised, the larger his vocabulary and range of conversation, and the area of his brain that processed language grew. It happened with juggling as well. The structure of his brain changed. The grey matter in the left posterior intraparietal sulcus, which processes visual motion information, got bigger. Either cell production had increased or changes had occurred in the connections between cells. Learning and practise makes the brain grow. Kamara's hand/eye co-ordination was always good and got better the more he juggled.
Dakar was a good choice as a stop on the road. One big market with a myriad of places to perform and earn the money to get further along on his journey. He started at the Tilene in the old Medina district. Its atmosphere and clientelle was similar to Conakry, full of locals buying their daily food needs or second-hand clothes. People like Kamara. Poor. Tilene gave him the little boost in confidence he needed to begin juggling and clowning in a new city. He always drew a crowd and the stall holders near him, initially hostile, weren't slow to notice the increase in their trade. They started offering him retainers to perform next to them for an hour or a day.
After a month Kamara found his takings from Tilene were just keeping him alive,
paying his rent and allowing him to eat. It wasn't enough to built a travelling stash
because the people who used the market were not Dakar's most affluent. It had
been a useful month. He had found somewhere to sleep, a small room he shared
with 2 others, a father and son. He always kept the bag with his equipment near
him at all times. He was eating mostly snacks - Gnama-gnama - from stalls that
were at every street corner and which made up a quarter of the market stalls.
Fritters filled with fish and vegetables, millet, beans, dates or the 'pain de
singe' - the fruit from his beloved Baobab. Over the course of the day he'd eat a
three-course meal.
During his explorations of the city he found the Railway and the Kermel Markets
and thought that both had a greater potential to earn more, more quickly. The
Kermel was impressive. A rotunda rebuilt to the original design of the 1860's
after a devastating fire in 1994. A mix of French and Islamic architecture.
Circulating the roof were a series of 'dorma' windows like you'd see in the roofs
of Paris. Not as large or ornate as Paris, but French all the same. The entrance
was an Arabic arch of red and cream brick decorated with a knot design. The stalls
flowed out of the building and onto the surrounding streets. Basket weavers,
wood carvers, leather workers, jewellers had stalls piled high and women selling
flowers worked the crowds. The noise of barter and vibrant colour gave the city
some of its vitality, vigour and smiles. It was very touristee and every trader
aspired to have a stall there. Kamara liked the Kermel.
He tried juggling at the Railway market first though. The Kermel was to much of
a big step up all in one go for a learner juggler. A different sort of person came
to the Railway than used Tilene. They were slightly more affluent, could spare
the occassional franc instead of a centime for being entertained while they
shopped. There was a wider range of goods. Jewellery, terra cota pottery and
incense. The smells were new to him and he became intoxicated by tiouraye. It
penetrated every persons clothing with its fragrance.
The same pattern emerged. Stall holders, wary that their sales might fall, were
welcoming after they counted their days takings. Kamara drew people who
stopped and watched and who otherwise would walk on by and miss a chance to
buy from his retainer paying stall-holders. His income improved enough for him
to put aside one or two francs a week in his money-belt. The money was slowly
building toward the next leg of his journey. His route had not been thought of
yet, except it was north and the rising sun should be on his right.
He had been juggling at the Railway market for a few weeks when he met Falgout.
Kamara had taken a day out from the Railway to go to the Kermel market and see
another juggler that some of the children in his audience had told him about. He'd
been to the Kermel before but had always missed the Juggler, arriving to late
from his own juggling. Children in Kamara's audience had told him his own
tricks weren't as varied or his equipment as extensive as the Juggler of Kermel.
He was determined to see him.
It didn't take long to find him. There was a sizable crowd, about fifty. More than
twice as large as Kamara was attracting at the railway and with a lot of tourists
amongst them. He worked his way to the front of the audience and was
astonished to see that the Juggler of Kermel was on a one wheeled bike and had a
young boy aged about 10 as his assistant dressed all in red.
