Far from My Father

By Veronique Tadjo

"To attain some sort of universal value," Véronique Tadjo has said, "a piece of work has to go deep into the particular in order to reveal our shared humanity." In Far from My Father, the latest novel from this internationally acclaimed author, a woman returns to the Côte d'Ivoire after her father’s death. She confronts not only unresolved family issues that she had left behind but also questions about her own identity that arise amidst the tensions between traditional and modern worlds. The drama that unfolds tells us much about the evolving role of women, the legacy of polygamy, and the economic challenges of daily life in Abidjan. On a more autobiographical level, the author depicts a daughter’s efforts to come to terms with what she knew and did not know about her father.

Set against the backdrop of civil strife that has wracked the Côte d'Ivoire since the turn of the century, this story shows Tadjo’s remarkable ability to inhabit a character’s inner world and emotional landscape while creating a narrative of great historic and cultural dimensions.

CARAF Books: Caribbean and African Literature Translated from the French

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Virginia Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9780813935645

Veronique Tadjo

Veronique is an award-winning poet, novelist, and painter and illustrator from the Côte d'Ivroire. She has lived in Paris, Lagos, Mexico City, London and Nairobi.

Book preview

Far from My Father

CARAF Books

Caribbean and African Literature Translated from French

Renée Larrier and Mildred Mortimer, Editors

Far from My Father

Véronique Tadjo

Translated and with an Afterword

by Amy Baram Reid

University of Virginia Press   Charlottesville and London

This work received support from La Mission culturelle et universitaire française aux Etats-Unis.

Originally published in French as Loin de mon père

© Actes Sud, 2010

University of Virginia Press

Translation and afterword © 2014 by the Rector and Visitors of the

University of Virginia

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First published 2014

9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Tadjo, Véronique, 1955–

[Loin de mon père. English]

Far from my father / Véronique Tadjo ; translated

and with an afterword by Amy Baram Reid.

pages    cm.—(CARAF Books: Caribbean and African Literature translated from French)

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-0-8139-3562-1 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8139-3563-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8139-3564-5 (e-book)

1. Women—Côte d’Ivoire—Fiction. 2. Families—Côte d’Ivoire—Fiction. 3. Côte d’Ivoire—Fiction. I. Reid, Amy Baram, 1964– translator. II. Title.

PQ3989.2.T25L6513 2014

843‘.914—dc23 2013030492

Contents

Translator’s Acknowledgments

Far from My Father

Afterword by Amy Baram Reid

Bibliography

Translator’s Acknowledgments

As this project nears completion, I want to offer my thanks to those who provided guidance, help, and support along the way. First and foremost, un très grand merci to Véronique Tadjo. It has been an honor and a pleasure to collaborate with her on this and other projects over the past twelve years. Her writing encourages me to think more deeply about human connections and gives me hope for the future. I am grateful for her trust and her generous feedback, and I look forward to working with her on other ventures in the years to come.

My thanks, too, to the editorial team at CARAF/University of Virginia Press—to Cathie Brettschneider, Raennah Mitchell, Ruth Melville, and series editors Mimi Mortimer and Renée Larrier—for their support and counsel. Carrol Coates, the founding series editor at CARAF, continues to be an inspiration for his dedication to making francophone literature accessible to English readers. New College of Florida and the New College Foundation made it possible for me to devote significant blocks of time to this project, providing a Faculty Development Grant in summer 2012 and a semester of assigned research in spring 2013.

In my afterword I quote Irène Assiba d’Almeida, who notes that works we read in translation are often most poignant for their familiarity: how closely they speak to our own experiences. With that in mind, I want to say that translating Far from My Father led me to reflect on the importance of my relationships to family and friends, and the strength of my love for them. Thank you to all my near and dear. Felicia Silpa offered insightful comments on the afterword. My husband, Uzi Baram, is constant in his support of my work and as my companion in adventure. Our children, Jacob, Miriam, and Ben, remind me daily of the need to build, collect, and share memories. While I wish that my father were here to read this work, I am fortunate that my mother, Lois Reid, is.

Far from My Father

To my family, small and large.

To my friends at the four corners of the world.

