The World Behind the shadows

Kona had been walking for hours. This long journey, which had started 6 days earlier, had shown him beauties from an Africa he had never suspected. Amazed by Dakar, it was the setting sun that reminded him of the time of the meeting. On the way back, he got lost. Questions here and there, posed to passers-by, were of great help to him, but when he arrived, no one was present. The fishermen were putting away their nets, the women were still brazing fish, but no familiar faces appeared to him. He had given them his bag, the trip was paid for, but no one was waiting for him. Distraught, he cried for a long time.

His troubled mind traveled to his home, to his family in Cameroon. His father was doubtful about his dream of England, his mother just wanted him happy. The legal steps he had taken to enable his departure were unsuccessful. Refusing to fail, he believed the word of a smuggler who took him across part of the continent only to steal everything from him. He had worked for months in this company, where all day long, he carried bags of cement. He was overwhelmed with shame, for he had run away one night, without a word of goodbye and ended up alone, on his knees, in the sand. Not on the boat that was supposed to take him to his dream.

Suddenly, the voice of a man sitting on a canoe broke his moment of dismay. The man had seen him that morning smiling, his eyes shining as the others laughed behind him. The man approached, observed him, put one knee on the ground and said, “Sometimes we are exactly where we are suppose to be”. He sat down and patiently waited for the young man to come to his senses. The two were silent. The sound of the sea brought a solitary song. The man handed him a black book and said:

“I am the guardian of this notebook. For a long time, i have been looking for a good man. And it’s not an easy task. Until today. Until you. When I saw you, I knew you were the one”

“Why should I take it? What do you mean by the guardian?”

“Find a place to stay, get some rest and read the stories from that book. Every single one of them and you will find all the answers to your questions and more…”

He smiled, whispered one last word to him and walked away. Kona peeked at it, laid it casually in the sand, only to shove it in his pocket…

Kona was born into one of those families where everything seemed perfect. A managerial father, a teacher mother, a brilliant little sister and himself, graduated with honours from one of the top universities in Douala. Kona was a young man of twenty-four years old with a bright future. His peers envied how far he had progressed academically. His teachers invited him to come into their classes and inspire complacent students. ‘Your son is brilliant! He will become rich. He will build you a beautiful house one day, like those in Hollywood!’ His father’s friends exclaimed in jest, torn between jealousy and sincerity.

Yet Kona felt tormented and frustrated. He had received nothing but rejection letters from recruiters for several months. He still lived with his parents and avoided his father's gaze at every family dinner. He refused any help and assured his father that everything was under control. He wanted to be his own hero.

In the old days, his mother dreamed of building houses, but teaching was the only option for her. Sometimes she would come home tired, but could not stop because Leila, his little sister, also dreamed of studying at a big university. His father never spoke of dreams. He loved Louis Armstrong, that was for sure. He had invested in vinyl records from the jazz artist. Years ago, he had found a vintage record player at a tucked away flea market in a small village near Paris. When music started, his face lit up and he became the personification of joy. He and his wife would spend Sunday evenings lost in music, swaying away the hours in each other’s embrace. Just like his father before him.

Their neighbors said that they lived beyond their means. ‘They have rich tastes and rich dreams, but they live in a working-class neighborhood where mice always find a way to poke holes in the walls. These comments did not affect his father. Every morning he kissed his wife on the forehead in plain sight and left with his back straight and head held high. Kona adored his father. He wanted to be a man like him. He dreamed of buying him a brand-new car, giving his mother the chance to build a house she could design, allowing Leila to go to a prestigious school, maybe even in the United States. A part of him wanted to kill with jealousy all the hateful souls in the area.

He was not indifferent to the words of others, instead, they haunted him. So much so that he ended up in ER almost gasping for air. A doctor told him he was anxious. “Today’s children are so fragile, they have white people diseases”. He shook his head. Concern spread over his father's face, Kona said nothing.

Misfortune never comes alone. He met an old friend, Bertrand. All the women wanted to be with him. Being seen with this young man who lived in London and only wore Rolex watches was their only escape from their reality, their poverty. Coming from a family protected by the president, they exhibited to anyone passing a fortune whose origin was unknown.