Kamara stood there for an hour while the the Juggler of Kermel completed his
routine. He was light skinned. Coffee coloured and obviously mixed race. Some
of the equipment he had, Kamara couldn't put a name to. Along with the unicycle,
he had cigar boxes, a diabolo, torches and clubs. His assistant was making
swirling patterns in the air with a ball on a string.
The equipment Kamara had, home made Devil Sticks, a patched up Derby hat
and, his prize possession, three rubber balls that he was learning new bounce
patterns with, were tawdry by comparison. The Juggler was about 30 years old
and dressed in black and white diamond patterned trousers, a bright and shinny
luminescent yellow shirt, his six foot height topped with a black top hat. He was
impossible to miss. The tricks and patterns came easy and fast to him and Kamara
realised he needed to practise more. Childrens honesty could be disconcerting.
He was turning to leave at the end of the show, when the Juggler of Kermel
approached him with a grin and his hand extended,
“Salamaleikum. I'm Fargout. I saw your show yesterday. Heard there was a
juggler at the Railway so went down to have a look.”
Kamara took his hand, “Aleikum Salam. Kamara.”
That was all he could say. He wanted to ask him thousands of questions about his
equipment and skills but was speechless that a juggler of Fargouts ability should
have come to see him perform. Kamara hadn't meet a professional juggler before
so didn't understand the fraternity and openness jugglers had for each other when
they met. This would change.
Unconcerted, Fargout said. “I didn't hang around to say hello because I had to
meet some friends from a train. You're a good juggler. Have balance and an eye
but you need more equipment and more patterns.”
“Thanks.” Kamara said.
“Come, We're going for a bite to eat at my favorite cafe. Come and join us.”
Fargout invited as he turned to help his assistant pack the small trolley that
carried his equipment.
“Madoure this is Kamara. Say hello.”
“Salamaleikum.” Smiled Madoure.
“Aleikum Salam.” Replied Kamara.
“My son, and he will be a better juggler than me in time.” Fargout told Kamara
with undisquised pride.
Kamara had thought he would be sharing a table with just Fargout and Madoure.
But as they entered the cafe he baulked. At a big round table sat at least 8 people
who all waved and called,
“Fargout your seat is here".
Fargout saw Kamara's fright, “ Don't worry. These are my friends.”
Around the table sat Africans, Arabs, Toubabs, men and women, Christians and
Muslims. Distinguished by their colour and their dress. An African woman
wearing a necklace with the cross of Christ sat next to an Arab wearing a Jalaba.
They were laughing together. Kamara had never eaten with Toubabs, white
Europeans, and was reluctant to take a seat.
“Come Kamara, let me introduce you to some of my friends.” Said Fargout as he
gently guided Kamara by his elbow towards the table.
“This is Odette, She's Sereres from Thies and works at an art gallery. This is
Abdu. He's from Marrakesh in Morocco. The white man over there,” He said
pointing to a paper thin and gawky man with his arm over the shoulder of a
voluptuous white woman, “Is Franz and the woman he is molesting is his wife
Gertrude. They're from Germany.” The Germans looked over and waved a
greeting to Kamara who nodded his hello.
Before he could finish the introductions Odette, the woman wearing the cross of
Christ, interrupted,
“I was with Fargout yesterday at the Railway market and saw you perform.
Fargout said you were good but you needed more equipment and moves. Come
and join us.” She finished by tapping the seat next to her.
Fargout gentle directed Kamara to accept the invitation just as big steaming dishes
of rice, fish and vegetables were brought to the table. Ceebu Jen, the traditional
dish of Senegal.
By the end of the meal Kamara had relaxed some. He had been taken to an african
Bohemia and the convivial atmosphere loosened him up a little. He had learnt
that his next stop on his journey would have to be Marrakesh and that it would
take him a year to earn the bus fare from juggling at the Railway. Abdu had
offered him a place to stay if he made it there. Odette had invited him to visit the
gallery she worked at on the Av Georges Pompidou. They all knew he was a
juggler from Sierra Leone but not the trauma he had experienced.
