But we’re somewhere else.
Josef asks me if I understand how many people are dying in Africa. I answer that I don’t. I don’t get big figures like that; it’s beyond my grasp. He replies that he can’t –therefore- be with me anymore. On the 21rst of May 2000, Josef killed himself.
A few weeks after his burial, I was offered a bed in psychiatric care in St Mary’s Hospital and a place at the Van Yuck Academy, a Dutch artists residency.
I left London for Maastricht and from there I went to Africa.
(…)I’m in the corridor of the Jan Van Eyck, back from the Dakar Biennale of Contemporary African Art when I’ve got this brilliant idea. Yes, a genius idea: « making a hit- as an art piece.»
Ok, I won’t go into the theoretical details about it. It’s all there on the web.
We’re somewhere else. I’m back in Dakar, in a small rented room on the VDN.
P.H.Bâ is my lover. He calls himself a cultural
manager, an anthropologist, an Africanist, he is 23. He’s going to help
me produce this piece in Dakar. He’s on the bed. I can see him count the
rhythm beat by the horse-carriages on the road. I ask him if he
sometimes hears three-legged ones. He very seriously replies that he
does - sometimes
Ok let’s go. It’s starting.
Ok let’s go. It’s starting.
We have coffees and tieps but
nothing really happens for quite a while. Then P.H.Bâ announces we
should meet someone. A producer? A musician? Err… nope: a marabout.
I laugh out loud. Not to make fun of him but because I genuinely find it funny to imagine myself in front of such a figure, with my ex -but still strong- evangelical principles of honesty: I respect you but I just can’t believe you. I picture my parents when they thought they could turn into exorcists. But I think about it… and I eventually change my mind. I’m in Africa: I should adapt and do things the African way. I therefore get ready to meet the famous marabout, Youssou N'dour’s marabout. The very one who was offered a multi-storey building but who refused it. The man has to be good, hasn’t he?
We have to wait for a long time for our visas at the Guinea-Bissau Embassy. I write «without» in the box about my religion, but I’m told it’s not possible. Without religion, it’s not possible in Africa says P.H.Bâ.
He has to prepare our rented car and fit it with new tires and a special protection under the motor. I’m waiting for him in my room when a strange presence starts to bother me. It’s not quite like someone is hiding there, someone you’d feel but more like a density, a thickness in the air at precise points. There’s a piece of paper on the table, and I start to be scared of my signature. I’m shivering. I can’t move from the armchair. I’m calling aloud for my mum. Then the shivers turn into shaking. My teeth are chatting and spasms make my body do weird movements. I can’t stand up. My legs don’t hold me anymore.
I do admit, I didn’t fight this Charcot crisis. I let it happen, and went along with it, especially when P.H.Bâ arrives. I’m not hysterical: I’m just fighting a spirit. He takes me in his arms and lays me on the bed. He says he’s seen a lot of crisis in his life, but that, err, he’s never seen, he doesn’t really know how to deal with paralysis. He says we should go to his place. There are holes on the floor, and it’s good. And I like that. I like this kind of poetry.
I laugh out loud. Not to make fun of him but because I genuinely find it funny to imagine myself in front of such a figure, with my ex -but still strong- evangelical principles of honesty: I respect you but I just can’t believe you. I picture my parents when they thought they could turn into exorcists. But I think about it… and I eventually change my mind. I’m in Africa: I should adapt and do things the African way. I therefore get ready to meet the famous marabout, Youssou N'dour’s marabout. The very one who was offered a multi-storey building but who refused it. The man has to be good, hasn’t he?
We have to wait for a long time for our visas at the Guinea-Bissau Embassy. I write «without» in the box about my religion, but I’m told it’s not possible. Without religion, it’s not possible in Africa says P.H.Bâ.
He has to prepare our rented car and fit it with new tires and a special protection under the motor. I’m waiting for him in my room when a strange presence starts to bother me. It’s not quite like someone is hiding there, someone you’d feel but more like a density, a thickness in the air at precise points. There’s a piece of paper on the table, and I start to be scared of my signature. I’m shivering. I can’t move from the armchair. I’m calling aloud for my mum. Then the shivers turn into shaking. My teeth are chatting and spasms make my body do weird movements. I can’t stand up. My legs don’t hold me anymore.
