{"id":36,"date":"2022-04-28T14:24:44","date_gmt":"2022-04-28T12:24:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/?p=36"},"modified":"2023-10-18T22:43:13","modified_gmt":"2023-10-18T20:43:13","slug":"test","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/2022\/04\/28\/test\/","title":{"rendered":"Quitter Dakar"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Quitter Dakar<\/em> (publication originale)
Collection La Brune
Editions du Rouergue\/Actes-Sud Editeurs associ\u00e9s, 2010<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Quitter Dakar<\/em> (seconde publication)
Collection Mondes en VF Editions Didier, 2012<\/p>\n\n\n\n

lacauselitteraire.fr<\/em><\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Par Th\u00e9o Annanissoh* (mars 2011)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quitter Dakar, c\u2019est en fait y revenir. Quitter, revenir, ces mots qui s\u2019imposent ainsi d\u2019entr\u00e9e de jeu indiquent ce qui caract\u00e9rise le roman de Sophie-Anne Delhomme : le mouvement. De bout en bout, c\u2019est un va-et-vient permanent ; va-et-vient entre la France et le S\u00e9n\u00e9gal, mais aussi allers et retours entre le pr\u00e9sent et le pass\u00e9, entre la r\u00e9alit\u00e9 et l\u2019imaginaire, entre un je et un il qui, alternativement, se relaient pour raconter. Roman tout en d\u00e9placements donc, sans agitation toutefois, mais en qu\u00eate ; de quoi ? De la m\u00e8re, de soi, de la vie qui fut la leur, au gar\u00e7on et \u00e0 la m\u00e8re, dans ce pays d\u2019Afrique.
Manuela, c\u2019est le pr\u00e9nom de la m\u00e8re. Elle est d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9e en 1985. Litt\u00e9ralement \u2013 le clich\u00e9 force la main pour ainsi dire \u2013, elle a l\u2019Afrique ou, si l\u2019on pr\u00e9f\u00e8re, le S\u00e9n\u00e9gal dans la peau. Elle y vit avec son fils dans la maison du Point E et poss\u00e8de une boutique qui va faire faillite. C\u2019est un personnage complexe, comme du reste tous les autres de ce beau roman. On h\u00e9site \u00e0 la d\u00e9finir d\u2019une expression qui pourtant, l\u00e0 aussi, semble s\u2019imposer : m\u00e8re irresponsable. Les nuits, souvent, le jeune gar\u00e7on doit se d\u00e9brouiller seul pour trouver le sommeil dans la grande maison, \u00e0 peine veill\u00e9 par une bonne pendant que la m\u00e8re rejoint un amant dans un night-club de la capitale s\u00e9n\u00e9galaise.
L\u2019adulte qui revient ainsi sur les lieux de l\u2019enfance se souvient calmement de chaque \u00e9pisode. Par exemple de cette nuit o\u00f9 il sort de son lit, et finit par s\u2019endormir dans le placard. Personne ne le cherche. Il sera r\u00e9veill\u00e9 par les bruits que font la m\u00e8re et son amant en rentrant.
\u00ab L\u2019homme l\u2019avait reprise par la taille et l\u2019avait entra\u00een\u00e9e en lui caressant les fesses. \u00bb
Le roman de Sophie-Anne Delhomme foisonne de ces d\u00e9tails d\u2019une enfance bien particuli\u00e8re du fait de la personnalit\u00e9 d\u2019une m\u00e8re dont la passion pour cette part d\u2019Afrique trouble et fascine. M\u00e8re \u00ab fantasque \u00bb et \u00ab solaire \u00bb comme la d\u00e9finit la quatri\u00e8me de couverture ? Sans doute. Cette m\u00e8re qui, pourtant, lorsque son gar\u00e7on se cache de tous pendant des heures, crie et dit qu\u2019elle \u00ab se tuerait si elle devait encore passer une nuit sans son fils \u00bb !