Over the next months Kamara would meet Fargout everyday to be taught new
moves, practise with his new friends clubs and cigar boxes. Learnt that the ball
on a string that Madoure swirled was a Poi. His favorite though was the Diabolo.
Fargout had an old one that he gave him and Kamara started to learn the
'egg-cup-on-a-string'. The faster he could spin the top the easier it got and the
more throws he learnt. He incorporated it into his act.
He visited Odette at her gallery. She was pleased to see him and showed it by
giving him a tour and pointing out the exquisite detail in some of the work. Life
size wire mesh sculptures of people. Abstract paintings in ultramarine, ochre
and mud-red. One exhibit, photocopies of faded black&white portraits laid on
the floor had had red paint like blood splashed over them. When he saw this
Kamara reeled, nearly fainted and Odette had to guide him to a seat. She was
worried for him.
“It's only a picture Kamara. Why would it affect you so much?” She asked.
“I saw pictures of home.” He said.
“Its almost time to shut. Would you like to walk to the Pointe de Dakar with me
and talk about it?” asked Odette.
“OK.” was Kamara's distracted reply.
They walked through the Place de l'Independence, crossed the Route de la
Corniche Est near the French Embassy and met the mighty blue Atlantic. They
watched the ships enter and leave Dakar's port for a while before Kamara started
to talk about Koidu. With his chivalry he left out some of the detail, thinking it
to harsh for a womans ear. He also talked about his dream of getting to Britain
and earning enough to send to what was left of his family and find answers to
Fatima's question. When he had finished Odette stared at him wide eyed in
incrudelity, with tears running down her face.
She took his hand conscious that she had hands to hold, to try and pass empathy
through the chemistry of the skin. It was a public display of affection in a
predominately Muslim country that anywhere but a beach in Dakar would have
been dangerous.
Odette had heard of the killings in Sierra Leone but it was abstract, removed one
degree from her. The rawness of Kamara's retelling of his story had made it real
and she was scared for him.
She pointed out an island a few miles off the Pointe, “That's Ile de Goree. For
400 years, from when the Portuguese arrived in 1444, slaves were shipped to
America and the West Indies off there. It has a 'Door of No Return' were the
captured slaves would pass through to be chained in ships. During the times of
slaving 20 million were taken from West Africa to work the plantations of
America, the West Indies and Brazil. The slaves accommodation still exists and
is now a museum. We can take a ferry to visit it if you like? It only takes fifteen
minutes to get there.”
Kamara had taken his balls out and was practising some simple throws to try and
control the reassurgence of images from Koidu that a work of art had reignited.
“Why are you telling me this? He asked.
“I thought it might help if I shared some of my knowledge about the history of
Dakar.”
“OK. You keep talking while I juggle. It might help.” Kamara said as the balls
carved an invisible infinity sign in the air. A reclining figure of eight.
Odette felt a bit self-conscious now but continued, “It was a cruel time when the
Europeans came and stole and killed our ancestors. When you told me about the
arc of light, it reminded me of the stories from the Congo in the late 1800's.
After slavery was abolished a white Englishman, Henry Morton Stanley had been
hired by the Leopold II of Belgium to conquer the Congo for its rubber and
copper. We named Stanley, Bula Matari - 'the breaker of rocks'. His men
hacked off hands and feet to terrorise the people into accepting the rule of a the
Belgium king. During Leopold's reign the popuation of the Congo halved. The
RUF have carried on Stanley's methods.
“The Portugese, the Dutch and finally the French came and conquered the Ile de
Goree and Cape Verde and the French started to build Dakar. Thats why it looks
so much like a French city, but it has an atmosphere all its own. The houses
around the Kermel market are what they call French Colonial architecture.
“Our first elected President was the poet Senghor. He was a socialist and gave
Senegal a sense of itself, its modern political culture. Unlike most of the rest of
Africa, Senegal is pluralist and so far we have elections that are generally free
from corruption and intimidation. The city is known as the cultural capital of
Africa.”
She didn't mention that the optimism of Senghor's time was receeding and the
culture she loved in Dakar was fraying, turning seedy at the edges, becoming
aggressive. It was still a vibrant space in African life but political, electoral and
business violence was starting to show itself.