I do admit, I didn’t fight this Charcot crisis. I let it happen, and went along with it, especially when P.H.Bâ arrives. I’m not hysterical: I’m just fighting a spirit. He takes me in his arms and lays me on the bed. He says he’s seen a lot of crisis in his life, but that, err, he’s never seen, he doesn’t really know how to deal with paralysis. He says we should go to his place. There are holes on the floor, and it’s good. And I like that. I like this kind of poetry.
And I do calm down there. People come round
to see him; he’s quite a popular guy. There’s no running water but a
high plastic barrel. No glass windows but square openings in the walls.
And on the floor, holes in the cement. I say that I’m ready to leave.
We quickly drive to the supermarket where I’m surprised to see him choose preserves with pork… we’ll need toilet paper for me… water… stuff we won’t get there.
We meet the marabout’s disciple far from his place so that people don’t realize where we’re going. It’s dark already when we’re heading towards Thies.
We stop at Kaolac at a policeman’s place for breakfast. P.H.Bâ has a rest. We’re going to drive round Gambia and the Casamance area, which can be dangerous, and we’ll be heading towards Tambacouba and Kolda. I remember a beautiful storm, a huge sly, a few monkeys and the disciple in the middle of nowhere saying: «it’s going to be left soon.» No sings, but just a turn left, at some point.
The road is beautiful. The windshield is a cinema screen. I’m part of the story.
We go through the Senegalese border without any problem but it’s get more complicated on the Guinean side. The three men who stop us don’t ask to see inside the car but turn around it several time- slowly. The white girl stays inside the car - as discreet as possible.
Their shirt is not quite in their trousers; they look like they’ve escaped from a mental hospital. They all get inside the station and talk. Of course one has to pay. I have to pay.
I’m not so used to hearing live racist comments but there am I, listening to them claim that « these people are animals. They have no culture. Thay are savages. » Borders, hey!
P.H.Bâ says that after the civil war soldiers used to come to Dakar and have their pictures taken in front of big building so that they could claim they were in Europe during the turmoil and didn’t take part in any exactions.
We quickly drive to the supermarket where I’m surprised to see him choose preserves with pork… we’ll need toilet paper for me… water… stuff we won’t get there.
We meet the marabout’s disciple far from his place so that people don’t realize where we’re going. It’s dark already when we’re heading towards Thies.
We stop at Kaolac at a policeman’s place for breakfast. P.H.Bâ has a rest. We’re going to drive round Gambia and the Casamance area, which can be dangerous, and we’ll be heading towards Tambacouba and Kolda. I remember a beautiful storm, a huge sly, a few monkeys and the disciple in the middle of nowhere saying: «it’s going to be left soon.» No sings, but just a turn left, at some point.
The road is beautiful. The windshield is a cinema screen. I’m part of the story.
We go through the Senegalese border without any problem but it’s get more complicated on the Guinean side. The three men who stop us don’t ask to see inside the car but turn around it several time- slowly. The white girl stays inside the car - as discreet as possible.
Their shirt is not quite in their trousers; they look like they’ve escaped from a mental hospital. They all get inside the station and talk. Of course one has to pay. I have to pay.
I’m not so used to hearing live racist comments but there am I, listening to them claim that « these people are animals. They have no culture. Thay are savages. » Borders, hey!
P.H.Bâ says that after the civil war soldiers used to come to Dakar and have their pictures taken in front of big building so that they could claim they were in Europe during the turmoil and didn’t take part in any exactions.
Guinea Bissau is poorer, more aggressive than
Senegal, but very suddenly we arrive in a very clean village protected
by tall wooden fences
We’re told that the marabout is not around. He left for a town nearby. We need to try and reach him on the phone. We go the next small town where there is a house with a phone. There’s no toilets there, the street are dirty… I wear trousers, I have my period and I need the loo. I’m shown the toilets: some unfinished houses where the floor is paved with shits. I have to find a place for me. I feel eyes on my white bottom…
In the small post office room that seems to have various other semi-official functions someone is having a long discussion. The boss suddenly feels the urge to wash. In the room next door, he gets undressed in front of me and washed his enormous penis. My Senegalese friends go over their arguments again; « Those people have no shame, they have no sense of decency, they are animals ». Back at the village, P.H.Bâ installs a tent for me, not far from the marabout’s son’s room/house. He will sleep in front of it: Security. He says. Security.
