The Amputated Memory by Werewere Liking

Author:Werewere Liking [Liking, Werewere; Jager, Marjolijn de; Mielly, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781558618770
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY

27

The first few houses are located about one kilometer away on the other side of the hill. I cannot take the risk of leaving the cement by the roadside to go and find help. If a Bissoumè happens to pass by, he will steal the cement so that we won’t be able to bury Grand Pa in the specific manner that prevents people from exhuming the bones.

Ah, the Bissoumè, those body snatchers, what a curse they are! What do they do with the bones? As soon as someone in our region dies, the Bissoumè begin to roam around and use almost any malevolent skill to exhume the bodies. It seems they’re already succeeding in moving coffins long distances below the earth, as if with a subterranean electric drill. They say there is trafficking in bones to manufacture various poisons, powerful talismans, and heaven knows what else. They even say there are photographic film factories in the West where they use nothing but human bones. Yet, no Soumè is known to be wealthy. What do they do, then, with the money they earn? What do our sorcerers do with their knowledge? What do we do with our mystical powers? Why do we choose this kind of gratuitous turmoil, which weighs so heavily on this side of the world?

While my mind is dwelling on these gloomy thoughts, I have the distinct feeling that I am being spied on. My nerves are on edge, and the hair on my skin stands on end. I turn around so abruptly that the person behind the bush doesn’t have time to hide again, and I recognize him.

It takes me a moment to calm the shaking inside my belly, and then I call out to him by name, for it’s one of my uncles!

“Why are you hiding behind the bushes and spying on me, Uncle Minkéng? Do you think I’m keeping one of the policemen hidden inside my pagne and that he’ll catch you to make you pay your taxes? Get out of there and help me carry the cement to the top of the hill before it gets dark and the Bissoumè make it disappear! Unless you’re one of them, as they say, and you’re getting ready to attack me. In that case, go ahead and be quick, if you dare.”

He obeys my voice, which I made as firm and calm as that of Grand Madja. When faced with an enemy, she always said, calmness and serenity were the only truly protective talismans. My uncle extricates himself from the shrubbery and stammers: “What, me a Soumè? You’ve got to be kidding? You know yourself that . . . eh . . . the cops and I, eh . . . I just wanted to make sure they weren’t going to hurt you.”

Then he picks up a sack and begins to climb the hill.

“Watch out, Uncle Minkéng, I’ve got my eye on you! Don’t try to run off with the cement. I beg you to put it

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