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Sitting on the terrace in a Louzingou cafe, the talk turns soon enough to the civil war and oil in this new story from Alain Mabanckou, translated by Helen Stevenson I’ve been back home for a few days, after several years away. We’re sitting at a table on the terrace outside Chez Janette, a bar in the Trois-Cents quarter. It’s the busiest place in Louzingou, the Republic of Mboka’s political capital. There are a few people talking in the corner, but they can’t hear us. As night falls, their faces gradually fade into the darkness. We’ve been here nearly two hours, and my uncle seems pleased to meet up with me, after all these years. The waitress has just come and served us a couple of Primus beers. My uncle is eyeing the girl’s backside greedily: – My dear boy, have you seen that waitress – nice, uh? I don’t answer. He watches the waitress as she makes her way back to the bar, then turns to me: – This country’s changed. When I look at the big scar running down his face, he says: – Yes, I know, it’s because of the war, dear boy … it’s because of the war, or rather oil … He glances over at the people sitting at the back of the terrace, but they’re not listening, and my uncle goes on: – I wonder what our country would have been like if there’d been no oil. A peaceful country? A country with no history? I don’t know. We’ll never know. God gave us oil, though we’re just a small country, with only three million inhabitants. Why did he put all the oil in the south, instead of giving a bit to the north, so everyone at least had a little bit of the cake, and we could stop fighting? Ah well, I mustn’t complain, some countries are in real trouble, not a drop of oil anywhere, under land or sea! He raises his glass, knocks it back in one, and continues: – Oil is power. Wherever there’s war, there’s oil. Do countries go to war over water? Imagine a country with no water, will its people survive? Oil brought havoc here, from north to south. That’s the only reason for the civil war. The waitress puts two more Primus down on the table. My uncle glances at her nicely rounded butt: – Nice fit lady, eh? Now, where was I? What was I saying? – The civil war over oil and … – Ah yes, while you were away in France, we had a civil war. President Moniato, who was in power, wouldn’t accept defeat in the election. He didn’t want to hand over power to Solola, who’d been chosen democratically. And why not? I wondered if he realised I knew all about the war, from the newspapers. Still, I liked to hear him talk. He became more animated: – The war was all about gaining control of oil, selling it secretly and buying smart houses in Europe! Oil doesn’t belong to the people here, it belongs to the president and his family. The trouble is, Moniato was working with the French. Now, Solola didn’t want to work with the French any more, he wanted to work with the Americans. So, the French supported president Moniato, to help him stay in power, but the Americans didn’t protect the new president, who’d been democratically elected. The Americans are no fools, they know they can always go and wage war some other place – in Iraq, for instance – and get far more oil than they would here. Why should they fight for a little country with less oil than Iraq? A taxi’s just pulled up in front of the bar. Two women get out, in very short skirts. My uncle and I watch them closely. High heeled shoes. Made up to the nines. They cross the terrace, go to the bar and talk to the owner. We hear the boss say: – Bring back more money this time! Yesterday was awful! My uncle says: – You see that? The war has scuppered everything, everyone has to scrabble for a living. What was I saying? – About the war, the French, the Americans and … – Yeah, we had a civil war while you were away, you know that, it was in all the papers, all over the world. north against south. The northerners were in power, and they didn’t want to give up the oil. It was a bad war, dear boy. Arms poured in from everywhere. The northerners asked the Angolans for help, and the French, too, and they came and invaded the south. The people in the south all ran off and hid in the bush. They were dying of hunger, mosquitoes, and tropical disease. Some got eaten by crocodiles and lions. There was war on the ground and war in the air, believe me! He’s been speaking loudly, then realising the other customers had begun to listen in to what he was saying, he lowers it again, before continuing: – There were military planes flying low over the forest. They began to call the people who’d fled into the bush ‘refugees’. The International Community said they must be helped, they needed food, even though you can eat what you want in the bush, like the pygmies do. Pygmies are just a joke, really, they’re too small, their stomachs don’t get hungry every day like us big guys. Pygmies can go without food and water for weeks, but people our size need to eat every day. My uncle’s eyes are filling up, he looks like any moment he might cry. He looks at his bottle of beer for a moment, then pours himself another glass and says: – You don’t know what went on, it was worse than anything you can have read. It was terrible! I saw it with my own eyes, I was there, I was out in the bush along with the refugees. Sometimes pregnant women gave birth in the bush, because babies must be born even when you have oil, and there’s war in your country. The worst thing was, we went on making love, even while the war was killing huge numbers of people. I know what you’ll say: why didn’t you wait till the war was over to make love? Dear boy, if we’d waited for the end of the war, we’d have forgotten how to make love, and come the end of the war we’d have been making love with animals. It was nothing new: all through history there’ve been people making love in the time of cholera. Having said that, I don’t think