Rentr\u00e9e en France en juin 1973 avec son fils, la m\u00e8re, chaque ann\u00e9e en avril, retournera seule au S\u00e9n\u00e9gal passer une \u00ab quinzaine \u00bb. Retrouver Dakar lui fait un bien litt\u00e9ral. \u00ab Loin de Dakar, elle se fanait comme une fleur. Chaque ann\u00e9e, elle \u00e9conomisait pour y retourner, elle en revenait vivante et mourait peu \u00e0 peu jusqu\u2019\u00e0 l\u2019ann\u00e9e suivante. \u00bb
Des ann\u00e9es apr\u00e8s le d\u00e9c\u00e8s de cette m\u00e8re, le gar\u00e7on, devenu adulte, d\u00e9ambule dans Dakar et ses environs, revisite ces lieux qui revitalisaient tant sa m\u00e8re. Il retrouve les hommes et les femmes qui entouraient autrefois la m\u00e8re. Rencontres presque toujours d\u00e9cevantes, troublantes en tous les cas, que le narrateur appr\u00e9hende \u00e0 juste titre, craignant sans cesse que \u2013 belle expression d\u2019un sentiment ! \u2013 \u00ab quelque chose ne (lui) explose \u00e0 la figure. \u00bb Quitter Dakar est un surprenant r\u00e9cit tout en sensibilit\u00e9 ; rien n\u2019y est affirmatif ou vindicatif, m\u00eame lorsque les personnages ou les souvenirs sont rudes, extr\u00eamement rudes. C\u2019est un r\u00e9cit de soi, de ses sentiments, forts, intenses, douloureux, fait avec une \u00e9conomie dans le style, une pertinence des mots qui donnent \u00e0 ce premier roman un admirable cachet de r\u00e9ussite.\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*Ecrivain togolais n\u00e9 en 1962. Auteur de romans publi\u00e9s chez Gallimard Continents noirs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

www.culturessud.com<\/em><\/strong>
La nostalgie fissur\u00e9e<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Par Lionel Manga (juillet 2010)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Un homme, \u00ab p\u00e2le r\u00e9sidu \u00bb, arpente Dakar. Entre un \u00ab je \u00bb en propre, un \u00ab il \u00bb partag\u00e9 et un \u00ab nous \u00bb douloureux, fissur\u00e9, c\u2019est un revenant. En l\u2019occurrence un Blanc qui revient en \u00ab p\u00e8lerinage \u00bb au lieu d\u2019une partie de son enfance avec sa m\u00e8re. Une Manuela qui est le personnage central, une absence pivot du premier roman de Sophie-Anne Delhomme. Le r\u00e9cit s\u2019ouvre d\u2019embl\u00e9e sur un panorama qui donne froid dans le dos et, pour ainsi dire, donne le ton de la suite, comme une claque monumentale, dans cette chronique de la nostalgie irr\u00e9m\u00e9diablement fracass\u00e9e : \u00ab Il n\u2019y a plus rien. Ou pire, d\u2019affreuses plaies grossi\u00e8rement pans\u00e9es au b\u00e9ton arm\u00e9. Ras\u00e9s la paillote, le restaurant terrasse. Br\u00fbl\u00e9s la d\u00e9coration de palmes et de bougainvill\u00e9es, les parasols, les chaises longues. Disparus l\u2019aquarium aux langoustes, les serveurs en tenue blanche, le barman plein d\u2019entrain. Enfuis les brillants convives. Crev\u00e9s les lauriers-roses, les filaos. D\u00e9fonc\u00e9s les courts de tennis \u00bb. Bienvenue au club qui n\u2019a rien de M\u00e9diterran\u00e9e : z\u00e9ro GO.
