hands covering his shameful parts.
Then came my turn. I let them pull me to my feet. I was blubbering like a spoiled brat, ‘Child-soldier, small-soldier, soldier-child, I want to be a child-soldier, I want to go to my aunt’s house in Niangbo.’ They kept taking my clothes off and I kept blubbering and crying, ‘Me small-soldier, me child-soldier, me soldier-child.’ Then they ordered me into the jungle but I wouldn’t go, I just stood there with my
bangala
hanging there. I don’t give a shit about modesty, I’m a street kid. (According to the
Petit Robert
, ‘modesty’ means ‘a respect for moral standards’.) I don’t give a fuck about moral standards, I just kept on crying.
One of the child-soldiers poked a kalash in my arse and shouted, ‘
Makou, makou!
’ So I shut up. I was trembling, trembling like the hindquarters of a nanny-goat waiting for a billy-goat(‘hindquarters’ means ‘arse, bum’). I felt like I needed to do pee-pee, to do pooh, to do everything.
Walahé!
Next came a woman, a mother. She got down from the truck with her baby in her arms. A stray bullet had put a hole in the poor baby and killed it. The mother wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around: she refused to take off her clothes. They tore off her
pagne
(according to the
Glossary
, a ‘
pagne
’ is an item of traditional female clothing consisting of a piece of cloth without fastenings wrapped around the body). She refused to run into the forest, she stood beside me and Yacouba, on the side of the road, holding her dead baby in her arms. She started crying, ‘My baby, my baby.
Walahé! Walahé!
‘ When I heard her, I started crying like the spoiled brat again, ‘I want to go to Niangbo, I want to be a child-soldier.
Faforo! Walahé! Gnamokodé!
’
The concert got too deafening, too loud, and they finally started to pay attention. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ they ordered, and we went
makou
. ‘Don’t move!’ and we stood to attention by the side of the road, like a bunch of fuckwits.
And then a four-by-four came out of the jungle. It was full of child-soldiers. They didn’t wait for a signal, they just started looting the trucks. They took everything worth taking. They piled all the stuff into the four-by-four. The four-by-four made a couple of trips to the village. After they took all the things in the convoy, they started taking the piles of shoes and clothes and hats. They piled everything into the four-by-four and did another couple of trips. On the last run, the four-by-four brought back Colonel Papa le Bon.
* * *
Walahél
Colonel Papa le Bon was shockingly garbed (according to my
Larousse
, ‘garbed’ means ‘dressed strangely’). For a start Colonel Papa le Bon had colonel’s stripes. That was on account of the tribal wars. Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing a white soutane, a white soutane tied at the waist with a leather belt, a belt held up by a pair of black leather braces crossed across his back and his chest. Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing a cardinal’s mitre. Colonel Papa le Bon was leaning on a pope’s staff, a staff with a crucifix at the top. Colonel Papa le Bon was carrying a bible in his left hand. To top it all off, Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The AK-47 and Colonel Papa le Bon were inseparable, he carried it round with him night and day. That was on account of the tribal wars.
Colonel Papa le Bon stepped out of the four-by-four, he was crying. It’s the truth, he was crying like a baby. He went over and crouched over the body of the child-soldier, the body of the little boy who had tried to stop the convoy. He prayed, then prayed some more. Then Colonel Papa le Bon came towards us. Wearing all the strange stuff he was wearing.
I started to cry again, ‘I want to be a soldier-child, small-soldier, child-soldier, I want my auntie, I want my auntie in Niangbo!’ A child-soldier with a machine-gun tried to make me swallow my sobs,
Then came my turn. I let them pull me to my feet. I was blubbering like a spoiled brat, ‘Child-soldier, small-soldier, soldier-child, I want to be a child-soldier, I want to go to my aunt’s house in Niangbo.’ They kept taking my clothes off and I kept blubbering and crying, ‘Me small-soldier, me child-soldier, me soldier-child.’ Then they ordered me into the jungle but I wouldn’t go, I just stood there with my
bangala
hanging there. I don’t give a shit about modesty, I’m a street kid. (According to the
Petit Robert
, ‘modesty’ means ‘a respect for moral standards’.) I don’t give a fuck about moral standards, I just kept on crying.
One of the child-soldiers poked a kalash in my arse and shouted, ‘
Makou, makou!
’ So I shut up. I was trembling, trembling like the hindquarters of a nanny-goat waiting for a billy-goat(‘hindquarters’ means ‘arse, bum’). I felt like I needed to do pee-pee, to do pooh, to do everything.
Walahé!
Next came a woman, a mother. She got down from the truck with her baby in her arms. A stray bullet had put a hole in the poor baby and killed it. The mother wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around: she refused to take off her clothes. They tore off her
pagne
(according to the
Glossary
, a ‘
pagne
’ is an item of traditional female clothing consisting of a piece of cloth without fastenings wrapped around the body). She refused to run into the forest, she stood beside me and Yacouba, on the side of the road, holding her dead baby in her arms. She started crying, ‘My baby, my baby.
Walahé! Walahé!
‘ When I heard her, I started crying like the spoiled brat again, ‘I want to go to Niangbo, I want to be a child-soldier.
Faforo! Walahé! Gnamokodé!
’
The concert got too deafening, too loud, and they finally started to pay attention. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ they ordered, and we went
makou
. ‘Don’t move!’ and we stood to attention by the side of the road, like a bunch of fuckwits.
And then a four-by-four came out of the jungle. It was full of child-soldiers. They didn’t wait for a signal, they just started looting the trucks. They took everything worth taking. They piled all the stuff into the four-by-four. The four-by-four made a couple of trips to the village. After they took all the things in the convoy, they started taking the piles of shoes and clothes and hats. They piled everything into the four-by-four and did another couple of trips. On the last run, the four-by-four brought back Colonel Papa le Bon.
* * *
Walahél
Colonel Papa le Bon was shockingly garbed (according to my
Larousse
, ‘garbed’ means ‘dressed strangely’). For a start Colonel Papa le Bon had colonel’s stripes. That was on account of the tribal wars. Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing a white soutane, a white soutane tied at the waist with a leather belt, a belt held up by a pair of black leather braces crossed across his back and his chest. Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing a cardinal’s mitre. Colonel Papa le Bon was leaning on a pope’s staff, a staff with a crucifix at the top. Colonel Papa le Bon was carrying a bible in his left hand. To top it all off, Colonel Papa le Bon was wearing an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The AK-47 and Colonel Papa le Bon were inseparable, he carried it round with him night and day. That was on account of the tribal wars.
Colonel Papa le Bon stepped out of the four-by-four, he was crying. It’s the truth, he was crying like a baby. He went over and crouched over the body of the child-soldier, the body of the little boy who had tried to stop the convoy. He prayed, then prayed some more. Then Colonel Papa le Bon came towards us. Wearing all the strange stuff he was wearing.
I started to cry again, ‘I want to be a soldier-child, small-soldier, child-soldier, I want my auntie, I want my auntie in Niangbo!’ A child-soldier with a machine-gun tried to make me swallow my sobs,
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