cholera had anything to do with oil…. The two prostitutes walk past our table. My uncle doesn’t even look at them. His voice grows heavy and sad: – Things got worse and worse in the bush. One day we heard three helicopters flying over. They were flying low, almost touching the trees. The rumour went round that they were from the International Community. And we could actually see the three helicopters in the sky, with the letters painted in red on the side: PITILOYI. They were from the French company that was producing our oil. Of course! They had come to help us. We all came out of our hiding places, like mice who realise the cat that was chasing them has actually got no teeth, no claws. We began to shout for joy. We danced. We clapped. We embraced. We cried out: Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France! And some, in their joy, shouted: Long live America! At last we will make love once again, give birth to our children in our own homes, and not in the bush! War is over, Long Live Peace! He’s waving his arms like a helicopter, and the boss looks over at us from behind the bar, his eyes round with surprise. Once again my uncle lowers his voice: – Dear boy, I swear, they were there, the helicopters, just metres above our heads. We thought: they’re going to throw us sacks of rice, milk, sugar, bread and meat. We all rushed to be the first to fling ourselves on the parcels of food. We jostled and argued, and trampled on the children. The older ones said we must let women and children go first. And d’you know what happened? Even though I know, I shake my head, to let him continue. – We saw the helicopter doors open, it was the Angolans. They aimed their weapons at us, and opened fire. From everywhere, birds rose into the air. The gunfire went on and on. People fell, ran, plunged into the river. The soldiers used machine guns, threw tear gas. We didn’t know what was going on. And the oldest of the refugees yelled: Take cover! It’s a trap! From the looks they’re giving us now, the customers at the back are not best pleased. But my uncle is caught up in the telling of his story and ploughs on: – Oh, yes, I was one of the lucky ones. I ran like the devil through the swamp. I didn’t look back once. I went into a cave. I stayed there for two days. The country was now in the hands of the northern president, thanks to his Angolan allies. The war was over. When I got back home, my beard was so long it reached the ground. When I walked I looked like a zombie. I had lost almost all sense of direction because there are no streets or avenues in the bush. All you see are trees, mountains, rivers, and you sleep wherever you’re sure there are no wild animals … The customers at the back of the bar are more shocked than ever, they get up to leave. My uncle leaves off for a moment, as though suddenly afraid. He waits till they’ve gone, then takes a couple of big gulps before saying: – So there I was, back from the bush. The country seemed calm again, dear boy. We got on with our lives. We went back to the bars, to the sea, everywhere. Gradually we began to forget what had happened to us. Five years later, we had new elections. The northern president, with the support of the French and the Angolans, was roundly defeated. We jumped for joy. He was practically hounded from the country and went to live in exile in France. Now it was a southerner, Solola, who ruled us. Since he was mad at the French for supporting the northern president, he gave the oil rights to the Americans. Which didn’t please the French. Every day, the French went to see the ex-northern-president in his home-in-exile in Paris. The promised him they’d do everything to restore him to power. But we couldn’t see how a northerner could become president of our country again. There were Americans everywhere now. They tried to teach us English, but it never worked, because the French had given us their lousy accent during colonisation. We told the Americans they could do what they wanted with our oil, but we refused to learn English. They didn’t care either way, they signed their contracts with the southern president, and he signed too, not realising that he was selling off our oil for the future. Five people in uniform come into the bar and sit down at the back. My uncle looks at them for a few seconds. He lowers his voice, because he knows this time if he talks loud we’ll end up in prison. You don’t talk about the war here in front of the army. – Now we must set up new elections. The ex-president from the north has come back to run for office, with the support of the French. But our southern president claims that the right conditions aren’t in place. The northern ex-president says they must be held, no matter what. And so they start squabbling … Don’t you want your beer? I raise my glass, drain it. My uncle does the same and goes on: – The ex-president brings arms into the country via Angola, and asks the Angolans for help. He says we must get rid of the southern president if he doesn’t set up proper elections. Who knows how that will end up. They say they’ll be another civil war, but the only thing I know is this, that the people won’t get any of what comes from our oil … I turn towards the back of the bar. My uncle looks at his watch. – Time flies! Half ten already! We pay, and pick up a taxi outside the bar. We’re going down the Avenue of Independence, which runs through the middle of Louzingou, I glance occasionally at the scar on my uncle’s face. He turns to face me: – Let’s go back to that bar tomorrow. Did you see those two prostitutes? You have one, I’ll have the other. I’ll pay, don’t worry. I bet it’s a long time since you had a bit of Louzingan skirt! I say nothing, I’m almost half asleep. Yes, I’ll go back to the bar tomorrow, with my uncle … • Supported by the National Lottery through Arts Council England Original writing Fiction Oil Oil spills guardian.co.uk