FROM AFRICA WITH LOVE

By Courtney Alexander Williams

Inspired by movies the missionaries showed in Casamance, Senegal (northwest Africa), Abdalla Ndao has attended film school at NYU and is now working on a documentary film. He wonders about Nowack, the gem he left behind. He is not aware that she has been sending him monthly letters-even though she has received no reply to any of them.

When

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mulberry Books
• Release date: Dec 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781951742379

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From Africa with Love.

Copyright © 2016, 2018, 2019 by Courtney Alexander Williams.

From Africa with Love is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subjects addressed in the publication. The authors and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

ISBN: 978-1-951742-38-6 [Paperback Edition]

978-1-951742-69-0 [Hardback Edition]

978-1-951742-37-9 [eBook Edition]

Printed and bound in The United States of America.

Published by

The Mulberry Books, LLC.

8330 E Quincy Avenue,

Denver CO 80237

themulberrybooks.com

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To Una Williams, my grandmamma,

who told me I could do anything when I

followed her words and ways—and manners.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My first novel, Faithful Brot hers? is the story of two brothers who leave Africa under different circumstances. It grows out of my experience of living as an adopted son with a family in Senegal, Africa. My name there was Moussa Ndao (literally, Moses King). It also springs from my own coming to America. These transitions tested the ideas and training that my grandmother, Una Williams, gave me.

Special thanks to those who instilled their faith, trust, and confidence in me to produce this second novel:

Vergina Bell, Tendai Masaya, Tinashe Masaya, and Timothy Staveteig.

Thanks for the inspiration to Steve Harvy, Tyler Perry, Money Mayweather, and kudos to Oprah Winfrey.

Success can be defined in many ways, but in my view, success is a journey, not a destination.

CHAPTER

1

Mr. Waldo, a civil servant of Senegal, stood before the judge, awaiting her decision. The judge reviewed the paperwork submitted by each side before her and then summoned the government attorneys to join Mr. Waldo at the docket on her left; the farmer representatives on her right.

Alright, I sense, Mr. Waldo, that your proposal does not find consensus among the participants. So let me tick off the issues to establish where the discord might be lodged. She paused.

One and all: First, do we all agree that properly registered farming fields were abandoned by families during the Movement for Democratic Forces for Casamance—the so-called MFDC) years?

Mr. Waldo eyed the farmer group. Many had their heads down, staring at the carpeting. Why are they not all nodding their heads in agreement? This point is basic and was established by the civil servants for land reform. Good God! Our peanut production for these first years in the 1970s has fallen dramatically and therefore our tax revenues. Loans for seed and shovels were granted, and still we are slipping into a recession because we have so many farms sitting idle. Wake up, men. Encourage the judge.

One and all: Second, do we agree that abandoned fields should now be returned to their rightful owners and that, when necessary, squatter farmers be evicted?

Again, Mr. Waldo witnessed quiet. We went over this before the court hearing and in the judges chambers. We all agreed on these points. But, without more than stony silence by the representatives, the judge may cancel my proposal. If families do not return and till the soil in Casamance this growing season, then these fields shall be seized by the provincial government and sold or leased to farmers. Com’ on, damn it. Say something.

Then the judge turned her gaze. Now, Mr. Waldo, as the governmental director for researching deeds and rights claims, you have also submitted a detailed report about lands that have only family claims or questionable deed transfers. She paused.

Correct, your honor. I think that this approach is the best for... Why is no one listening to me?

One and all: How should we handle this report? The judge stopped, leaving an opening for anyone to reply. The group, however, remained silent.

We know in the French court system since Napoleon Bonaparte that silence means agreement. So, I am recording that all parties agree on the first three points. Now, should Mr. Waldo’s report also be tendered into this judgment?

I have feared for this moment. Now I alone need to speak in defense of my own report? I shall not forget this day or the ones who brought this embarrassment upon my head.

He cleared his throat, smiled without showing any teeth, and said, Why yes, your honor, I believe it best if my report is entered into the judgment. It identifies properties in which the owners have fled Senegal, so they will need to be located, if possible.

