African Aliens. New edition coming out on June 21, 2013. Please find random pages for your reading pleasure. This book is dedicated to the memory of my late beloved friend, Al Hadji Sankung Jaiteh of Katchang, North Bank Division of the Gambia, who prematurely passed away in Paris on October 22, 2008 just at the age of 49. We will always remember your tenderness, your humanity, your spirituality and your munificence. Our thoughts and prayers are with you until we meet you in Heaven. Sitting at the bottom of a high mountain, looking up at some alpine flowers, Sainy was waiting. He had to reach the top of the mountain, for he needed the flowers as medicine for a beautiful woman at home who was feverishly ill. He grasped the wall, climbed smoothly, then suddenly lost his grip and was falling. He felt his legs flying, flailing and knocking against some hard object. During the course of this unpleasant descent he heard a distant female voice, appealing, yet authoritative: “We are starting our descent towards Orly International Airport; please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts securely. The temperature in the French capital is 16 degrees Celsius.” When he opened his eyes he was astonished to find most of the passengers staring in his direction. Had he called out during his fall off the mountain? Perhaps he had shrieked all the way down, his black skin reddened in embarrassment. He tightened his seat belt, put his hands over his ears and yawned in a long and exaggerated manner that he hoped suggested to his fellow passengers that he had called out because of pressure in his ears. As if he had triggered a switch, the plane did it again, another stomach-churning drop. It fell a long way rapidly and then struggled to level out, its engines making thunderous noises. Sainy imagined two engines had dropped off and the pilot was fighting to regain control with those that were left. He was a first-time flyer and could feel tension all down his arms to his finger tips, which were now locked around the armrests, pulling them upwards like joysticks to help the pilot keep the plane in the air. He heard a voice calling the crew to prepare for landing, and a little later the wheels of the Brussels Airlines jumbo banged down hard onto the tarmac runway. The engines screamed with reverse thrust, and the ground flashed past the window at horrifying speed. Some of the passengers clapped as though the pilot had pulled off a miracle. Sainy was sure he had just survived one of the world’s great near-miss aviation disasters. Knowing how much he had personally helped by pulling upwards on those armrests, he blushed with satisfied pride. Soon the plane’s speed diminished to a comfortable trundle, and a few minutes later it eased to a halt amongst a row of big planes from all over the world. What an international world Sainy had just become part of. He was now somebody who had travelled. Life would never be the same again. “We hope you have enjoyed travelling with us; we thank you for choosing us and hope to see you again on board Brussels Airlines...,” said the voice. The stewards opened the doors, and hundreds of passengers of all races and cultures and shapes surged through to safety, dragging enormous volumes of cabin baggage with them to the waiting coach. A tall angular man in garments as yellow as a golden guinea stepped out of the aircraft and quickened his pace to match the urgency of the other passengers who were hastening past him faster than when they got onto the plane at Banjul International. This was Europe. If you did not run here you slipped back. Sainy was big and fit and confident. He knew he could run with the best of them. He braced his shoulders, lifted his head high and strode boldly forward into his future. On his head he sported a red cap embroidered on the front with a parrot, and the word ‘Gambia.’ It proclaimed his identity in this new world. How different Europe smelled, and how drab and soggy it looked outside the windows. He shivered a slightly shuddering shiver that started in his bones and vibrated to the curves of his broad shoulders. Yet it was now the month of March, when Europe was almost out of its sombre season and the weather was only nippy. There was a raw dampness in the air he had never before encountered, not even during the great thunderstorms from the sea at the beginning of the West African rainy season. He had a relatively easy time at Immigration and now stood near the moving baggage conveyor, waiting to spot his bag with its Nike trademark. A number of bags went