Kona had a drink with the young man. Watched him with so much envy, almost jealousy. Bertrand told him how good it was to live in England, how easy it would be for him to find a job there, to buy a nice house.

This is how in a few words, on a lazy afternoon, the young man decided to conquer the West. A conquest, which it seems ended here in front of this beach where he lost everything: his money, his honour, his family, his dignity ...

He did not know what to do with this small black book. Or what to do with what the man whispered in his ear. ‘That poor fool was right, you can't build your empire away from the place where you want to build it. So, as humiliated as I am, I have to go home. With a little luck my mother will understand. But dad… Dad will be so disappointed "

Terror invaded him. If he returned home he had to be rich. He decided to work right there on this beach, with fishermen. He was hopeful that by staying there, another boat would come and take him to England.

A few days later, he teamed up with a fisherman, who offered him to sleep on the floor at his home and work during the day in exchange for a small salary.

One evening after a long, miserable day of fishing, he walked to the water's edge. David, the fisherman watched him sadly, he didn't know how to help this young man he thought was lost, poor and without family. Once on the beach, he pulled out the small Black book, lit a fire and began reading.

The stories were about young people who, like him, had ventured on this journey. He read all night. As the sun tore the sky with these shards, announcing the day, he began the last story.

I don’t know who will read this old book, but I have to write my story here as I’m the keeper. I left my country, Cameroon, to live like those my father called Master. They were always nicely dressed, ate things my mom didn’t know how to cook, lived in big white houses, and had parties on weekends. It was said that life was much better in France. In Paris, Black people could become whatever they wanted. Some had even become famous. Here, we colonised people are neither Africans nor French. After the Nazis destroyed their country in The World War II, workers from the colonies were recruited to rebuild France. It was said that you could have apartments and build a beautiful family there. I wanted to be part of their group, I dreamed of wearing the latest costumes and buying a Dior dress for my wife.

I took the plane, went there and saw the one they called master: he was over there, an ordinary man. The war had done a lot of damage, my people worked without counting the hours. To be validated by them was an obsession. The most curious thing for me was to see that white men could be poor too: some were begging for food on the street, some were sleeping there too. Back home, it would’ve been impossible to see that.

The winters were too cold and the summers were not hot enough. Of course, came the many stereotypes. But there were also stereotypes about themselves: redheads smelled bad, blondes weren't smart, and brunettes prudish and harsh. So how could they love us when they had not yet learnt to love themselves? Some good people were saying good things about us. One day, one of the workers, who was watching me often, came forward and said: "in your country, the weather is always good and hot, the land is fertile, you even seem smart so why come here? Live our burden, while your home, as the posters say, is an El Dorado? "

I left without saying a word, these questions tormented me for nights ...

One day, I picked up my bag, took the plane, and went home. I told my story to everyone, no one believed me. Tired of explaining myself, I took the road to conquered the beauties of Africa, until I landed here in Dakar. One morning as I was walking on the beach the most improbable happened. A man, very rich looking, stopped me and asked: "If you could be rich, very rich what would you do? "

I replied that I would buy the land in my village to provide food for the next generations, but also to protect our story to help it to survive. I would plant crops, I would transform tomato into a sauce, make cassava powder, I would raise cattle.

Surprised by the simplicity of my answer, he asked me if that was it and I said: every Sunday I would honour the woman of my life by listening to Jazz ...

The letter ended there; the following pages were torn. A secret pocket at the end of the book fed his curiosity. Kona hurriedly opened it, hoping to find the torn pages, instead he found a large wad of dollar bills. The young man screamed and almost choked.

When he was young, he was spending a lot of time with his grandfather. He remembered how this old man could talk about France for hours. He knew that only him could write such a letter.

The day was just starting and Kona was a new man. The money could help him go to England or to stay and be proud of who he was, proud of his heritage. He found a call box and called his father who silently listened to his story.

"What are you going to do son? become the Guardian of the black book or…? "

“I must give it to another one father, another one who needs it more than me. Many souls lost their lives in the sea. I will come home one day my father, I will come back to you. I must give that money to who really needs it…