In the evening new scatological chock for the little bourgeois girl: a large square, bigger than the ones around with the houses are built, empty and surrounded by fences and right in the middle of it: an old and battered iron plate. You lift it to hear the extraordinary loud swarming of a millions worms swarming in the pit. More hygienically correct but noisy.
We’re told that the marabout is not around. He left for a town nearby. We need to try and reach him on the phone. We go the next small town where there is a house with a phone. There’s no toilets there, the street are dirty… I wear trousers, I have my period and I need the loo. I’m shown the toilets: some unfinished houses where the floor is paved with shits. I have to find a place for me. I feel eyes on my white bottom…
In the small post office room that seems to have various other semi-official functions someone is having a long discussion. The boss suddenly feels the urge to wash. In the room next door, he gets undressed in front of me and washed his enormous penis. My Senegalese friends go over their arguments again; « Those people have no shame, they have no sense of decency, they are animals ». Back at the village, P.H.Bâ installs a tent for me, not far from the marabout’s son’s room/house. He will sleep in front of it: Security. He says. Security.
In the evening new scatological chock for the little bourgeois girl: a large square, bigger than the ones around with the houses are built, empty and surrounded by fences and right in the middle of it: an old and battered iron plate. You lift it to hear the extraordinary loud swarming of a millions worms swarming in the pit. More hygienically correct but noisy.
There is no electricity no running water.
We’re smoking Craven A and P.H.Bâ is cooking on a small gas ring like
keeping your shoes while praying when at war?
In the evening, I tell them that I sort of arrived too late in London to be part of the yBa’s movement. P.H.Bâ says that I’m a bit early here. We have a good laugh.
The next day, we’re still smoking on the patio when I feel a tension behind my neck.
A strong physical presence. I say to myself that it’s probably the marabout coming back but I keep quiet, who am I to feel things here? A few minutes after, kids come running on the square: he has arrived. He said he knew strangers were waiting for him at home that’s why he came back. For real. I’m not lying. That’s what we were told. The short and alert old man greets us briskly.
In the afternoon, his disciple, P.H.Bâ and I are gathered on his house/room. He’s sitting at the back, in front of the main open door. Chickens come and go freely through the worn down curtain. Nobody seems to bother about them.
He asks me question, like my mother’s name and my age. He talks in his dialect, which the disciple translates in Wolof to PH.Bâ and I’m lucky when I can get something in French. He throws stones on the floor, watches them, leans back and laughs. He speaks to the disciple who translates to P.H.Bâ who says he knew it: I’m special. I’ve got the power of the snake. The power of the snake? Really? I don’t have time to ask what it is. I’m told I have to know get purified, I have to wash. I’m given one of these multicoloured and reconstituted plastic teapots. I need to do it alone in the backyards. I’ve frightened of everything all my life. So of course I’m frightened. I don’t know what to expect in the backyard but I need to go alone.
A fence preventing people from seeing, an old tree without leaf but a branch to hold the plastic pot.
Nothing worrying really. I put some of the liquid on my forehead and I burst into tears. I cry for Josef. I’m calling him. I don’t scream, I never did -except on stage but I would like to.
Did I come here to bury you in this village my love? Will I manage to say good buy my love? I miss you so much my love. I’m right there, into projections, into my story, my own story with a few drops of « I don’t know what. »
When I come back, I’m told the blood has to be on this soil.
Bloo..bloo.. bl… Blood?
Yes, the sacrifices have to be done here and not back home. I will need a cow.
A cow? You mean a real cow? I’m panicking. Me? I’ve got to kill a cow? I can’t even stroke a cat or approach a dog and you want me to slaughter a cow with my own hands? I can’t even go close to them when they are behind an electric fence. I imagine the worst. I’ve seen too many BBC documentaries. I don’t know if he sees it in my eyes but he changes his mind? He says that a grey goat will do. A yellow and orange one for P.H.Bâ. Yes, he’s got to do sacrifices too since he’s part of the project. We also need to buy a handful of cola nuts, a bit of flour and other small things that kids get from the market.
