Fête Africaine

The drum beat echoed out, filling the empty streets with the playful hot rhythm. It bounced off the walls of the Eglise St Jacques and, as if rejected by its solemn medieval stone, it skipped on over the fountain and banged on the door of the Marie. Drawing closer to the Place Verdun, the drum was joined by a deep heavy vocal and, closer still, by the pick of a guitar and the tinkle of a triangle.

A small stage had been set up at the far end of the playing field and a drooping banner announced ‘Culture Partages’ and Fete ‘Africaine’. A small collection of stands adorned one side; one woman offered hair-braiding, a van sold bissap and pastries, a stall advertised upcoming events run by the African Society and how to become a member, and a trestle table held a small imprint of CDs of the artists on stage.

Despite the efforts, the turn out was poor and the atmosphere lacking the festival vibe they’d been hoping for. A scattered crowd gathered in smaller groups on the surrounding grass, while scrawny kids stole empty beer cans to use as goal posts. Occasionally a few of the sitting audience were cajoled by the livelier tunes to get up and dance, but after a few short moments would sit down again, embarrassed at their stiff hips and unnatural moves.

Only one lone West African woman, dressed in the traditional swirl of colours and patterns, danced under the stage, unperturbed by the apparent lack of enthusiasm of the others. Her movements were adept and her generous curves accentuated the fluidity of her steps. Her rotating buttocks seemed to move independently of her feet, her body working two different beats in beautiful harmony. A few others, drawn by her mesmeric performance, joined her in front of the stage. A young Senegalese man, backpack still on, took on the rhythm with delicate but pounding footwork, quickly lost in the evocative sound.

No one was very sure where the man came from or when he first appeared, but, suddenly, there he was, white and scrawny, just below the stage. He was clearly taken by the music, limbs flailing dramatically and without control, missing the rhythm entirely. His movements jarred with both the music and the natural, effortless elegance of his fellow dancers.

Pale, two days’ growth on his chin and decked in khaki shorts, a light linen shirt and John Lennon glasses, he cut a stark contrast to the bright busty woman, her orange and green dress complemented by a yellow sash around her ample bottom and thighs. She didn’t seem to pay the newcomer much notice and continued her rolling motions, magically amplifying the musicians on stage.

The sparse crowd paid him little attention either to begin with, more engrossed in their own conversations. They took the man either for a drunk to be ignored, or perhaps one of the organising committee tyring to liven the engagement, or just one of those weirdos to be avoided. He would clap a discordant beat every so often, apparently working to his own rhythm, and applaud exaggeratedly at the end of each piece. Eyes turned questioningly on him but quickly passed on. The man, however, was oblivious to any attention he was drawing, the raised eyebrows or sniggers directed his way. For he was no longer on a playing field in Paris, no longer in France or Europe. He was back in Africa, on the incongruously green lawn of a large corporate hotel where a traditional welcome evening had been organised for a newly arrived employee of Cantard’s International.

Benoit had not wanted to go to the welcome party and had tried to slip out of it, despite it being made more than clear by the Director of the West Africa section that his presence at the event was not optional. It was not that he didn’t enjoy the cultural events they put on for their employees but rather that he had already met the newcomer, and didn’t really like him.

Delany had flown in from Quebec three days earlier and had already been introduced to Benoit, with whom he would be working closely. Benoit had found the Canadian too loud, too chummy, too crude. Benoit had quietly apologised he wouldn’t be able to make the welcome party the following evening, his wife was pregnant and he really needed to be with her. The fact she was only 3 months and kept on telling Benoit she was fine, and that having a baby was not a disability, did nothing to assuage some primal need in him to be close to her.

‘Oh well that’s great!’ Boomed Delaney ‘My wife has popped out three already. Kids are great. You’re going to love them. Hey – bring your wife along – they surely serve something without alcohol?!’ He had laughed at his own comment, unaware of how it had riled Benoit, who saw his wife’s first pregnancy as something magical, something so incomprehensively wonderful, that to hear this oaf refer to it in such blasé terms made his face hot and flushed.

‘Great then! We’ll see you there then Benny’ and Delaney had slapped him on the shoulder and continued his tour of the office. Benoit had considered playing sick, faking the death of a relative in France, a complication with Emilie’s pregnancy, but ultimately he was too honest and too superstitious to give voice to any of these lies. It seemed like tempting fate.

It was Emilie herself who have finally convinced him that he should go and that she would come with him. She reminded him how much their own welcoming party had helped on their arrival just over a year ago, and anyway, she had bought a new dress to accommodate the bump now beginning to show.