Manuela est une \u00e9nigme ouverte qui \u00ab descendait tous les ans \u00e0 l\u2019h\u00f4tel de N\u2019gor \u00bb, un fleuron, \u00ab une quinzaine en avril \u00bb. Et puis \u00ab elle a cess\u00e9 de venir \u00bb pour une raison toute naturelle : Manuela \u00ab \u00e9tait morte en France, au lieu d\u2019\u00eatre en avril sur ce rivage aim\u00e9 \u00bb o\u00f9 lui revient seul, \u00ab sans elle, aujourd\u2019hui \u00bb. Apr\u00e8s qu\u2019il eut \u00ab tout mis de c\u00f4t\u00e9 \u00bb quand elle \u00e9tait d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9e : chagrin, souvenirs, \u00ab le temps a pass\u00e9 \u00bb et l\u2019envie lui est un jour venue \u00ab d\u2019aller voir \u00bb dans ce fouillis d\u2019une vie ant\u00e9rieure. Il a trouv\u00e9 des \u00ab traces inertes \u00bb, \u00ab des agendas, des lettres, quelques photos, [ses] dessins d\u2019enfants \u00bb du temps o\u00f9 ils habitaient au Point E et que \u00ab la voix d\u00e9sol\u00e9e du muezzin poissait ses r\u00eaves [\u2026] et tourmentait son sommeil \u00bb. Cette m\u00e8re qui \u00ab aimait faire la f\u00eate, c\u2019\u00e9tait jamais la derni\u00e8re pour la java \u00bb, avait achet\u00e9 une ch\u00e8vre pour lui tenir compagnie, qu\u2019il baptisa Ren\u00e9, du pr\u00e9nom de son grand-p\u00e8re ador\u00e9. Il est aussi \u00ab question d\u2019un homme qu\u2019elle aimait beaucoup et qui la rendait malheureuse \u00bb. P\u00e2le-R\u00e9sidu est en qu\u00eate de protagonistes qui lui racontent cette m\u00e8re disparue, aussi noctambule que fantasque. Un d\u00e9sir \u00e9perdu de reconstitution l\u2019habite, comme un passage oblig\u00e9 pour faire le deuil de Dakar et tirer un trait sur la ville de Djibril Diop Mambety.
Autour de ce tandem m\u00e8re-fils, l\u2019auteure fait graviter une poign\u00e9e de personnages fonctionnant comme autant de lucarnes ouvrant sur ce pass\u00e9 qui hante le p\u00e8lerin et colle \u00e0 sa vie d\u2019adulte. Entre le \u00ab vieux monsieur Licart, le short blanc, les chaussettes montantes \u00bb qui n\u2019est pas retourn\u00e9 en France depuis belle lurette et dit vouloir \u00ab crever \u00bb l\u00e0, Prudence, la bonne myst\u00e9rieuse qui \u00ab avait ses humeurs \u00bb, \u00ab \u00e9tait absente quelque fois \u00bb, et le \u00ab taquinait pour le faire enrager \u00bb sur le chemin de l\u2019\u00e9cole, un baobab squatt\u00e9 par un g\u00e9nie fac\u00e9tieux qui afflige ses victimes de mutisme, la petite fille des voisins : les Mar\u00e9chal, Tierno qui y travaillait et le reconna\u00eet dans la rue, l\u2019invite chez lui, dans cette galerie, Vivi pour Vip\u00e8re incarne quelque part une hypoth\u00e9tique r\u00e9demption, la possibilit\u00e9 pour P\u00e2le-R\u00e9sidu de \u00ab trouver le r\u00eave de son histoire \u00bb, et de tourner la page pour se retrouver avec \u00ab la vie devant lui \u00bb tout bonnement. Avec ce texte qui se d\u00e9roule sur cent quarante et une pages distribu\u00e9es en vingt-huit brefs chapitres, Sophie-Anne Delhomme signe l\u00e0 un petit livre attachant sur la m\u00e9lancolie de rien n\u2019est plus comme avant, pour peu que le lecteur se laisse prendre au rythme saccad\u00e9, haletant de cette narration se donnant souvent en mode intime, diary, et flash-back. Non sans laconisme teint\u00e9 d\u2019amertume, parfois.\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

La quinzaine litt\u00e9raire<\/em><\/strong>
Magies dakaroises<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Par Marie Etienne (mai 2010)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quand on conna\u00eet Dakar et qu\u2019on y a v\u00e9cu, on a le sentiment \u00e9trange, lisant ce livre, d\u2019y retrouver exactement ses propres souvenirs \u2013 les lieux, les animaux, les plantes et les occupations, tout est exact, et similaire\u2026
On est saisi d\u2019un trouble d\u00e8s la premi\u00e8re de couverture. En haut, deux photographies presque identiques, un visage de femme, m\u00e9tisse, belle et souriante, qui fume une cigarette. Tout de suite, en dessous, coll\u00e9s aux photographies, le pr\u00e9nom et le nom de l\u2019auteur. On associe \u00e9videmment les deux, on pense \u00e0 une biographie.
