Free The Heart of the Leopard Children by Wilfried N'Sondé

important! The words of the ancestor kept resonating in my tiny chest to the point that I couldn’t stop stumbling. Don’t forget that this is not your home. You have the burden of being a foreigner. You have to be better than the White man otherwise he’ll hate you. Luckily, Mireille’s little hand was there to hold mine, swinging it joyfully up and down. She gave me blue, green, and so many tons of red to have the courage to withstand so much.

    Go to sleep now; try to get some rest. The only prison you need be afraid of is the one you enclose yourself in everyday, the one where you are the prison guard. Forget about the bricks, the cement, and the steel. Leave your blood and tears on the metal bars and lie downin the filth on the ground. Stay on course and follow me. Remember to keep your heart and soul open!
    As your uncle, I went looking for your father in the jungle where he was born. Our stubborn mother had left the convent and all those overly affectionate priests. She had been living among them against her will and one day finally took off with her uncles and the rest of the family. This all happened during colonization. These crazy men defied the authorities, burnt their identity papers, dared to look the White men in the eyes and risk imprisonment. After that they had to leave, otherwise things would have certainly gotten worse. So they went far away, into the heart of the jungle and back to our first village. A few huts made from wood, clay, and leaves; some indolent domesticated animals; and in the main square a mobongui fire. The fire, I love it too, this is our soul, it’s the best moment of the day and of life, when the day is over and we gather around the homefire.
    As you know, your father and grandmother didn’t live in the village; they were living in the clearing, a mile or so away. When night falls and darkness colors the sky, you can close your eyes in your hut until morning. Your spirit brings you closer to the others who are dancing when the lights go out. They watch over us, and the mobongui. Your grandmother admitted to me, somewhat concerned, that your father really enjoyed staying up at night. Seated with his hands on his knees, you could watch him leaning to the left, then to the right, but more often than not, turned toward the sky. He wanted to immerse himself in the black light and become one with it and its angels. Shortly after surprising him in this way, our mother’s companion disappeared forever, which confirmed the suspicions that had been made about him. He was accused of being a boa-man after his very own brother had caught him copulating with an enormous serpent. He tried to suggest that he had been the victim of an animal attack, but no one believed him, especially because his younger brother and the two old women who saw him at the time had immediately gone into a trance that lasted for hours. The poor soul had to resign from his position as deputy mayor of the small municipalityin which he had been otherwise prospering. It’s true that a boa-man can stir up a lot of fear and even fall victim to lynching the moment a baby or a young child shows signs of suffering from a persistent fever. Days went by peacefully in the clearing before they found him, his stepson barely a few years old by then, conversing naked and happy with the invisible in the pitch-black night, no sound, and no moon. Listen to your fatigue, calm down, and let the words flow.
    I never quite understood your father’s love for the invisible world. As a child, he was so inspired he would go on about it for hours. I don’t think he ever even realized that most people are just content with what they can see and hold firmly in their hands. It’s hard to believe that such a spiritual boy had welcomed me with a good pelting of stones. He was and always will be as wild as a baboon.
    Everybody ran for cover whenever he came upon a white priest. You can understand why the other kids