around many times without his bag showing up. He chewed a small fingernail while considering the implications of this. Then more and more of the other passengers from his flight joined the waiting throng and his anxiety subsided. The plane had been bigger than ten mini-buses going up-country, so the crew must still be hauling the bags out of the hold. What a baggage hall: it was vast and shining. There were hundreds of people waiting with trolleys, and hundreds more milling about like ants when a stone is turned over, all transporting and restructuring their belongings and home. Then, there it was, his own precious bag with the strong ju-ju Nike name that had protected it all the way from the Gambia. He grabbed it with joy, stood upright, and looked around. Momentarily the cautious part of him was gripped by ‘what-next’ bewilderment, and the home-loving part of him was reluctant to leave the plane’s proximity, a psychological umbilical cord, it was going back to the Gambia... But then his enthusiasm and the prospects lying ahead took charge, and stepping smartly forward he ordered his doubts to follow with their eyes wide open. When he spotted a light blue flag with a ring of golden stars his heart felt proud. Europe! A sign said ‘Taxis.’ He moved towards the exit, his eyes sweeping around him like a hunter menaced by forest-devils, for he had been warned of the dangers in foreign airports. Then, there before him were the great glass automatic doors, and he walked through to the outside. Fame and fortune were surely waiting for him here on this great sub-continent of golden stars, this land of opportunity for African youth, this dreamland of manifest destiny where the streets were paved with gold and the libraries full of books. A taxi driver leapt out of a silver Mercedes and threw open the boot for the bag, and held open the passenger door for Sainy. Impressed by this courtesy, Sainy stepped in, sinking a full metre into the dark velvet plushness of the interior. The Mercedes slid easily out into the traffic, accelerating, and when Sainy was next able to look out of the smoked glass windows he found they were rushing towards the city of Paris. He recalled moments on the Banjul-Serekunda highway, walking on foot, when company directors and wealthy businessmen had driven past him. They were curiosities to him then, part of another world. Now he himself was inside one of these sumptuous symbols of status, and here he was speeding into the city just like the owner of a very big Lebanese supermarket. In the side pocket on his Nike bag, dumped in the boot of the taxi, slept a precious note given to him by his uncle for a certain Pa Janneh. He had memorised Janneh’s address, along with the verbal instructions his uncle had given him on their way to the airport on the Coastal Road, and had further repeated it while checking in. “Keep this note carefully. It contains my friend’s address and telephone number. He’s a very good friend of mine, and a good man too. He will surely take care of you. Extend my warmest greetings to Janneh. But watch out for his wife. As you know, she does not have a good reputation here. They say she has adopted the white man’s way of life.” The driver had a big face with sticking-out ears, and a long, bony nose that hung like a hovering eagle over a moustache the size of a small rat. He was a gentle, androgynous looking man with a short body. Going past towering blocks of flats, Sainy’s eyes followed the buildings upwards, like a spectator at an air show. The driver had been monitoring him since their departure from the airport, but been silent until now. He watched Sainy bending his head to see these towering structures and, in a gentle voice, asked. “Ça va?” “Ça va bien, merci,” replied Sainy. “You no speak français?” the driver asked. “Tu viens d’où?” “What? Do?” “You no speak no French?” “Sorry Sir, not very well.” “You no well?” “I mean I can’t speak French properly.” “Waya you come from?” “I’m a Gambian.” “Waya Gambian is?” “The name of the country is the Gambia, not Gambian.” “Yes me know.” “The Gambia is on the west coast of Africa, surrounded by Senegal except at the mouth of the river that flows into the Atlantic Ocean.” “Oh yes, me see dzat small country like a snake.” “Not like a snake; it is rather like a tongue. It’s the tongue of Africa.” “Wat tongue is?” the driver asked. “Your tongue is in your mouth; you can neither talk nor eat without it,” said Sainy pushing out his tongue for the driver to see. “Gambia is tongue! Comment - how?” “That’s just a simile, my