Et puis, lisant, on s\u2019aper\u00e7oit que l\u2019h\u00e9ro\u00efne est un h\u00e9ros, le narrateur, tant\u00f4t petit gar\u00e7on, oblig\u00e9 de partir de Dakar, emmen\u00e9 par sa m\u00e8re, la blonde Manuela, et tant\u00f4t l\u2019homme jeune qui revient, apr\u00e8s la mort de celleci, \u00e0 la recherche de ses traces. Lesquelles le m\u00e8nent \u00e0 d\u2019autres, \u00e0 celles de Prudence, la S\u00e9n\u00e9galaise. Au croisement de ces deux femmes, une troisi\u00e8me, la fille de Prudence et de Licart, un \u201c toubab \u201d de Dakar, Viviane V\u00e9ronique Deng, qui insiste volontiers sur les rapports de son pr\u00e9nom avec \u201c vip\u00e8re \u201d. Elle cherche aussi Prudence, sa m\u00e8re, dont le visage, l\u2019auteur nous en informe, est en premi\u00e8re de couverture.
Le r\u00e9cit, on le voit, est une qu\u00eate d\u2019identit\u00e9 construite avec rigueur, et que les derni\u00e8res phrases du livre n\u2019ach\u00e8vent pas : \u201c \u2026 je vous cherche, madame, dans tous les quartiers, dans les transports et dans les squares\u2026 Tous les jours, je marche dans la ville et sa p\u00e9riph\u00e9rie\u2026 \u201d.
C\u2019est que, contrairement \u00e0 ce que para\u00eet dire le titre, on ne quitte pas Dakar. On le souhaite, on s\u2019en va, en effet, et puis on y revient, par la pens\u00e9e, ou en chair et en os. On y revient et on y cherche quelque chose d\u2019essentiel : l\u2019enfance, certainement, une ville pr\u00e9gnante, dans laquelle le gar\u00e7on d\u00e9ambule et qui nous est, sinon d\u00e9crite, du moins restitu\u00e9e avec fid\u00e9lit\u00e9 : le \u201c Point E \u201d, le march\u00e9 Sandaga, la place de l\u2019Ind\u00e9pendance, le mus\u00e9e de l\u2019Ifan, et ses abords, le march\u00e9 artisanal de Soumb\u00e9dioune, Rufisque, l\u2019\u00eele de Gor\u00e9e, la plage de N\u2019Gor, des Almadies, le phare des Mamelles\u2026
Ces lieux bien s\u00fbr sont habit\u00e9s, par des toubabs, qui restent, comme Licart, ou qui s\u2019en vont, comme Manuela. Et par des Africains, domestiques des premiers (c\u2019est le cas de Prudence, de Thierno), vendeurs \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9talage, chauffeurs de car ou de taxi, voisins, gardiens, passants, une population pr\u00e9sente, humainement pr\u00e9sente, sans insistance, sans parti pris d\u2019aucune sorte, au point qu\u2019on se demande (et on revient alors \u00e0 la qu\u00eate ou l\u2019enqu\u00eate amorc\u00e9e) qui a \u00e9crit le livre. Ce n\u2019est pas la m\u00e9tisse, qui fume et rit, nous l\u2019avons dit, d\u2019ailleurs pr\u00e9nom et nom sont bien fran\u00e7ais. Et l\u00e0 encore, un trouble, et un indice. Le narrateur, petit gar\u00e7on, jouait avec une fillette, une pr\u00e9nomm\u00e9e Sophie, comme l\u2019auteur. Tiens ! Tiens ! C\u2019est \u00e0 la suite d\u2019un drame initi\u00e9 par Prudence que l\u2019un et l\u2019autre s\u2019en iront, retourneront en France.