No reaction? Then, I shall continue. My report makes public whom the government believes falls into this category. Thus, the public can help us correct any errors or oversights. This will make enactment of the law speedier and fairer for all.

Do you think that your report also contains and perpetuates reported errors?

Well, many lands have no more than ancestral claims. Others here in Casamance were part of the Portuguese colonial period. As you know, when the French extended their claims into Casamance, they took the deed records to Paris, where I do most of my work.

He paused for a moment and then looked up. Let me make a risky gambit. If I may speak off the record—the judge nodded—most certainly claims exist but were not filed or were filed but have since become lost. The report summarizes our current knowledge and invites correction. It is simply a statement of our research to date.

Your point makes sense, she said. Mr. Attorney for the People: Do you agree?

Mr. Waldo glared at him. Let me stare into that coward’s face. Say something you idiot.

The attorney for the people blinked, opened his mouth, and said, I do, your honor. The Casamance province is an important agricultural area that produces—when farmers are farming— peanut oil and other exportable commodities. Our citizens and the government would greatly benefit from this action.

There. You said it. Take a bow—so I can kick your derriere.

Again, are there any objections? she asked, speaking to the group. The group, however, remained silent. Very well. The government may proceed with resettling abandoned farmlands with their rightful owners or with confiscating abandoned lands.

Have I won this round? The remainder of my plan will meet with equal success, if not better. Now, I have a personal score to settle over lunch.

* * *

During the lunch period, Mr. Waldo remained in the provincial government office in Ziguinchor. From his briefcase, he pulled a piece of official letterhead and an envelope for a summons. After neatly typing in the information, he took the letter to a secretary to be imprinted with the governmental seal. He then placed the notarized letter in the envelope, which was placed in a diplomatic envelope. Finally, he handed the slim package to an underling for posting.

Please see that this is posted today. I want the recipient to receive it as soon as possible.

To Mr. Issa Ndao. Yes, I shall get this in the mail immediately. But, the man lingered a moment.

How did the proceedings go this morning? Was the outcome as you expected?

Yes, it went precisely as planned. This letter is my first step toward implementing our new policies. Then, may I ask the reason that you are processing only one of the claims?

Let’s just say that I have a keen interest in, ahh, helping this former neighbor settle his land claim situation, ahh, quickly. It is a small courtesy to an old friend. And, if he comes to Casamance, then he can model how our process will work with other farmers. Very good, the aid said and turned on his heels to dispatch Mr. Waldo’s request.

When the aid was gone, Mr. Waldo opened his briefcase to pull out the second envelope. Then, he eased a file drawer in his desk open and placed the envelope with many others. I should put each of these through the government’s shredder to dispose of the evidence. But, they are all from my daughter to her beau, Issa’s son, Abdalla. Will she soon stop writing him or even caring about him? Then, I shall thank my friend at the post office for his kindness in diverting these to me.

Now let me reach into my briefcase for my next score to settle.

* * *

Four days later, an official communique arrived at a Staten Island, New York, home, where Issa Ndao lived with his wife, younger son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter.

The postal carrier needed Issa to sign for the package. Issa, fingers shaking, accepted the slender diplomatic package from the postal carrier and signed for its receipt. Wow, the postal carrier has never stopped here before. Look at the colors of the Senegal flag: A green star on a yellow bar flanked on one side by a green bar and on the other side a red bar. Let me just trace the shapes to feel my homeland again and that of my ancestors as far back as the stories go. Abdalla? he called out. Abdalla, can you see what this is about? He is my smart son; he will know what this is and how I should handle it.

His elder son strode to the doorway, lifted the package from his Father’s hands, opened it, and read the cover letter in French.

Then, he said, Dad, the nation of Senegal is now making a formal claim that, after you have been absent for four years, you have abandoned your property. The government plans to sell it if a claimant doesn’t appear in two weeks’ time. Wait. Actually less than two week’s time; it was two weeks from the date sent.