Benoit relented. Emilie’s calm persuasion never failed to win him over and he was left feeling churlish for ever having thought to miss the party. Emilie was in character what could only be described as serene. She was never flustered, never nervous, never irritable or snappy. She had a knack for absorbing the anger and frustration of others and neutralising it which meant Benoit would find that the infuriating meeting he had been recounting to his wife would melt into nothing of any consequence. She was not immediately beautiful in the classical sense but men were drawn to her peaceful and tranquil nature.

For Benoit she was nothing short of an angel and he could still not quite believe she had said yes to his proposal. They had met in the library where Emilie had worked, her serenity increased in the quiet reading room. Their courtship was short and unexceptional but for Benoit nothing could put into words how lucky he was to be loved by this gentle creature. But in contrast to her calm and still demeanour, the effect she had on Benoit was cataclysmic. How could someone so peaceful, so precious produce such a tumult of emotions in him?

When Benoit had got the promotion tied in with the transfer to the West Africa branch they had only been married six months. Benoit had travelled much of the globe in his younger days – Chile, India, Thailand and Russia but he seemed to have had a complete blind spot for the whole African continent. His anxiety rose at taking his precious wife somewhere he had no experience of, somewhere where he only had a vague and stereotypical impression of. Not that Emilie was fragile or a stranger to travelling herself but she’d never left Europe.

If Emilie herself had any doubts about moving out to West Africa, for what was to be a minimum of two years, then she never voiced it. In fact, she showed great excitement at the two of them setting out on an adventure together. She had batted away his anxieties with rational and wholly sensible counter arguments. They’d get all the vaccinations they needed, they’d be able to speak French, it was no more dangerous than some of the parts of Marseille and it would be an amazing experience. He could not argue.

Two months later they had emerged from a plane into a heat that knocked them breathless and a fierce light that made them screw up their eyes to adjust. They were allocated an airy villa to the north of the city in a protected compound mostly inhabited by Europeans and North Americans. It didn’t take them long to get into the swing of the lifestyle and there was hardly a week that went by without a big party, someone’s leaving do, engagements, birthdays, Friday drinks… Any excuse.

Benoit was somewhat surprised to realise he was thoroughly enjoying his placement; the sheer vitality of the place was getting under his skin. They had made good friends with an English family who owned a plush villa a little further down the street. Benoit would regularly get thrashed at squash by Bill, while Emilie and Susie created their own private book club, which, more often than not, did not include any literary criticism but a lot of wine and chatter.

For their first Christmas they took a long break to a lush eco-village deep in a nature reserve, a luxury paid for by their displacement allowance and recommended by Bill and Susie. It had been magical. He truly felt things could not have got any better when Emilie told him they were expecting their first baby. He had knelt down and kissed her belly, tears seeping into her cotton dress.

It was partly why Benoit had so resented the intrusion of loud Delaney, unbalancing the harmony they’d so happily established. Emilie tried to appeal to his gentler side, and convince him that Delaney’s arrival would really make no difference to their life.

‘And besides he’s only out here for six months and without his family. I’m sure we can make the effort for one night’.

As the heat of the day had begun to recede, they’d both showered and changed for the party. At the door, Benoit was struck with an overpowering emotion towards his wife as she stood there in her new blue dress. Love was not a strong enough word for what now choked him up and pricked at his eyes. Emilie had taken him in her arms and gently kissed each of his closed eyes – their private code for reassurance. He enveloped her with all his strength not wanting the time to come when he’d have to let go.

‘Shall we go, cheri?’ she’d said softly. He’d taken a deep breath, drinking down her scent and being and nodded.

The party had only just got started when their car drew up in front of the plush hotel. They were ushered through to the gardens, where a small stage had been arranged. A band of locals in their smartest dress played out the traditional rhythms somehow super imposed on the western surroundings and suited audience. Benoit supposed that this at least was an honest depiction of their life here, a yawning gap between the local and foreign communities.

Most of the guests barely registered the band, nothing more than background music to their chatter. Emilie, however, was enthralled, and whilst Benoit grudgingly did the rounds in plain sight of the Director, she edged closer to the stage and let the rhythm wash over her. Benoit watched her as she watched the musicians. He turned his attention to what was the centre of hers and could see how the musicians wholeheartedly inhabited the beat, the drummers head rolled in time, whilst his hands moved in a blur of motion. He marvelled at an instrument he’d never seen before; half guitar, half harp, with beautiful designs running its length. It was a sound he’d heard blaring from all the taxi radios but he had never seen it played. He felt a touch of regret that he’d never had the curiosity to find out what it was called. Benoit watched Emilie close her eyes and absorb the music. He joined her by the stage.