Ayant dit tout cela, l\u2019essentiel n\u2019y est pas. Par exemple la qualit\u00e9 d\u2019un romanesque tr\u00e8s particulier, constitu\u00e9 de la r\u00e9alit\u00e9 et d\u2019autre chose qui s\u2019infiltre, qui sourd des paysages et des \u00e9v\u00e9nements. Les deux sont associ\u00e9s comme le sont les deux c\u00f4t\u00e9s d\u2019une pi\u00e8ce de monnaie. Une \u201c autre chose \u201d qu\u2019aucun mot ne peut exactement nommer ni rendre, qui tient de la magie, du fantastique, mieux que cela encore : qui est l\u2019envers du visible, sa profondeur, et qui se manifeste si naturellement qu\u2019on ne peut pas ne pas y croire. Qu\u2019on subit les effets, pareils aux effluves d\u2019un philtre, d\u2019un cr\u00e9puscule, d\u2019une vapeur sur la mer, d\u2019une rencontre fortuite, du charme violent de certaines femmes, surtout celles du triangle compos\u00e9 par les deux m\u00e8res, Manuela, Prudence et Viviane la plus jeune, triangle dans lequel le narrateur se trouve captif.
De sorte que ce dernier est atteint par un mal, convoqu\u00e9 par un sort, que traduisent les deux phrases qu\u2019il prononce, contradictoires et d\u00e9cisives : \u201c J\u2019\u00e9tais l\u2019Afrique \u201d et \u201c Je n\u2019\u00e9tais pas d\u2019ici \u201d. Une mani\u00e8re d\u2019exprimer l\u2019irr\u00e9versibilit\u00e9 : on ne va pas innocemment vivre l\u00e0-bas sans y laisser, \u00e0 jamais, quelque chose de soi. Sans avoir \u00e9chang\u00e9, avec ceux qui demeurent, peut-\u00eatre une part de son identit\u00e9 ? \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Extrait<\/strong>
\u201c Le petit baobab paraissait bien emb\u00eat\u00e9 (raconte le petit gar\u00e7on), il restait tout \u00e0 fait immobile, sauf le bout de ses petites feuilles qui remuait gentiment. Un monsieur s\u2019\u00e9tait assis sur lui, qui attirait les gens pour leur manger la cervelle. Prudence nous avait pr\u00e9venus. Son p\u00e8re, un jour, en rentrant de son champ, en avait rencontr\u00e9 un qui l\u2019attendait assis dans un manguier, avec des lunettes noires et une voix de griot. Le p\u00e8re de Prudence n\u2019avait plus jamais parl\u00e9, ni \u00e0 elle ni \u00e0 personne, apr\u00e8s qu\u2019il eut crois\u00e9 ce monsieur-l\u00e0 au retour du champ.<\/em>
Mais pour nous c\u2019\u00e9tait diff\u00e9rent et nous le savions bien. Comme nous \u00e9tions de France, nous les petits toubabs, ce monsieur ne pourrait pas sucer notre cerveau, c\u2019\u00e9tait interdit par notre pr\u00e9sident. \u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Annexes<\/mark><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Leaving Dakar<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Book description<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Traduction Alison Anderson <\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man in his thirties returns to Dakar long after leaving Senegal, where he lived as a child. His mother, Manuela, died several years earlier, and this \u201creturn to the land of his birth\u201d is a sort of pilgrimage in search of a woman he remembers as charming and capricious. Who was she, in fact? Why, after moving away from Africa, did she go back to Senegal every year? In the course of his encounters with those who knew her, her son attempts to piece together their story. We accompany him on his nostalgic wanderings to the sands of Pikine, the restaurants of Les Almadies, the nightclubs of the city center or the lighthouse of Les Mamelles. He is also trying to find their Senegalese maid, Prudence, who has disappeared. His encounter with her mixed-blood daughter, Vivi, will take the narrator ever further into the complexities of his relationship with Africa. They immediately embark upon a passionate relationship and very quickly envisage returning to France together\u2026 The d\u00e9but novel of a Frenchwoman who grew up in Senegal, Leaving Dakar<\/em> is a charming and precise evocation of the city of Dakar, its inhabitants, its landscapes and the places where a European presence still lingers. Sophie-Anne Delhomme describes the ambiguity of the status of the French who grew up in Africa, and the complexity of their relations with the Senegalese. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quitter Dakar<\/em> has been a featured novel at Columbia University’s Maison Fran\u00e7aise Book Club <\/a>in New York City, where the author presented it to a full-capacity audience on October 28, 2011. The book was very well-received and generated passionate debates among the attendees. This good reception should bode strong interest among the larger American public.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Excerpt in English<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Chapter 7<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hated shopping, so there was never much to eat when they lived at Point E. The houseboys were kind, but they changed frequently; there were some who stayed with him when she went out in the evening.