friend!” They kept talking like that, while Sainy’s eyes continued their reconnaissance, closing and opening, blinking, rolling, and trying to figure out everything they drove past. After a moment of silence, the driver, with a superior manner, continued his inquisition, smiling every time he glanced at Sainy in the mirror. Upset by the driver’s attitude, Sainy prayed for nature to keep the creature’s mouth shut, but nature was not listening. The driver continued. “Me is you fren?” “Yes, you’re my friend.” “How many people are dzeya in Gambia?” “You say ‘population’.” “How many population are dzeya?” “No, not how many population? You should say, ‘What is the population?’” “Yes me know. Dze population people live in house?” “This time not ‘population people,’ but the people…’’ “Ooh la la!” Sainy laughed. The driver pretended to be mortified but continued: “You haf televisiyon, road, bank and car?” “Yes, yes, yes.” “You haf monky in Gambie?” “What monkey thing are you talking about?” Sainy asked a little crossly. The driver laughed saying “No, no, pardon. Me joke only.” Sainy did not reply. “You marry many femmes?” The driver continued. “What is fam?” The driver took his hands off the steering wheel, folded all the fingers of each hand into fists with the tips of his thumbs peeping out, and put these fists on his chest. Sainy laughed, feeling easier now the driver had to resort to sign language, and temporarily forgetting he was in a car hurtling along the busy highway at 130 kilometres an hour with no hands on the wheel. “Oh! I see wives. Some people have two, three, four and even five wives, but the maximum Islam allows is four.” “Wat bout you fada?” “My father has one wife, but my uncle has three.” The driver looked suitably impressed, as though it was a proper number, but then burst out laughing. “Oh African, why you uncle marry tree wifes?” “I don’t know,” Sainy said, irked. “And you marry?” “No I’m not. And you, you’re married?” “You uncle wife fight sometime?” The driver ignored his question. “No, they have never fought in my presence. Why do you ask me all these questions?” “Because you me fren; you tok me is you fren.” He reached into his shirt pocket and gave Sainy a visiting card giving his name as François Dumond, his address and telephone number. “Call me, me fren, d’accord?” “Okay,” Sainy said, deciding to live with the driver’s familiarity. “You have gay people in Africa?” the driver asked. Sainy did not know the word ‘gay,’ but he gave a guarded, “Oh yes,” and carefully slid the small card into his pocket. The taxi pulled up before No. 7 Rue Myhra. Buoyant at his survival skills in getting so far, Sainy paid the driver and pulled himself out of the depths of the taxi. “No forget, you telephone mi one day; good for you. D’accord!” Sainy nodded with a cheerful smile. The driver winked, cast wistful eyes at him, waved and pulled away. The street was full of coloured people and whites, though none of these whites were like the German and Scandinavian tourists Sainy used to see in Banjul and Bakau. He stood gawking at a scene on the other side of the street until he locked eyes with a man standing before him, selling bangles and chains, saying “Camarade, l’or pure – Comrade, pure gold.” He tried to dodge the man, but he caught him by the wrist and held him, insisting that he should buy something –“C’est bon pour toi – it’s good for you.” “I have no money,” pleaded Sainy. “You got how much?” the man spoke a little English. This was familiar territory to Sainy. He was well acquainted with the merchants at Banjul’s Albert market and their direct pressure salesmanship. Once in Dakar at Marché Sandaga, Wolof merchants cornered and beat him calling him con gambien – stupid Gambian, just because he had no money to buy their wares. Fearing something like that happening again, he slipped the man’s grasp and moved on. Three people, one black, the other two both white, but one not as white as the other, lay on the pavement next to No. 7, with large bottles containing ruby liquid standing near them. The bottles stretched their long necks upwards like hooting swans calling. Sainy had the impression that they had a message for him, though it was one he did not yet understand. He stared at them for long seconds. Seeing a black man passing, he walked towards him and asked if he knew Pa Janneh. The man nodded eagerly, smiled a knowing smile, pointed to No. 7 and hurried on. Sainy entered No. 7.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 14:02:56 +0000
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