A Trail of Crab Tracks by Patrice Nganang

Author:Patrice Nganang
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

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It’s freezing at the top of Mount Kupe, even if there is no snow. The forest around Kupe-Tombel is as thick as the jungle, but then fades into coffee plantations and, finally, into houses with damp, grassy courtyards. The town wakes up to an orchestra of roosters, and falls asleep to another of crickets. The mountain itself—which is a refuge for weaver birds, sparrows, village weavers, and shrikes—rises lazily in the afternoon, swathed in clouds of mist. In those years, it was also the refuge of the tsuitsuis, but not everyone knew that, because they were active only at night. The town didn’t yet have electricity, so she kept her eyes closed as they marched through. Only nocturnal animals disturbed the calm of the reeds as the tsuitsuis went back and forth along the paths they’d cleared. Sometimes monkeys gamboled alongside them, jumping from branch to branch, and there were also crows, whose haphazard flights made the superstitious troops shudder. Sometimes they’d hear a noise in the distance. Those marching would pause to listen for the echo. Soon an owl would open its eyes and then cut through the air as it gracefully took flight.

“Na balock i dé,” one of them murmured. That’s bad luck.

Several times the tsuitsuis had to gather branches to rebuild an abandoned bridge. They covered their tracks once they’d passed. The closer they got to the summit, the quieter they grew, because they were confronted by the immensity, by the monumental significance, of the freedom they’d chosen. They walked single file, with porters bringing up the rear. Only their breathing, the crunching of grass, and the soft sound of their steps gave away their presence. At several crossroads, they met sentinels who cleared the way, quickly waving them on. They were young boys whose eyes had been open all night. They stood tall when they saw their leaders. Singap gave them an encouraging pat on the back. He seemed inured to fatigue, despite the steep incline and the slippery terrain.

“Assiah!” he called out to them. Courage!

“Wi dé!” was the response he heard. We’re here!

They arrived in a clearing in front of a series of gigantic boulders, which turned out to be entrances to grottoes. Suddenly the grottoes came alive with noise, and men came running out.

“Commander,” they said. “Commander!”

The Sinistrés were dressed in an odd assortment of mismatched clothes. Each one had his own particular style, but most wore shorts and had homemade plastic sandals, dschangtchouss, on their feet. Some had on shirts with buttons, which made it easy to recognize the lieutenants. No one wore a hat, though some had a gourd or even a cooking pot on their heads, and bags tied around their hips; those with a real sense of humor protected their heads with a cracked chamber pot. Some had ammunition belts. Most had wooden rifles, or else the machetes typically carried by the peasants they seemed to be. There were several hundred of the fellows; with their bright eyes piercing through the shadows and their shoulders squared, they were an imposing sight.

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