He would lie in her bed, nestled against something that held her odor. He pretended to be asleep when the houseboy stuck his head through the door to say goodnight. Some of them would go off and leave him all alone, he could hear the key turning in the lock. Others sat outside the house drinking tea, waiting for her to return. And then one day he decided to hide, because she was going out every night, and he wanted to go out to restaurants, too. No one looked for him, he fell asleep in the wardrobe. It was the laughter, the exclamations that woke him up. Manuela was laughing because she had just unearthed him in her clothes cupboard, huddled underneath the plastic garment bags where she kept her dresses. His mother was with a man, who was holding her and kissing her neck, her shoulders; she was whispering, and neither of them could stop laughing. It was the man who carried him to his bed. Manuela held their glasses, filled with ice cubes.
When she leaned over to tuck him in, he suddenly opened his eyes and hardened his gaze, to burn her with his eyes open in the darkness. Then the man put his arm around her and led her away, stroking her buttocks. He lay there with his eyes wide open, he even slept with his eyes open. That night, he had decided to keep his eyes open to frighten her.
Now and again she would send him to the street corner to buy something from the bana-bana: bread, canned goods, evaporated milk. If they both stayed home in the evening, they ate bread and jam and drank hot chocolate. Some of the houseboys would cook during the day, some red rice or chicken Yassa. She wasn\u2019t interested, she didn\u2019t eat a thing, she was watching her figure. A little girl at school had whispered into his ear, your mother is watching her figure. It seemed awfully complicated, this figure that his mother was watching in their life.
He thought the house felt too empty. Except for Manuela\u2019s room. She collected perfume, scarves, shells and jewelry, and she hung them on branches she\u2019d put here and there to decorate the walls.
To put on her make-up she would sit at a table covered with a long pink skirt that he liked a lot. He would hide underneath it when he was little, then come out, to play, barking between her feet.
The house often filled up with cardboard boxes, piled any old way in the living room. Manuela had a clothing shop and she received shipments from France. She would unpack the dresses and shoes to try them on before taking them to the shop. Toward the end, the boxes vanished. She had seamstresses in the town, she had them copy the designs from France.
<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Toward the end, instead of a houseboy, they had a woman working for them. She had a room in the house. Her name was Prudence. She came to pick him up every day after school. On the way home he would throw a tantrum because she refused to carry his schoolbag. She didn\u2019t care, she walked along nonchalantly, teasing him to make him furious. When they came to their gate, she would take the bag from him and remark on what a heavy schoolbag it was, and what a strong boy he was for walking miles from school to carry his schoolbag home. Her mischievous laughter eventually got the better of his bad mood. After that they made cut-outs, or did some baking, and she showed him how to make necklaces out of seeds or pasta; he\u2019d be able to look after his mommy just as well as a little girl could. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Manuela was very fond of Prudence, like a friend. She liked to say Be prudent, Prudence! He could hear them chatting out on the terrace, in the evening, Manuela\u2019s cigarette glowing in the shadowy light.
Prudence stayed with them until their departure for France.