Issa squatted down as though his knees could no longer bear his body’s weight. Oh my God. That cannot happen. Two weeks is not enough time. Only ten days? Impossible. Once again, we who come from Casamance are being lorded over by the Senegalese; they promised long ago that we too would achieve our freedom. When this freedom did not come naturally, many rose up as freedom fighters and others fled the violence. And, now this. It’s just too much.

Father, do you want to go back to our land and way of life?

Issa stood again, looking back through the doorway into this palatial home. No, our being together in the United States is much richer for human connections and longevity than our life back home. Yet, by being here, we are losing connection with our ancestors and the soil.

Then, your disagreement is about who gets your land next?

No… Well... My insightful son, perhaps it is as you say.

Father, someone should go back to our property and evaluate it. Or, perhaps we can find another family who has worked the property. Perhaps we could keep it out of the government hands.

Yes, Issa said, stroking his chin. Yes, I could go back. It would be refreshing to see the fields again, to kick around in the peanut rows.

What? his wife, Suma, interrupted. As God is my witness, you are too much of a hot head to do these negotiations.

Don’t be ridiculous, I can handle things.

Yes, like you did before? The government jailed you twice, and we were on the run scared for our lives as the soldiers searched for us. You certainly played that one cool.

Issa flapped his hand downward and turned away from Suma. Woman, don’t remind me. Those were heavy days, and I am not proud of everything that happened. If it had not been for Chijioke’s discovery of diamonds and Abdalla already at school here in America...I’ve changed."

Issa, Suma shifted so she could look him in the eyes. If you want to have a negotiated outcome, then someone else needs to go. My point is that it cannot be you. And, if you think about it, this venture raises concerns about any of us who might be jailed again or even detained. Chijioke has a wife and children… She paused as though Issa would understand where this logic would take the conversation.

You’re right, Mother. I have no wife and children. It is summer, and I do not have any classes at NYU to teach. And being connected with the film industry, I can always claim that I am scoping out exotic locations for future films. It is not quite the freedom enjoyed by journalists, but it taps into the romanticism most people have about being in a movie.

Issa smiled. You have always been the sensible one, Abdalla, just like your Mother. Then he caught Suma’s smile. Chijioke got us into this situation and is not likely ever to get us out of it. If you would handle this, Abdalla, then I will be pleased.

Can I? I am not sure. Let me run this past my film business partner, he replied.

* * *

Abdalla shook hands with Feury as they met at a sidewalk cafe. After small talk and the arrival of their coffees, Feury began. Things sounded urgent, Abdalla. What’s up?

"Feury, thanks for the quick meeting. I need to go back to Africa to examine and maybe settle a land issue for my Father. He wants anyone but the government to own the place held by our ancestors for generations. I treasure your business experience…

well, that and maybe your enforcement experience— running the Alley Jazz Club in Manhattan for many years must have taught you some tricks."

Well, I learned a lot about strong-arm tactics, whether it’s the police or the racketeers. But, I don’t know much about government operations, especially those developed by the French in Northern Africa. You’ll probably need to hire an attorney.

Good point. In case the authorities detain me, however, I thought maybe we could construct a cover story. I’ve got a good film proposal here.

Feury leafed through it, smiling at times. Okay, what you need to make this look real are a business plan with a budget and at least one letter of credit from a bank. I can get you those things.

They finished their coffees. Do you have your tickets and visa?

Thankfully, I have kept up my immunizations— Senegal requires yellow fever. I have an appointment at the Senegalese Consulate here in New York. I can fly to Dakar Airport and pick up the visa on my way through to a local plane to Casamance. So I will just make the deadline to appear as a claimant.

Good, said Feury. I’ll get you the papers.

As he left, Feury looked at his watch. Could he really get these papers in such a short time? He would need to make some phone calls.

CHAPTER

2

The official summons had arrived on Tuesday, day four. Abdalla had managed to pull things together in a week. On Wednesday, day twelve, his flight was nearly completed.