“Whats 'pluralism' and how do you know all this?” Interrupted Kamara as he
stopped his juggling and put the balls away, his eyes no longer dulled for the time
being by the images of Koidu.
“Pluralism is were more than one idea or political party can exist and compete the
ideas for the support of the people. Where different people with different
cultures and religions life together without killing each other. Respecting the d
difference. My father sent me to Paris to study at the Sorbonne. I did a degree in
commerce and studied black history in my spare time.”
“Why come back to Dakar. Why not stay in Paris and earn more money?” Asked
Kamara, suprised that anybody would voluntarilly want to leave rich Europe.
“This is my country, my home and I want to use what I have learnt to help my
country and my people to develop.” Her tone was slightly indignant, she didn't
like the way the questioning was going and Kamara picked up on it. Changed the
subject as they re-crossed the Corniche.
“Are you eating at the cafe tonight?”
“No. I'm going to the cinema with Abdu. Would you like to come?”
“No.” He replied with a slightly downcast look thinking they could be lovers and
not wanting to be in the way.
“Its alright. Abdu is only a friend and its the Recidak, the annual film festival in
Dakar. Their showing Sarraounia. Abdu would enjoy you coming.” She
responded, seeing Kamara's thinking writ on his face.
“OK. What time and where will we meet?”
“The gallery at six. See you then.” She said and waved goodbye to his grin as they
parted in the Place de l'Independence.
Kamara strolled down to the Kermel market and has he passed the houses he
looked at them in the light of the history that Odette had told him. Saw them
anew and wondered how lucky he was that someone as beautiful and intelligent as
Odette helped him with his flashback.
He got to the gallery a couple of minutes late. Abdu was already there and the
place was locked and shuttered. They stood chatting and smoking a joint for a
while. It was an opportunity to ask Abdu obliquely how he felt about Odette.
“Its alright Kamara. We are only friends and I know she likes you, and you her.”
Abdu said, not messing about.
Before they could say anything else Odette arrived.
“Sorry I'm a bit late.” She said sniffing the air. “I hope you've saved a little for me
before the film?”
“What are you talking about?” Joked Abdu, before passing her the joint of
Khatama Treble Zero.
By the time they reached the cinema they were well smashed.
At the end of the film Kamara remained in his seat, stunned. Both Odette and
Abdu had to call him and finally prod him to get him to move and follow them out
of the cinema.
“Come on. Lets see if Fargout is at the cafe.” Said Odette as they strolled in the
general direction.
“Great film. What did you think Kamara?” Asked Abdu searching forhis tobacco
and dope.
“Beautiful. But I don't know. A woman, a warrior queen fought the French and
won?”
Odette was smiling at Kamara's incredulous face and added some more wonder,
“Its a true story become legend.”
“What! No.” Kamara's voice had risen and eyes widened.
“Yes. Sarraounia was the Queen of the Aznas. Trained from birth as a healer,
warrior and leader of her people. The people of Niger still sing songs recounting
her hundred year old story.” Insisted Odette.
“I didn't particularly like the way Muslims were portrayed. What with the
barbarity of the Sudanese mercenaries and fawning Imans quavering in fear and
denouncing Sarraounia.” Said Abdu as he tried to roll a joint on the move.
Odette replied, “The Sudanese thought Sarraounia a witch and hated her. The
French were imperialist and used 'divide&rule' as all colonialist and imperialists
do when trying to conquer territory. The film did show that some Muslims and
African tribes didn't collaborate with the French and joined Sarraounia.
“It was beautiful to look at as well as being a positive story for Africans. Africa is
fabulously rich in its visual beauty and Ai Keita is the most beautiful woman in
Africa. Don't you think so Kamara?”
Abdu had slowed up, his joint rolling while walking was proving difficult, and had
fallen behind.
“If I had seen her before you, yes she is the most beautiful woman in Africa.”
Kamara's reply had made Odette's coal deep eyes sparkle and her skin ripple with
a shiver like stone thrown in still water.