When they returned to N\u2019gor the following year, Manuela told him that Prudence had gone back to the bush to visit her family. He left a postcard for her at the hotel. He drew a huge fish on it, a sunfish. And he wrote in his brand new handwriting, from the school in France: Prudence, you can make this fish into a lamp, to make your house pretty. She didn\u2019t answer, and he never heard any more about her. He had forgotten about her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Standing now outside the movie theatre on the Place de l\u2019Ind\u00e9pendance, after this depressing visit, he promises himself he will try to find her. He needs to do it now, because his sorrow has been eating away at him ever since he left that bastard. Prudence had known them in Dakar, she would remember. She had seen that they existed, she\u2019d be able to tell him.
And besides, Prudence had loved them, she would feel sorry for Manuela, she would share his sorrow. If he could find her, there would be two of them. Then he could leave having passed on the baton, a handful of ashes, a pinch of sand, tears as a memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Chapter 8<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Licart remembered Prudence very well. Ah yes, how could you forget her: stark raving mad. Vermin. He had warned Manuela, the girl was throwing dust in her eyes. Like a spitting snake, exactly, the kind that spits poison in your eyes. You have to lure them with a belt buckle, or else that\u2019s it. In your eyes and then it\u2019s pitch dark. Find that witch? Impossible, she\u2019d be dead somewhere, devoured by dogs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

By dogs? Licart used to feed sheep\u2019s fetuses to his dogs back in the days when he had a farm at Bambilor, he\u2019d get them from the abattoir on the road to Rufisque. He\u2019d take the fetuses from the animals while the men were still cutting them up. He\u2019d fill up the tubs in the back of his truck. When he got home it was a mad scramble, the dogs springing into the trunk the moment he opened the doors. They didn\u2019t even leave him the time to unload, they were already onto the meat. They\u2019d go wild. He had to use the whip to drive them off. Fourteen of them, not all at the same time, he\u2019d had fourteen dogs, yellow ones, like the dogs in this country. And a menagerie too, somewhere along the Front de Terre road: hens, rabbits, kids, birds, a parrot, a mongoose. And monkeys, chameleons, an iguana and even a baby wart hog, who followed him everywhere. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Find that bitch? He was trembling with indignation. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I recalled that Prudence used to have her moods. There were times when she was absent, when her face went blank and her eyes turned inwards. I could toss my things at her, or try to scratch her, or shout swear words at her, she would not budge. She just said, You be quiet, you\u2019re nothing to me. You are nothing to me. Defeated, I would go away again, raging mad, despairing. And then it was as if it were all forgotten, she\u2019d come into my room singing some annoying song. Who\u2019s going to feed the maggot who lives in there? She pointed to my stomach, the maggot who lives in there. The crisis had passed, I followed on her heels to go downstairs and eat my dinner of rice, blowing out my cheeks like Bouki the hyena in the story she was telling me. The story of Bouki the hyena who got caught because she was such a glutton, one time when she she\u2019d been hiding at the table of the blind people, in the belly of their baobab. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew it would be pretty hopeless, trying to find Prudence. But the idea allowed me to stay on. I needed more time in Dakar. Ever since I got there, I\u2019d been trying to close my fist around memories that slipped like sand from my fingers. Now that Prudence had made her reapparition, I had a purpose once again. To find Prudence. She now embodied, all to herself, the time we had spent in this land. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here, in a dream, along the by-roads, the men talk and whisper messages. Men\u2019s dreams making their way from village to village. You just have to wait, sitting under a tree until one day, when the noontime sun rings the contour of things with blood, the tree will be chosen by the wizards, djinns, and souls who wander the savannah. You just have to wait for them, under the tree where they choose to play the kora. Under the tree where they will perch to grant a wish. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He settled in town above the \u201cFilfili Ranch\u201d supermarket, in a short-term rental apartment for small-time businessmen. He thought he would leave things up to chance encounters, and decided not to make any decisions; every morning he would get up and tell himself that today something, someone, would help him progress with his search. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The morning of the first day he could not get out of bed, his body was dry and burning, his head full of overexposed images. Djinns turned their grimacing faces to him, baring teeth that were filed into triangles and oozed a stream of silvery saliva. He dreamt that the two women were waving to him from the far side of the river. Manuela, Prudence, together on the opposite shore, while he remained alone here on earth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three days went by, the fever abated, leaving him weak but lucid. He went out, euphoric for no apparent reason. The still brisk air of the morning, the cool shade of the big rugged trees along the Avenue de la R\u00e9publique, in the distance the red guards camped outside the gilded gates of the presidential palace, the industrious calm of the early morning hour all reinforced his confidence and the conviction that he was heading toward something decisive.