I’m back on the patio smoking my craven A. A couple of women come and touch my arms. They smile at me. They say a few words. It’s emotional. I’m always expecting to be asked for something, but no, they just smile at me and hold my arms. And me, in my story I feel that they know my loss, my pain, my mourning. They nod and go.
In the evening, I tell them that I sort of arrived too late in London to be part of the yBa’s movement. P.H.Bâ says that I’m a bit early here. We have a good laugh.
The next day, we’re still smoking on the patio when I feel a tension behind my neck.
A strong physical presence. I say to myself that it’s probably the marabout coming back but I keep quiet, who am I to feel things here? A few minutes after, kids come running on the square: he has arrived. He said he knew strangers were waiting for him at home that’s why he came back. For real. I’m not lying. That’s what we were told. The short and alert old man greets us briskly.
In the afternoon, his disciple, P.H.Bâ and I are gathered on his house/room. He’s sitting at the back, in front of the main open door. Chickens come and go freely through the worn down curtain. Nobody seems to bother about them.
He asks me question, like my mother’s name and my age. He talks in his dialect, which the disciple translates in Wolof to PH.Bâ and I’m lucky when I can get something in French. He throws stones on the floor, watches them, leans back and laughs. He speaks to the disciple who translates to P.H.Bâ who says he knew it: I’m special. I’ve got the power of the snake. The power of the snake? Really? I don’t have time to ask what it is. I’m told I have to know get purified, I have to wash. I’m given one of these multicoloured and reconstituted plastic teapots. I need to do it alone in the backyards. I’ve frightened of everything all my life. So of course I’m frightened. I don’t know what to expect in the backyard but I need to go alone.
A fence preventing people from seeing, an old tree without leaf but a branch to hold the plastic pot.
Nothing worrying really. I put some of the liquid on my forehead and I burst into tears. I cry for Josef. I’m calling him. I don’t scream, I never did -except on stage but I would like to.
Did I come here to bury you in this village my love? Will I manage to say good buy my love? I miss you so much my love. I’m right there, into projections, into my story, my own story with a few drops of « I don’t know what. »
When I come back, I’m told the blood has to be on this soil.
Bloo..bloo.. bl… Blood?
Yes, the sacrifices have to be done here and not back home. I will need a cow.
A cow? You mean a real cow? I’m panicking. Me? I’ve got to kill a cow? I can’t even stroke a cat or approach a dog and you want me to slaughter a cow with my own hands? I can’t even go close to them when they are behind an electric fence. I imagine the worst. I’ve seen too many BBC documentaries. I don’t know if he sees it in my eyes but he changes his mind? He says that a grey goat will do. A yellow and orange one for P.H.Bâ. Yes, he’s got to do sacrifices too since he’s part of the project. We also need to buy a handful of cola nuts, a bit of flour and other small things that kids get from the market.
I’m back on the patio smoking my craven A. A couple of women come and touch my arms. They smile at me. They say a few words. It’s emotional. I’m always expecting to be asked for something, but no, they just smile at me and hold my arms. And me, in my story I feel that they know my loss, my pain, my mourning. They nod and go.
P.H.Bâ is reassured. Security is ok, he says.
The tent has fallen down anyway. We’re all going to sleep in the son’s
house/room. The two men sleep on the floor and I have the bed. They are
already asleep when I see a silhouette in the doorframe. The marabout.
It must be him. He stands there for a while and closes the door.
I don’t sleep. I’m sitting on the bed in the position to read - but I don’t read. I’m sure I’m awake. There’s no doubt about that. My eyes are wide opened and I hear a very strange racket outside. It’s like a fanfare without rhythm, maybe the donkey stamping on metal sheets, dogs trying to find food in our stuff. I don’t manage to identify the noise, like this particular night where I was woken up by a sound and had said to myself: goats on the roof of the car trying to eat high up leaves… I had gone out to check and it was just hat I had analysed. But there I couldn’t tell.
