Simonobisick is a character from Blick Bassy’s remarkable novel Le Moabi Cinema. He spends his time hanging out with his mates in Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon in West Africa. None of them have jobs, or much in the way of prospects. They sit around drinking large amounts of beer, dreaming of wealth, of bagging a beautiful girl-friend, playing football like Samuel Eto’o and being ‘someone’. Most of all they dream of getting a visa and escaping to Europe. But hard as they try, those dreams remain stubbornly elusive. At some point, I won’t say when, Simonobisick writes the following letter to his mother and reads it out to his friends in the local bar that is their unofficial HQ. It reads like a statement of Africa’s youthful frustration. I thought it was well worth translating into English, pending a translation of the whole novel. Blick Bassy was kind enough to give his OK, and approve the result. So here it is…Simonobisick’s letter to his mother:
Ma chère maman,
Je quite la terre. Le quitte le pays. Je quitte la vie tronquée. Je quitte la fumisterie. Je quitte la vie de mouton et de chien. Je pars pour ne plus revenir. Je ne reviendrai même pas comme un revenant, un vrai, pas comme ces faux revenants, ces diasporas, qui déboulent ici régulièrement et qui nous narguent car ils on réussi, avec leur montres qui brillent, leurs tchombés, de d’autres signes qui tapent les yeux. Je quitte la démocratie qui est la loi du plus armée non la loi de cinquante pour cent de votants plus une voix. Je le dis haut et fort, je ne ferai plus la queue à deux heures du matin pour être reçu à dix heures dans l’espoir de décrocher un visa. J’aurais dû me mettre en route, comme les clandestins qui arrachent les visas avec leurs pieds, pour tenter le diable ou décrocher ma chance vers Tanger ou Algésiras. Mais je ne courberai plus la tête. Je renonce à la mendicité et je décide, en homme libre, de rejoindre le silence. On ne me couvrira ni de couronnes ni de marbre. Mais mes amis savent que j’ai été loyal, que j’ai respecté le pact de l’amitié vrai. Je pars avec une juste colère et espère que mes chers amis réussiront là où je viens d’échouer. L’Occident doit nous entendre ou nous étendre définitivement. Il prend out et ne nous laisse que des miettes. Hier, il a pris nos vaillants ancêtres et il capte aujourd’hui notre jeunesse que la bière n’a pas trop usée. Ma mère, très chère maman, embrasse tes amies et la famille. Vous avez enfanté et cru en nous; nous avons déchanté en ne croyant plus en rien. Je sais que vous avez fait ce que vous avez pu. Allez ensemble dire à mon père, qu’il a fui comme il a pu. Allez dire à mes oncles que ce n’est pas au village que je veux reposer, mais là où la terre danse et tremble.
Simonobisick qui vous aime, vous les pauvres mamans.
Dear mum,
I’m leaving this earth. I’m leaving this country. I’m leaving this truncated existence, this sham, this sheep-life, this dog-life. I’m leaving and I won’t be coming back. Not even as a ghost: a real one, this time, not one of those false returnees, those Diaspora people, who rock up here on a regular basis and taunt us because they’ve made it, with their sparkling watches, their fine threads, their bling, and all those other outward signs of success that smack you in the eyes. I’m giving up on democracy, which is just the law of most heavily armed, not that of the 50 percent of voters plus one. And I say this loud and clear: no longer will I queue up at two in the morning to be seen at ten o’clock in the hope of securing a visa. I should have hit the road to tempt the devil and take my chances in the direction of Tangiers and Algeciras, like the clandestinos who grab their visas with their own two feet. I lacked the courage to leave my friends. But I won’t bow my head any more. I’m renouncing the beggar’s life and deciding, as a free man, to rejoin the silence. They’ll never cover me with diadems or marble. But my friends will know that I’ve been loyal, that I’ve respected the pact of true friendship. I’m leaving with a righteous anger, in the hope that they will succeed where I have failed. The West must listen to us, or hang us out to dry once and for all. It takes everything and leaves us with the crumbs. Yesterday, it took our valiant ancestors and today it takes our youth, at least the ones who aren’t all washed up in beer. My mother, my very dear mum, give the family and your friends a kiss for me. You raised us and believed in us; we became disenchanted and no longer believe in anything. I know you did what you could. Go, all together, and tell my father that I know he had to flee when he could. Go and tell my uncles that it’s not back in the ancestral village that I want to be laid down to rest, but where the earth dances, and trembles.
Yours Simonobisick…who loves you, you poor mums.
Written by Blick Bassy. Translation by Andy Morgan.
Reproduced with kind permission from the author.
Le Moabi Cinema is published in French by Continents Noirs, an imprint of Gallimard.
SIGN UP! If you’ve enjoyed reading or looking at my work, please sign up to my newsletter. You’ll get updates every month or so with new articles, photo essays and other content relating to global music, Africa, the Sahara and more….
DONATE! If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, or have learned something that might be useful for your own work, please consider making a small donation. Any amount – £1, £2, £5, £1000! – will help to keep the words flowing and the stories coming. Thank you so much!