Abdu came running up with the smoking joint. The vibe had changed. What was
before had become something else altogether. Odette's and Kamara's eyes were
locked on each others and their breathing had shallowed. Abdu stopped himself
from passing on the joint and disturbing his friends revere, slowed his pace and
created some distance. Left them to it, smiling to himself.
They walked like this till they got to the cafe and Abdu awoke them.
“Hey. You two. We're at the cafe.”
“Salamaleikum.” Called the table as they entered the cafe. They were all there.
Fargout, Franz and Gertrude, Madoure.
“Aleikum Salam”, was the reply.
“We've been to see Sarraounia. Kamara couldn't believe it was a true story.”
Odette said smiling at Kamara.
“Ya. She.......” Said Franz.
His words were cut short and finished by Gertrude, “....... lived. An inspiring
leader to her people and others. A hundred years later and she is still inspiring
people.”
Franz tried to add, “The man.......”
And again Gertrude finished his words, “...... who lead the French forces attacking
Sarraounia had underestimated her. Typical. The white racists who colonised
Africa just could not believe that Africans had a thousand year old civilisation
before the white man 'discovered' Africa. Could produce political figures with the
stature of Sarraounia. Or that a woman, a black African woman at that, could
defeat them in war.”
Fargout quickly interjected, “Med Hondo the director of the film is half
Senegalise and half Mauretanian and is following the great Senegalise director
Sembene. The father of African cinema. Films about Africa made by Africans
speaking to truth. It makes a change form all the shite that Hollywood produces
about Africa. How we are used as background for European or American stories.
Or how we had no history or how we all seem to be starving or killing each other
and are unable to help ourselves. Sembene and Hondo have exploded that myth,
at least for Africans whose thinking hasn't been poisoned by hundreds of years of
the white mans propaganda.”
Fargout knew he sounded like a speechifier but he didn't care. He was always
passionate about the lies peddled against Africa and Africans and wanted it to be
known.
“We only used to get the films from Hollywood at home,” Said Kamara, “Like
Rambo, Independence Day and Total Recall. I really enjoyed them like everybody
who went to see them. The excitement, the fights, the good guys winning. But I
always left the films with a feeling of unease, the only black people in the films
seemed to be servants or secondary characters. Sarraounia was something else.
Black Africans as stars.”
Franz started to speak, “Ram.....”
And Gertrude started to interrupt again, “......Bo is.....”
“Gertrude! Bitte!” This time Franz wasn't going to be stopped speaking.
“Sorry Franz. Was I doing it again?” Said Gertrude feeling contrite.
“Ja. Now can I say something please?”
“OK Schatz. Sorry.”
Just as Franz opened his mouth to talk about Rambo, Abdu said, “Rambo is an
aweful film,” looked at Franz and burst out laughing. The whole table curled up.
Franz was that rare thing - a German who could take a joke at his expense and he
joined in the laughter.
When they had all calmed down he said, “Right. Rambo is an aweful film. It
panders to the lie that the Vietnamese were secretly holding American prisoners
of war after their defeat in Vietnam. It shows Vietnamese as just being the
stooges of the evil Russians. That they couldn't have defeated the mighty
Americans by themselves. Its basically propaganda trying to justify America's
murder of millions of Vietnamese.
“Independence Day is another piece of American propaganda. This time as the
saviour of the world. Now that America is the only super-power, only it's
military might can protect the world from enemies. The aliens are metaphor for
anybody that threatens corporate Amerika. The film blatently manipulates
peoples emotions, with the use of music and heightened language, to support
America's imperialism.”
“Total Recall's not like those,” interjected Kamara, “The mutants were the
underdogs and won against the company.”
“No. They didn't win.” Continued Franz, “They benefitted from Schwarzenegger
winning. The superman coming to the rescue of the poor, the disenfranchised,
is a typical Hollywood story line. The poor can never help themselves according
to Hollywood and need the help of a big muscled macho white man and who isn't
disabled. Schwarzenegger the maker of atmospheres and worlds. Schwarzenegger
as God. A German philospher called Neitzche developed the theory of the
superman and Hitler believed him. And its nonsense.”