The sign read Aéroport International Léopold Sédar Senghor, but to Abdalla, it said, Welcome home to Dakar, Senegal. Abdalla rubbed his neck while standing to retrieve his luggage from the overhead bin. Even though he was traveling half-way around the globe, this modest bag was all he had packed for his brief trip. He wished his seatmate safe travels.

Finally, it was his row’s turn to disembark, and once inside the terminal, he bounded for the visa office. He would need to clear immigration and customs, and then board a much smaller plane to arrive at Casamance about 200 miles to the South. As inconvenient as four travel segments were for completing this trip, he knew the alternative was to spend a day traveling the highways and dirt roads.

He approached the immigration officer. I hope this goes as smoothly as people say it should. I am so tired and sick of traveling.

Passport, please. What is the purpose of your travel here?

Here is my passport and an official notice of a hearing in Casamance about some family land.

So, are you a U.S. citizen? Abdalla shook his head yes.

Were you ever a citizen of Senegal?

Yes, about four years ago, my family emigrated from Senegal. I was a student abroad and left about nine years ago.

I must keep my answers brief as Feury instructed while still being truthful in every aspect. Giving too much information could give officers a lapel to grab and shake around.

Would you step aside with me? the officer asked. Surely, officer. What seems to be the problem? The officer did not reply, but instead turned and signaled another officer. He looks like this officer’s supervisor. Maybe this is routine.

The officer approached the superior, and they spoke as quietly as they could.

The superior then turned to Abdalla. "May I see your official letter, please?

Abdalla handed it to the superior, who held it up to the dingy, bare bulbs overhead. He slowly angled the paper to catch how the ink signature laid on it.

Yes, the superior said to the officer. This appears to be authentic.

Then the superior turned to Abdalla. Our difficulty is this: The records for your family’s emigration from Senegal are a bit au hasard—how shall we say in English—haphazard.

He stared into Abdalla’s eyes as if looking for some reaction. Abdalla swallowed but looked directly back into the superior’s eyes.

Remain cool, remain cool, remain cool.

Then the superior continued, But because we know you have a visa from our central offices to enter Senegal and because the reason for your visit seems official, we will let you proceed. Officer, he said as he turned to address him, please, carry on.

The officer inquired about Abdalla’s bag and its contents, but the bag held only clothes and a few travel items. Yes. I have instructions that you should go to the immigration office to pick up your visa. You may proceed to that office with your things. Next.

Abdalla picked up his letter and luggage, and then stepped into the office to pick up his visa.

What was that about? Feury arranged for my family’s quick departure from Senegal. Had Feury used unsavory connections to work around a part of the system? I hope not, because that is the sort of thing that can trip up official proceedings, such as those I am about to attend. Can I move along quickly enough to avoid entrapment?

He grabbed his travel bag and walked in full strides.

* * *

An hour after landing in Dakar, Abdalla was on the tarmac standing next to a small plane with two propellers.

Persons traveling from Dakar to Casamance have three options. First, they can pay a hefty fee to take a small plane. Second, they can take one of the twiceweekly boat trips along the Atlantic coast. Or, three, they can take a treacherous trip by road—some highway and lots of pot-holed dirt roads— through rebel checkpoints (with their unpredictable fees) and through the nation of Gambia bisected by the Gambia River.

Back in the U.S., I selected the first option without hesitation, if only it could guarantee safe arrival for my court date. Now, how air-worthy is this plane?

Abdalla watched as the airline manager placed each passenger’s luggage in a wing compartment or behind the last seat or over the foot mat in the cockpit. On the tarmac, the manager arranged the passengers in a row from heaviest to lightest and then seated each one to balance the plane forward-to-aft and sideto-side. Abdalla sat where the co-pilot would have sat—if the airline could afford one.

The pilot said, Do not to touch anything. So what should you touch?

Not anything.

The contrast between a plane, boat, or bus lessened once they took flight. Abdalla felt every minute of the trip. The plane flew little more than a thousand feet in the air so he could see the countryside as the plane bumped up and down through turbulence and air pockets. He let out a small cheer upon