I wake P.H.Bâ up, but he doesn’t hear anything. He says I should not go out. I mustn’t. This is forbidden. I’m surprised not to be frightened. I’m not even worried. I Listen. It’s getting so strong that I wake them up again. They say they can’t hear anything.
The next morning I tell the disciple what happened. I checked the food, our stuff on the patio but nothing has moved at all. He talks to P.H.Bâ and looks at me in a weird way. I’ve heard the noise of the night. The noise of the African night.
From then on, he will speak to me in a different way and will call me Queen Fabee. I decide to tell him what I feel: I feel that this is not the marabout’s soil. That this is not his village. His parents were not born here. He says that unfortunately, I’m wrong. His old aunt with blue eyes is here. He’s always been here.
In the evening women dance between themselves and play on plastic drums.
I don’t sleep. I’m sitting on the bed in the position to read - but I don’t read. I’m sure I’m awake. There’s no doubt about that. My eyes are wide opened and I hear a very strange racket outside. It’s like a fanfare without rhythm, maybe the donkey stamping on metal sheets, dogs trying to find food in our stuff. I don’t manage to identify the noise, like this particular night where I was woken up by a sound and had said to myself: goats on the roof of the car trying to eat high up leaves… I had gone out to check and it was just hat I had analysed. But there I couldn’t tell.
I wake P.H.Bâ up, but he doesn’t hear anything. He says I should not go out. I mustn’t. This is forbidden. I’m surprised not to be frightened. I’m not even worried. I Listen. It’s getting so strong that I wake them up again. They say they can’t hear anything.
The next morning I tell the disciple what happened. I checked the food, our stuff on the patio but nothing has moved at all. He talks to P.H.Bâ and looks at me in a weird way. I’ve heard the noise of the night. The noise of the African night.
From then on, he will speak to me in a different way and will call me Queen Fabee. I decide to tell him what I feel: I feel that this is not the marabout’s soil. That this is not his village. His parents were not born here. He says that unfortunately, I’m wrong. His old aunt with blue eyes is here. He’s always been here.
In the evening women dance between themselves and play on plastic drums.
This is the day to go and look for this
yellow and orange goat. Apparently they must be one in the forest not
too far away. An even I can’t believe what I’m about to describe. The
trip in the forest is un-real. Even if it is -real.
It should have been impossible to drive through holes like that, one meter deep, ruts as wide as the car. Impracticable roads. Unworkable tasks. It’s uncomfortable at the back; we have two men from the village to show us the way. I have the feeling I’m driving with P.H.Bâ and that we’re living a miracle. Then we reach a sort of oasis, a village like the one we stay in but in the middle of high trees. It’s green all around. It’s the first time I see grass like that in Africa. There would be so much to tell… Yes they have a yellow and orange goat. Her feet are with tied with ropes and she’s put in the trunck. She’s bleating with fear and screaming like a desperate baby.
Back at the village we hear that the first sacrifice has been carried out. My grey goat is no more. I don’t know when they ate the yellow and orange one. Or if they kept it.
I don’t remember when exactly, but the marabout send someone to tell us we were going somewhere with the car. We don’t know where we’re heading. P.H.Bâ follows the instructions. We’re stopped on the road. P.H.Bâ will tell me later that it is because he didn’t wear his travelling gris-gris, the one around his waist. When we reach the same sort of village, very green very clean, the marabout speaks to the disciple who starts to cry softly. He says he’s never been there, it’s the first time he takes someone there, he didn’t even know about this place. He’s taking us to the village of his parents. I ask the disciple if he told him I was questioning his belonging to the other village, but apparently he didn’t. At least that’s what he said. Why? And how did I know? If the disciple has talked to the marabout and if this is a set up, how come he cries so like that? How the f. did I know he hadn’t been born there?
People greet us with great warmth. The marabout asks them to come around him and he starts praying. It looks like what my father does at home. Then I’m taken to a house where a blind man is sitting on a large bed. He takes my hand and says my prayers will be answered. At the back of the room another blind man is wearing black glasses and a trench coat. A pop star among people dressed in booboos. I see a sign. Rock and roll!
