Tierno Monénembo - The King of Kahel

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Mr. and Mrs. Bruno Olivier de Sanderval for graciously opening their archives to me.

Mr. RovH Morgre, Mr. Philippe Abriol, and the entire staff of the Archives dpartementales de Caen for their warm reception and availability.

My headmaster, Djibril Tamsir Niane, for giving me the idea for this book, and Professor Ismal Barry for providing invaluable information.

The Centre National du Livre for its equally invaluable grant.

H E WAS ON THE STAIRS , leaving home to catch his boat, when his wifes shrill voice stopped Olivier de Sanderval in his tracks: My poor dear Aim, look what youve forgotten!

He touched his hot ears and his trembling back, then cast an imploring glance at the gentle little monster who had just chastised him.

What is it, my dear Rose? You yourself helped me to pack my bags!

What about this?

She produced the object of controversy from behind her back.

Oh! This is really no time to joke, my dear! Must I remind you that I am on the verge of leaving for Africa? For Timbo?

Exactly! she interrupted, cutting ahead of him into the courtyard, where the servants were finishing loading his trunks and hitching up the horses.

Dont tell me youre going to reopen my suitcase just for that!

Indeed!

But what possible use could I have for that among the Negroes?

Youll wear it to act in their opera.

In other circumstances, I would happily agree, my dear. After all, I did marry you for your colorful dresses and exotic necklaces, the flowers in your hair, and those impromptu singing exercises you sometimes launch into in churches and tearooms. But playing Mephistopheles for the Negroes is something else entirely.

But his beloved torturer had already closed the trunk again. He kissed her goodbye and climbed into his buggy thinking, Ill throw that disguise away at the portor once Im on the boatThats it, Ill throw it overboard. Im going to Africa to become a king, not a buffoon! But the costume was soon forgotten and stayed with him throughout the trip.

A few months later, that oversight would save his lifewhen the Fulas threatened to behead him.

He took a last look at his farmhouse, admired its saddleback roof, its ocher walls, and the olive green of its many shutters. It was still hard for him to believe that Napoleon had slept here the day after the siege of Toulon and dreamed of marrying Dsire Clary, the households eldest daughter. He chuckled to himself and wondered what would have become of France if she had chosen Napoleon rather than Bernadotte, whom she would marry shortly before he was crowned Charles XIV, king of Sweden. Then the first Republic collapsed, and then the first Empire, and then the Pastrsyou know, the famous shipownershappened along and bought the farmhouse, and then he happened along and married Pastrs daughter.

Now, some eighty-six years after Bernadotte, he was stepping across the same threshold on his way to claim his own crown. Could that really be attributed to happenstance? And he wasnt going just anywherehe was headed for Fouta Djallon!

The date was November 29, 1879, and it was snowing in Marseille. The mere sight of the port de la Madrague and the avenue du Prado, barely recognizable under their ridiculous coat of white, sent shivers up his spine. He imagined this was exactly what Norway must look like.

As he reached the port, he rubbed his hands together and told himself he couldnt have found a better time to go to Africa.

An agent of the Compagnie des Messageries maritimes led his coachman to the pier where the Niger was docked among the ships bound for Constantinople and the Far East. He waited with the ships captain while his cabin was prepared, half-listening to the captain prattle on about his steamers attributes and the landscapes of Madera and Piscis Island. He felt nervous. The only thing he liked about traveling was the pleasure of arriving. Trains and boats made him nauseous; horseback riding and bicycling made his head spin. He was sorry to think he would be dust in the wind by that faraway time when inexorable progress made it possible to travel to Africa in a fraction of a second.

Breakfast is at seven. Please relax, sir, we are only at the beginning of our adventure.

That may be true for you, Captain, he grumbled. In my case, the adventure started nearly forty years ago.

Forty years: an entire lifetime with his feet on French soil and his mind far, far away, lost in the nebula of the Tropics. A man born in the heart of the nineteenth century could only become a poet, a scholar, or an explorer. He had resolved the question early on. He would be an explorerin other words a poet and a scholar too. At that time, school-yard discussions of the colonies were as popular as hopscotch or marbles. Childrens tales werent about ogres and fairies, but sorcerers and cannibals brandishing assegais as they dashed through the jungle, chasing after a brand-new kind of prey: white priests and colonists.

He had caught the colonies bug listening to his great-uncle Simonets stories. Every night, wild adventures of pioneers of civilization lost among the cannibals, saved from the boiling pots of the Zulus and Papuans at the last moment by the goodness of Christ, sent shivers up and down his spine after long and tedious family dinners. Afterward he would rejoice to huddle up under the covers, delighted that the walls of his room were thick, the roof solid and the doors safely locked against those scarred bandits who prowled the parks of Lyon in the snowy night, searching for tasty little blond boys.

Old Simonet was a real case, the bohemian of the clan, the family wild man. He knocked around Java and Anatolia for years and came back with countless tall tales, strange words, and jaw-dropping novelties. He even introduced France to the marvels of muslin, a major contribution to feminine elegance that made the city of Tarares prosperity. Strangers took off their hats as he passed and greeted the king of muslin. Which was no small thingeven among the Oliviers, where everyone had to invent something before procreating.