This story is true, because it is anchored in reality, sunk deep into real life. But it is false as well, because it is the product of a literary endeavor where what really matters is not so much the accuracy of the facts, but the intention behind the writing. Everything has been revised, reworked, reorganized. Some details have been muted, others, in contrast, emphasized. In short, what remains is a lie, or perhaps a joke on memory’s part, a trick of the spoken word.

—Lost references.

Is this taken from someone else or entirely my own?

In the world where we live today, before doing something we must each think; we must think long and hard because what we say heads off on its own—it doesn’t stay here. So when someone comes and asks, Who said that? you will reply with his name, It was Kaku Adingala who said it. Really? And where is this Adingala from? You will say he comes from Siman. Then the person will ask you, Who is his ancestor? Maybe he already knows, but you will say, His ancestor is old Assemian Eci. And then he will reply, Say no more. What you have said is true.

—Henriette Diabaté, "Le Sanvin, un royaume akan de la Côte

d’Ivoire (1701–1901), Sources orales et histoires" (PhD thesis,

Université de Paris-1)

Book I

I feel so close to you, and yet so much separates us.

I

Impossible to sleep.

Nina had thought that sunset would bring her a bit of peace. Yet after sending streaks of purple and gold across the sky, the orb had begun to melt away, sinking below the horizon. Now, it was over. Nothing remained but darkness, dense and troubling. She turned away from the dark hole, pulled down the window shade, reclined her seat, and tried to sleep. The plane’s wings cut through the night.

Anguish rose brutally in her. In just a few hours she would be there, at the house. But without him, without his presence, what was left? Walls, objects, what else? She would need to reconsider everything she had taken for granted.

What makes a country home? she had asked Frédéric the evening before she left.

I don’t know, he admitted, looking a little confused. Memories, I guess.

Yes, memories . . . the feel of the sky, the taste of the water, the color of the earth. Faces. Moments of love and loss. A home was all of that. A rainbow of sensations stored up as the days passed by.

But can one rely on memories? The country was no longer the same. War had left it scarred, disfigured, wounded. To live there now would mean forsaking those outdated memories, ideas from another time.

She had been gone for too long. How could they not hold it against her? She had thought that she could travel freely, roaming wherever she chose until it was time to return. Come home? Then everything would be just as it had always been, each thing in its place. All she’d have to do is to drop her bags and pick up her life, right where she had left it. She’d be welcomed with open arms, all the richer for her travels.

But that was before the war, before the rebellion.

Everything had been turned upside down, had crumbled away. The full force of her exile hit her like a whip and sent her reeling.

Voices began to shout in her head: Just who do you think you are? You are nothing. Your house was destroyed. Your parents are dead and gone. No one wants you here. Get out!

Nina woke with a start. She must have dozed off. Her heart was pounding. Where was she? Her feet were swollen, her body ached. I have to get up, stretch my legs, she thought. She got out of her seat.

She was careful not to bump into the sleeping passengers. Some were curled into balls, their mouth open or their nose buried in their neighbor’s shoulder, others with arms sticking out from under blankets, like the stiffened limbs of badly wrapped corpses. She wobbled as she walked, her eyes fixed on the light at the end of the passageway. A flight attendant was organizing trays of food.

She tried a few stretching exercises in the back of the cabin, but was unable to overcome the stiffness that had invaded her. She felt like the flight would never end. It wasn’t only her body that was abandoning her, but her spirit as well. A black sea as thick as the night. She felt herself beginning to sink. Have I really lost my home?

And what if this was really her fault, if she had deliberately set herself apart from the others? Now she was going to find herself face-to-face with everyone she had left behind years before. How would they see her?

When her father fell sick, Nina wanted to be at his side.

I’ll be home soon, Papa. I promise.

Wait a little longer, the war isn’t over yet, he had replied firmly. You won’t find any work here. Your aunties are taking very good care of me. Don’t you worry, just stay put.

She had thought, This isn’t how my life should be. Why am I so far from him?

No one knows where things are headed. People are speaking in harsh tones, growing more radical, more set in their opinions. Everyone is talking at once and no one is listening. We look at each other with stony faces, full of distrust.