It should have been impossible to drive through holes like that, one meter deep, ruts as wide as the car. Impracticable roads. Unworkable tasks. It’s uncomfortable at the back; we have two men from the village to show us the way. I have the feeling I’m driving with P.H.Bâ and that we’re living a miracle. Then we reach a sort of oasis, a village like the one we stay in but in the middle of high trees. It’s green all around. It’s the first time I see grass like that in Africa. There would be so much to tell… Yes they have a yellow and orange goat. Her feet are with tied with ropes and she’s put in the trunck. She’s bleating with fear and screaming like a desperate baby.
Back at the village we hear that the first sacrifice has been carried out. My grey goat is no more. I don’t know when they ate the yellow and orange one. Or if they kept it.
I don’t remember when exactly, but the marabout send someone to tell us we were going somewhere with the car. We don’t know where we’re heading. P.H.Bâ follows the instructions. We’re stopped on the road. P.H.Bâ will tell me later that it is because he didn’t wear his travelling gris-gris, the one around his waist. When we reach the same sort of village, very green very clean, the marabout speaks to the disciple who starts to cry softly. He says he’s never been there, it’s the first time he takes someone there, he didn’t even know about this place. He’s taking us to the village of his parents. I ask the disciple if he told him I was questioning his belonging to the other village, but apparently he didn’t. At least that’s what he said. Why? And how did I know? If the disciple has talked to the marabout and if this is a set up, how come he cries so like that? How the f. did I know he hadn’t been born there?
People greet us with great warmth. The marabout asks them to come around him and he starts praying. It looks like what my father does at home. Then I’m taken to a house where a blind man is sitting on a large bed. He takes my hand and says my prayers will be answered. At the back of the room another blind man is wearing black glasses and a trench coat. A pop star among people dressed in booboos. I see a sign. Rock and roll!
On the way back the disciple is very
emotional. He’s touched. His first time there. The marabout tells us we
should go back home after he sees us a last time.
He mostly addresses P.H.Bâ and not everything gets translated. I fell a bit prejudiced: it’s my project. Nothing in particular is said to me.
The marabout will accompany us to the border to avoid problems there. I don’t know how he gets back from this three-hour drive. We cross the two borders easily. We’re still silent. Then I ask P.H.Bâ what was told to him. He refuses to answer. As I insist he stops the car, put his hands on the bonnet and says « I’m not allowed to touch you anymore. »
-What?
- No, I can’t touch a white woman, and other women if I’m not married, otherwise I’ll get an illness man can’t cure.
- Pff.
I know, it’s like a bad film script. But I swear it’s how it happens. And of course I’m annoyed.
- Is that what he said? We go all that way to prepare a music project and I’m told I can’t sleep with you anymore? And I’m not translated things when they’re told?
-This is not about you, he replies.
- Err…
I feel this is going to be difficult. I’m not happy with the way the story is going. P.H.Bâ stops at a pharmacy. His neck muscles hurt him. It’s probably because of me. I pay.
We stop at a dibiterie – a sort of kebab with just meat. We’re quiet and in a bad mood. When we arrive in Dakar, I’ve had time to calm down. Once again I decide to do it the African way.
P.H.Bâ is in my room. He kicks into the table on which high bottles of « I don’t know what to get purified » are standing. They don’t move. He says: « He's strong. The old man is very strong »
On the streets of Dakar, people don’t ask me for money anymore, they don’t try to sell me bags for bottles or jewels. It’s P.H.Bâ who gets all the bothering. He doesn’t get it. I walk around like I’m the chief’s daughter. It’s called self-confidence, I reckon. I’m in an add for my own African power « the power of the snake ». Even if I still have no idea what it means.
Things get more complicated with P.H.Bâ. I’m still asking to meet musicians, but he needs to take some tourists to Casamance. I’m pissed of and I tell him they will have an accident- now that I’m psychic. Someone else eventually takes care of them and… they have an accident. Nobody’s hurt but the car is totally of out of order…
P.H.Bâ is in a bad mood. He comes round one evening and stays for the night. I says I don’t get it… shouldn’t we follow what the marabout says… maybe he’s doing it a last time. I don’t know.
Back at the Jan Van Eyck, I wash my mouth before the first words every Tuesday and Thursday with that weird non-identified liquid that smells of old washing up water.