He walked up the avenue to the cathedral, then took the avenue Lamine Gueye. Drawn by the crowd hurrying that way, he went in the direction of the Sandaga market, a vestige of neo-Sudanese architecture surrounded by a labyrinthine cluster of multicolored stalls. He turned down a street that was buzzing with the industry of sewing machines and, heedless to the voluble entreaties of the embroiderers, wove his way among the brilliant boubous set out on display right to the middle of the street. He then got lost in a maze of small courtyards and farmyards, wandering past makeshift shops, oilcloths, bicycle wheels, foam mattresses.
The morning progressed, the sun now spread a veil of dull heat while the city became dusty and noisy. Tired and sweating, he paused in the shadow of a corrugated iron awning next to a squatting woman who was selling lettuce, herbs, and little vegetables. He was sampling the freshness of her modest inventory when he noticed that a man with a distinguished air was coming his way.
Pushing a bicycle, dressed in a beige suit and an astrakhan cap and fine tortoise-shell eyeglasses, the man was drawing nearer, never taking his eyes off him.
Once he was within earshot he removed his cap to reveal a perfectly smooth skull, and gave a slight bow.
Bonjour, Monsieur, forgive me for bothering you, and you will pardon me if I am mistaken, but might you be the son of Madame Manuela?
A black clarity washed over me, dazzling. Huge bumblebees filled my skull, knocking against my teeth, against my ear drums, banging against my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded.
And how is Madame Manuela?
The man smiled, waited until I got my wits about me.
She is\u2026My mother is\u2026
I pressed my tongue against my dry lips.
My mother passed away, I\u2019m here on my own.
The man\u2019s expression was one of great consternation when he grasped the meaning of my words.
This is most unfortunate! Ah! He seemed discomfited, his cap in his hand, his eyes downcast, as he tried to digest the news. Ah! This is most unfortunate! A great misfortune! Ah!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His name was Thierno. He was Guinean and he had been a houseboy
for our neighbors at Point E. My mother had given him the goat when we left Dakar. They had corresponded, she had given him money for his family. She sent him photographs, of us, of me. He was grateful to her, and now he had recognized me.
He called out to a passer-by who was giving him a questioning look, and an animated discussion followed in Wolof between the passer- by, the street vendor, a bana-bana who had been dozing until now, an old man seated not far from there fingering his worry beads, and a motorcyclist who had stopped right next to us. They all looked at me, smiling. The vendor, with a twig in her teeth, punctuated their exchange of information with short bursts of laughter, and soon the group was joined by the cheerful faces of curious little children.
The motorcyclist began to speak, pointing at Thierno.
He said you have to go to his house. He\u2019ll introduce you to his family.
Thierno gave a contented nod of the head, confirming his invitation.
He\u2019ll send his nephew to guide you there. You must tell the taximan, Sicap Libert\u00e9, he\u2019ll drop you off outside the stadium. His nephew will be there, he will guide you.\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In memoriam<\/em><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Dakar, 1971. Le baobab de l’ellipse du Point E.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Quitter Dakar (publication originale) Collection La BruneEditions du Rouergue\/Actes-Sud Editeurs associ\u00e9s, 2010 Quitter Dakar (seconde publication)Collection Mondes en VF Editions Didier, 2012 lacauselitteraire.fr Par Th\u00e9o Annanissoh* (mars 2011) Quitter Dakar, c\u2019est en fait y revenir. Quitter, revenir, ces mots qui s\u2019imposent ainsi d\u2019entr\u00e9e de jeu indiquent ce qui caract\u00e9rise le roman de Sophie-Anne Delhomme : … Continue reading Quitter Dakar<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-36","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-non-classe"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=36"}],"version-history":[{"count":19,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":183,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36\/revisions\/183"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=36"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=36"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sophieannedelhomme.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=36"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}