‘Doesn’t it sound amazing?’ She’d turned to him with wide enthusiasm. ‘Such a same no one is dancing’.

Benoit surveyed the mingling guests in their suits and uptight conversations.

‘I think it’s probably better they don’t even try. It wouldn’t dignify the music.’

She’d laughed, but then said in a more serious voice;

‘Can we go to one of the real music festivals in the city? We’ve been here for a year nearly and we really know nothing about the country. Not really. We should get to know the real Africa… Africa!’

Emilie’s eyes were brimming with an energy he’d not seen in her before.

‘You’re so right. We haven’t done a very good job of getting to know the place at all outside Bill and Susie’s lawn.’ He put his arm round her waist and felt the vibrations of her foot tapping in time to the music and felt it radiate through him too, infectious and inviting.

Later, whilst the band were taking a break, they chatted politely to the rest of the team. Benoit’s mind lingered on what Emilie had said. How they didn’t really know anything about the country they called home now.

‘What’s that instrument called – the one the front man was playing?’ He asked his colleagues who had been here much longer than they had. No one knew and the conversation drifted on to the international school where their children went and the upcoming sports day plans. Someone discovered Delaney, the newbie, played squash, at near professional level and the Director let out a cheer.

‘Our Benoit here is an ace squash player – you’ll have to have a knock about’. Benoit groaned inwardly but smiled and nodded. Emilie suggested it might be a good time to leave, she was tired and didn’t want to overdo it. He loved her even more deeply for the escape. She lingered by the stage as they left. The musicians were loitering to the side.

‘What’s the name of that instrument?’ asked Emilie pointing at the guitar like structure. The musician beamed.

‘This is a kora – very ancient music.’

This information seemed to flush her through with joy.

‘Thank you. It’s beautiful’ 

In the Place Verdun the lead singer was giving his thanks. The scrawny white man had not stopped dancing, occasionally maniacally gesturing at the crowd to join him. He was roundly ignored. As the music died down, there was a weak plea for an encore which was taken up by the skinny man. The band shyly acquiesced and took up their instruments once more. The dancing man was ecstatic and desperate in equal measure. He couldn’t let the music end. People needed to dance. They needed to demonstrate they loved it like he did. He struck out to the little islands of people, clapping and gesturing them to get up.

‘Africa!’ he kept repeating over like a mantra ‘Africa!’

Some half-heartedly gave in and clapped with him till he moved on, most pretended he was not there, some even flinched away from the wild-eyed cajoler. His efforts thwarted, he returned to his position under the stage, now moving with more zeal and energy than before. When the performance came to its final end, the technicians moved in quickly to start disassembling the equipment so they could get home. The sudden absence of sound left a void in the early evening.

The crowd quickly dispersed having had their fill of shared cultures, and the stall-holders packed up. The man seemed agitated, continuing to dance to the beat that played in his head.

The car pulled into the drive of their smart white villa. The warm evening air hung heavy with the smells of tropical flowers and unseen creatures rustled in the shrubs. Walking across the lawn to their front door, Benoit noted the sprinkler was not on as it should be. It was the dry season and even one night without water might risk the lawn crisping up and turning yellow. As much as he wanted to sink down and discuss the evening with Emilie, he knew it would only take a minute. She’d prepare a tea for them both, she said, and floated across the imperiled lawn as he hurried to adjust the sprinkler.

The man was still dancing increasingly frantically. The guys who were trying to pack up gave him a wide berth and finally the man who had been on the CD stall approached him.

‘Come on, man, it’s finished.’

A voice reached Benoit through the roaring in his ears.

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. We’ll come back to go over some details tomorrow about what happened and how the intruder gained access’. The officer had stepped back to allow Susie to come forward.

‘Come on Benoit. Stay at ours tonight. I’ll make us some tea.’

Tea. Something clutched in with Benoit. Tea. Tea.

‘Emilie is making us some tea’. Susie looked desperately at Bill. Bill came to his side.

‘Emilie’s dead, Benoit. I’m so sorry. Look, you’re in no fit state to stay on your own. Come over to ours’

What was Bill saying? Benoit looked at him like he was mad. Bill took a deep breath.

‘There was a break in at your house. Emilie surprised them when she came in. There was nothing anyone could do.’

Bill had heard an animal like screaming that followed a single shot. He’d found Benoit crouched over her bloodied body in the kitchen. In between his wails he was promising her they’d go to all the local festivals, they’d learn the kora, they’d explore the real Africa.

‘Africa! Africa!’

‘Come on, man. It’s finished. Go home.’ The skinny white man’s wild dancing slowed to a dejected calm.

‘Africa…’ he whispered.