I also wash my body with another non-identified product and wear my gris-gris with verses from the Koran.
Nearly ten yeas after, I find it difficult to understand how I got into it all.
I tried to make P.H.Bâ come to the Netherlands at the JVE as he says he’s desperate and wants to die. (The argument for widows like me). He says he spends a lot of time in hospital, they don’t know what it is. He talks about his extreme poverty. Nothing to eat…
I set up another project to go there and work with him. It doesn’t go well at all- it ends up with threats on my life. I don’t know why I got so frightened but I was.
He mostly addresses P.H.Bâ and not everything gets translated. I fell a bit prejudiced: it’s my project. Nothing in particular is said to me.
The marabout will accompany us to the border to avoid problems there. I don’t know how he gets back from this three-hour drive. We cross the two borders easily. We’re still silent. Then I ask P.H.Bâ what was told to him. He refuses to answer. As I insist he stops the car, put his hands on the bonnet and says « I’m not allowed to touch you anymore. »
-What?
- No, I can’t touch a white woman, and other women if I’m not married, otherwise I’ll get an illness man can’t cure.
- Pff.
I know, it’s like a bad film script. But I swear it’s how it happens. And of course I’m annoyed.
- Is that what he said? We go all that way to prepare a music project and I’m told I can’t sleep with you anymore? And I’m not translated things when they’re told?
-This is not about you, he replies.
- Err…
I feel this is going to be difficult. I’m not happy with the way the story is going. P.H.Bâ stops at a pharmacy. His neck muscles hurt him. It’s probably because of me. I pay.
We stop at a dibiterie – a sort of kebab with just meat. We’re quiet and in a bad mood. When we arrive in Dakar, I’ve had time to calm down. Once again I decide to do it the African way.
P.H.Bâ is in my room. He kicks into the table on which high bottles of « I don’t know what to get purified » are standing. They don’t move. He says: « He's strong. The old man is very strong »
On the streets of Dakar, people don’t ask me for money anymore, they don’t try to sell me bags for bottles or jewels. It’s P.H.Bâ who gets all the bothering. He doesn’t get it. I walk around like I’m the chief’s daughter. It’s called self-confidence, I reckon. I’m in an add for my own African power « the power of the snake ». Even if I still have no idea what it means.
Things get more complicated with P.H.Bâ. I’m still asking to meet musicians, but he needs to take some tourists to Casamance. I’m pissed of and I tell him they will have an accident- now that I’m psychic. Someone else eventually takes care of them and… they have an accident. Nobody’s hurt but the car is totally of out of order…
P.H.Bâ is in a bad mood. He comes round one evening and stays for the night. I says I don’t get it… shouldn’t we follow what the marabout says… maybe he’s doing it a last time. I don’t know.
Back at the Jan Van Eyck, I wash my mouth before the first words every Tuesday and Thursday with that weird non-identified liquid that smells of old washing up water.
I also wash my body with another non-identified product and wear my gris-gris with verses from the Koran.
Nearly ten yeas after, I find it difficult to understand how I got into it all.
I tried to make P.H.Bâ come to the Netherlands at the JVE as he says he’s desperate and wants to die. (The argument for widows like me). He says he spends a lot of time in hospital, they don’t know what it is. He talks about his extreme poverty. Nothing to eat…
I set up another project to go there and work with him. It doesn’t go well at all- it ends up with threats on my life. I don’t know why I got so frightened but I was.
A few years later I met Assane, another
Senegalese man. Another story. His uncle was a marabout from Touba. He
married us the Islamic way in a backyard rue Mirat (when this area of
the 18th arrondissement was still a little bit of Senegal in Paris).
This marabout from Touba told me the other marabout was a crook. I could
throw away my gris-gris. I asked him if I needed to throw them in the
sea like I’d been told. He said not to bother.
Then there was a curator from the Pompidou centre who wanted to help me produce the hit. But that’s another story.
Then I met with Cerrone, you know the one who did Supernature in the 70’s but it is also another story.
Then there was a curator from the Pompidou centre who wanted to help me produce the hit. But that’s another story.
Then I met with Cerrone, you know the one who did Supernature in the 70’s but it is also another story.
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