Who Slashed Celanire's Throat? by Maryse Condé Page B

grand-sounding speech. Noblesse oblige! The king’s conversion to the True God was an event of paramount importance with promising consequences for the future as well as a productive collaboration for prospective relations between Africa and Europe. It was almost as if Celanire had dictated the words to him, they were so close to her ideas. Exasperated, Hakim was about to take his leave when Celanire herself arrived, accompanied by her inseparable widow Desrussie. Felix Koffi, the new Christian, who could now put together a few words of French, rushed toward her: “Ça wa ben? Ça wa ben?”
    It was pathetic!
    Celanire was decked all in white—dress, shoes, and hat—as if it had been her baptism. Around her neck, a choker of white velvet embroidered with tiny multicolored flowers. She thus appeared the most virginal of virgins. She gave a discreet nod to Hakim as if, a few days earlier, her hand had not groped around inside his trousers, and lavished Felix Koffi with smiles. What were her plans for the fat lump? What was she hoping to fleece him of?
    Hakim did not have to wait long for an answer.
    Three days later, Betti Bouah informed him that Felix Koffi had made a gift of his land neighboring the Ebrié lagoon to the Home for Half-Castes—a good dozen acres in all. The gift was especially shocking as the tribe’s land did not actually belong to the king. He was merely the guardian on behalf of the community. Which counsel of elders had he consulted for permission? Betti Bouah worked himself into a frenzy and even considered disinheriting his cousin. There was no longer any justice. The native courts under the thumb of Thomas de Brabant did everything the French dictated.
    Surprise! Surprise! Kwame Aniedo proved he was a true Akan and had no intention of turning his back on the gods of his ancestors. Refusing to convert, he left the royal compound. Betti Bouah took him in, gave him a room next to Hakim’s, and offered him a job. But Kwame Aniedo had no intention of working himself to death, he who already saw himself in a white-collar job in Dakar, and as an excuse said he needed all his time to prepare for his examination. As a result, Hakim’s torture started up all over again. Every day he came face-to-face with Kwame Aniedo. He would even come home to find Kwame lying on his bed, leafing through his books and smoking his Virginia tobacco, wearing the bathrobe he had bought at the CFAO company store with his savings. For the prince had no notion of private property and helped himself to anything he pleased. The real torture, however, was to hear him again night after night groaning with pleasure with his female conquests, who were still just as numerous.
5
    The year was drawing to a close, and the short rainy season, the one that lasts from October to November, had just begun when the inhabitants of Bingerville debated a subject of conversation of the utmost importance. Charlotte, the wife of Thomas de Brabant, had arrived with her daughter. So the question was who was the loveliest—Celanire or her? Celanire had no particular reason to be jealous of her white rival. Some even dared to prefer her, being of the opinion that Charlotte was melancholic and did not smile enough. Whereas Celanire, vivacious and gracious, was exquisitely polite on the rare occasions they met her in person. The Africans considered that both of them needed filling out, but conceded that Celanire concealed a little more in the places where it was needed. The general opinion was that Charlotte dressed better in the Paris fashion. But Celanire sometimes wore dresses and head ties in the Akan fashion, which the Africans appreciated. In short, opinions differed.
    Sitting in her palace, inaugurated the previous month with great pomp, Charlotte had lost all interest in life. In other words, she wanted to lie down and die. She had never experienced anything so depressing as Africa or imagined a place so