The Granta Book of the African Short Story by Helon Habila

Author:Helon Habila
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Short Stories (Single Author), Fiction
ISBN: 1847082475
Publisher: Granta Books
Published: 2011-09-01T07:26:37+00:00

THE FUGITIVE

____________

Alain Mabanckou

Translated from the French by Polly McLean

When I think back to it, seventeen years later, I’m always haunted by the same image. I’m dripping with sweat, out of breath, my mouth is open, and I’m running as fast as my legs will carry me through the endless corridor of Montparnasse-Bienvenüe Station in Paris. These memories are as dogged as the swamp leeches of the Lukula River, all the way back in my hometown of Pointe-Noire, Congo-Brazzaville. As I write these lines today, my heart starts pounding to the beat of those anguished strides – I had never run that fast at home, even on race days at school. I loathed PE, and especially running. At that stage it never occurred to me that one day in the French capital I would pay dearly for this aversion to sport. If I’d been a good runner in my youth, maybe I wouldn’t have been rasping for breath, with my tongue hanging out and my muscles on fire, that day at Montparnasse-Bienvenüe.

But it wasn’t really the moment for regrets over misspent youth. Not the moment for resenting my feeble legs. I had to run. Run from the threat drawing closer with every second. They say that fear gives you wings. To summon some extra speed, I thought of my classmate Ndomba, who could outrun his own shadow. He was our Lucky Luke of the racetrack. How did he do it? He explained that for him, the race took place entirely in his head, because the legs simply carry out the orders of the brain. So it’s the brain that does the running. You just had to imagine the route in your mind, step, by step, by step. We were pretty sceptical – we’d never heard of anyone having legs attached to their brain – but in the end we realized Ndomba was right: by the time we reached the finish line, several minutes behind him, he would already be unlacing his trainers.

He loved to tease us, asking, ‘Where was your brain?’

As I ran like the devil through the massive Paris station crammed with passengers, I murmured to myself that I was speedier than my shadow, that Ndomba was watching over me. And in fact I could see his face. I was channelling his legs. Channelling his brain. It was as if he was whispering, ‘Run! Run! Fast! Fast! Follow the route in your head! Don’t look back or they’ll catch you!’

But the thing was, I didn’t know the station. A real maze. How to imagine my route so I could shake off the men hot on my heels? All I could see in my mind was a wasteland. I had only been in France two months. I lived on the outskirts of the city, at Garges-lès-Gonesse, with my cousin Djoudjou. He was always telling me to avoid Montparnasse-Bienvenüe Station: ‘I’ve had loads of mates sent back home from there. You should avoid it. It’s a real rabbit warren. You’d have to

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