“How do you know all this.” Asked Kamara, repeating the question he asked
Odette earlier in the day.
“He studied film at the Sorbonne.” Odette answered for Franz. “That's were we
met and became friends. Franz' knowledge of film is second to none. He's here
to write a script for a film but won't tell what it's about.”
“No. I never talk about what I'm writing before its finished because I think I'll
lose the story and the words by talking them instead of writing them. Did that
make sense?” Franz asked more to himself than anyone in particular.
“Yes.” Said Gertrude as she hugged him.
The group of friends that Fargout had introduced Kamara to saw romance in the
air. They had come to accept Kamara as a friend and were pleased for them both.
Odette was always asking for Kamara, and Kamara for Odette and they were
gently ribbed for it, it was obvious the new lovers enjoyed each others company.
And all the while Kamara had his journey at the back of his mind. Odette knew he
would be moving on at some point. Was resigned to it. She took his love while
she had it, would miss him when he left but never regret having loved him. She
had taken him to an internet cafe, taught him the rudiments of the world wide
web and organised an email address for him. They'd keep in touch after he left.
Dakar considers itself the cultural capital of Africa and Odette helped Kamara to
discover it. Not that he needed an introduction to the city's music. Mbalax. He
had heard the songs of Youssou N'Dour and Ismael Lo in Koidu. Had danced with
Mariam to the rhythms. But here, in Dakar the music was different, had a
distinct social meaning being so close to its root. It was also ten years old music
and a new, more aggressive sound was emerging from the streets of Dakar. Hip
Hop had reached Senegal and was being changed by it. Made anew by a younger
generation speaking to their own wants and needs and views. Being flavoured
with Wolof. It would grow to displace Mblaxa as the dominant musical form
within four years.
Music is central to the life of Senegal and Dakar. It was everywhere, or so it
seems. Stalls in markets blare out the songs they are selling. Drifting on the
air from out the sea-breezed houses of the rich and the hovels in the slums of the
poor. Where ever he turned people would look like they were dancing as they
walked or strolled. No one could not dance to the rhythms of Mbalax. Nor ears
miss the ghetto-blasters blazing hip hop and not join in the rapping. Dakar's
music had grown to travel the world and then brought back new sounds,
instruments and tunes.
Kamara had seen groups of kids from the slums clearing away illegal rubbish
dumps, painting murals on any wall they could find and all the while singing
'Set-Setaal' ('Clean - Let's Be Clean'). A social movement had been created from
the songs of Youssou N'Dour. Odette had told him about the album 'Set'
released in 1990, that in Wolof 'Set' means 'clean' or 'pure' and that young
kids like her in 1990 went out and started cleaning up the city. For what ever
reason, the city government wasn't doing it. No one organised them but
themselves and it was still going on, not as intensely but still happening.
Things were going well for Kamara in Dakar and were about to get better. For
the past three months he had been working the Railway market, building up his
stash for the next leg of his journey. New friends had been discovered and his
love for Odette had deepened. She had shown him the Internet and taught him
the rudiments of using it for research. He was still sharing a room with the
father and son and still carried his belongings and tools of his trade with him
where ever he went.
He was in the cafe when Fargout approached him, “Salamaleikum Kamara.”
“Aleikum Salam.” Replied Kamara extending his hand to met his friend's.
“I want to ask you a favour Kamara.” Fargout asked.
“If I'm capable of fulfilling it, I will Fargout.”
“In a month I travel to France.” Said Fargout.
“Why?” Was Kamara's suprised response.
“You know I told about my father being a white Frenchman working as an
administrator in pre-independence Dakar. Well despite his other family in
France, my half brothers and sisters, he recognised me as a son which means I
have both Senegalise and French citizenship and Senegalise and French passports.
Good Eh?
“Every year I go to join a troupe of preformers that tour around France for three
months. There are about 12 of us. Acrobats, Magicians, Jugglers. We visit
towns and cities when they are holding their annual festivals. Places like Ameins,
Angers, Lorient, Nantes and Toulouse.”