After a moment of silence that had made Nina think she’d lost him, he finally added, My daughter, now everyone has to take a stance, choose sides. It’s become impossible to remain neutral. The country is split in two.

She had felt a great tiredness in him, his fiery resolve squelched by so many dashed hopes. Not fear, just the feeling of having failed in what he set out to do.

Nina’s head began to nod. She thought she would finally drop off into a deep and healing sleep, but she was distracted by the harsh glare of her neighbor’s overhead light. The man was watching a film she had already seen, the story of a ship sinking at sea, a little like the Titanic. A handful of passengers decide to set out, leaving behind the remaining thirty or so who were gathered in a watertight room. They head off into the bowels of the ship, trying to find a way to the surface. That’s how the story begins. Nina wondered why they so often showed disaster films on planes. Was it to exorcise people’s fear of flying?

Her head was spinning from lack of sleep and the incoherence of her own thoughts when the image of what awaited her in Abidjan suddenly appeared. She wished with all her might for the return of daylight. To be done with this torture. To feel solid ground beneath her feet, even if there would be no joy in her heart.

The sun had just reappeared when the plane landed. The heavy door opened and, despite the early morning hour, the passengers were suddenly engulfed in a wave of heat that rushed into the cabin: the country’s burning breath.

While she waited in the immigration line, Nina wondered who would be there to greet her. In the plane she had been careful to avoid catching the eyes of the other passengers, for fear of being recognized by someone, which was not unlikely on a flight to Côte d’Ivoire.

How are you? So, what are you up to these days? Where do you live? And your dad, he’s well?

Anything not to have to pronounce the words that told of his death. Not now. Not yet.

From behind the window, the officer questioned her in a detached voice:

How many days will you stay?

Nina hesitated.

I’m from here. Does it matter how long?

I asked you a question.

I’m not sure, about a month . . .

Suddenly the man’s face lit up.

Are you the daughter of Dr. Kouadio Yao? he asked, holding the passport open in front of him.

Yes, Nina replied apprehensively—she wasn’t quite sure where he was heading with all his questions.

Oh, I know your father well! We’re from the same place. You’ll have to say hello to him for me. I’m Corporal N’Guessan.

He stamped her passport and handed it back with a wide smile, one meant to suggest their complicity, then added quickly, Welcome home!

Nina picked up her suitcase and headed toward the customs agents, who were chatting among themselves, for once apparently unconcerned with what was going on around them. She opened and closed her bag fast, before any of them could change their mind. She was sweating profusely. Her clothes were sticking to her skin. She regretted wearing socks and a long-sleeved top.

Ahead of her, the exit: the point of no return.

A tightly packed crowd was waiting in the arrival hall. She looked all around. Not one familiar face.

Disoriented, she moved mechanically toward the exit. Suddenly someone appeared at her side.

Hey, auntie, want a taxi?

Without waiting for an answer, the young man grabbed her suitcase.

That’s when she heard Hervé’s voice.

No, put it down. I’ve come to get her. I’ll take care of the bag myself!

It’s no trouble, I’ve already got it, he answered, clearly unwilling to let go.

A bit of a scuffle followed. Hervé pulled the suitcase in one direction, the young man in the other. Nina didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t even had a chance to say hello to her cousin. She tried to intervene. It’s no big deal. He can carry my bag . . . But the other members of her family had just appeared. Seeing himself surrounded, the fellow finally gave up his prize, but not without first asking, Got some change for me?

They turned their backs on him. Nina hugged everyone. Their faces were somber and they were dressed in black. Chantal, the youngest of the group, began to cry.

As soon as she was settled in the car, Nina asked, How are things at the house?

Don’t worry, answered Hervé, without taking his eyes off the road. It’ll all work out. Your aunties are there. Everything’s being taken care of.

That’s good, she murmured, before returning to her own thoughts.

No one was speaking, for fear of disturbing her. Only Chantal’s muffled sobs broke the silence. Nina couldn’t help but feel irritated. Deep inside, she still harbored hopes that this was all just a bad dream.

The city passed by before them. Nothing seemed to have changed. The same crowded streets, the same noises, the same buildings. Everything in its place, even though for her nothing would ever really be the same. How could it be that the