Romantic names that held Kamara's attention and pushed the unknown favour to
the back of his mind.
“In France they hold festivals for anything. Puppet theatre, film, music, food -
the French adore their food, treat it with reverence. They even have festivals
celebrating comics and each town has a different festival.
“Anyway. I can earn as much in France in three months as I can earn in nine
months here. The money from juggling in Dakar helps keep the cafe going. What
I earn in France goes on improving the cafe. Last year I earned enough to build
the stage. The year before I earned enough to refit the kitchen. This year I'm
hoping to bring enough back to build an extension in the yard that will be an
internet cafe. You know that Abdu owns some internet cafes in Marrakesh. Well
he's said that he will help with the computers and setting it up.”
Kamara was slowly starting to see the direction that Fargout was taking, “What
happens to your pitch at the Kermel?” He asked.
“Thats the favour I want to ask. Would you take over the pitch for the three
months I'm in France? I've already spoken to the stall holders and they have
agreed to you doing it. But not at the price I get from them. I've managed to get
them to give you 70% of the retainer I get.”
A wide-eyed grin from ear to ear gave Fargout his answer.
“The other thing is. I will be taking Madoure with me. His room will be empty
and he has asked if it would be alright for you to use it while he is away. I've said
yes. So do you?”
Kamara just nodded. Dumbfounded and grinning like a child in a storm of
Butterflies.
“You've asked him then?” Said Odette as she entered the cafe and saw Kamara and
Fargout shaking hands and laughing.
“You'll have enough to get to Britain by the time Fargout gets back.” She said to
Kamara with a smile, pleased for him. (It disquised the pain she felt knowing he
would leave. Had to leave. Had to achieve the goals he had set himself since
escaping Koidu. The arriving at Britain and the answering of Fatimas question.
The arc of light and Fatima's question is ever with him.)
The time for juggling in the Kermel had arrived and Kamara was nervous. Fargout
had given him an old set of clubs to learn with and find new tricks. He'd been
using them for a month and wasn't very proficient. But it would come. His skills
with the other tools of his trade were almost as good as Fargout's. He had
mastered the complicated patterns of the balls, most of them. Cross Arm
Tennis, Burkes Barrage, Mills Mess, Rubenstein's Revenge all names that
Fargout had taught him. Most of the moves he had discovered himself.
Madoute had been spenting time with him at the beach showing the workings of
the Diabolo. Holding the handsticks properly, was easy. It was the same as the
devilsticks he was so good at as a boy. The next step, getting the eggcup to spin
on the string above the ground, took a week. Then another week to gain control
of the spinning Diabolo. The faster it spins, the more stable it is. Chinese
whipping and he could spin the eggcup really fast. He overdid the spin once. To
confident to early and he tied himself up in knots. Madoute scoffed. By the time
of his debut at the Kermel he had learnt to throw the Diabolo high enough for
him to do a double pirouette, or sit down and stand up, or cartwheel before he
caught it. Madoute applauded.
Madoute and Karama had fun playing long distance passing with the diabolo, trying
to extend the distance between them every time they threw and caught the eggcup
from and to each other. They did it at the Kermel before Madoute went to
France. Fargout had suggested it as a way to introduce Kamara to the pitch. The
space was not enough for them to reach the record they made at the beach. At
Kermel they were limited to 15 feet. Impressive enough for the stall holders and
audience.
They all came from the cafe to watch his solo debut at the Kermel and give him
support. Fargout, Madoure, Abdu, Franze and Gertrude. Odette came too but
she only stayed for the first 10 minutes, Kamara's opening few moves and general
clowning were already drawing a crowd and his confidence was steady.
The cafe wasn't really the same without Fargout and Madoure. The atmosphere
was still good. Pinda, a 50 year old Wolof matriarch who ran the cafe for Fargout
and was rumoured to be in love with him, worked hard to keep up the ambience.
It was good, but different and Kamara found himself drawing closer to Franz and
Getrude. He told them his story.
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