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

sixty-year-old guy, local general secretary of the one-party government, a mass movement that promised to bring light to the people, blah, blah, blah. . . . The general secretary already counted three wives, half a dozen official mistresses and legitimized his children through a distribution system of local game.
    You were born around this time, at what ended up being the most maternal phase of Modern Africa. Africa was in the hands of the Chinese who were convinced of the Maoist revolution and seduced by the idea that the new man could be created by hard work. They were highly qualified, always pleasant, and willing to help. They believed in their mission so much so that it wasn’t surprising to hear them speaking French, Lingala, or Kikongo. Okay, so their accent wasn’t always the best, but we had the greatest admiration for their level of commitment. One of them, the doctor who delivered you, even became friends with your father. You could never tell his age, and he had a name that was impossible for a Bantu to pronounce, but he came around regularly to check up on you, always bearing gifts from his country. We’d never come across someone so simple and polite, especially because many of your father’s Congolese colleagues, from the moment they received their student card for a European university, would undergo a complete transformation, turning into these high-minded and haughty authoritarian puppets. The friendship with this Chinese man was strange all the same because even though he was quite generous himself, he never accepted anything from your father, not even the simple pleasure of sharing a meal. Party orders? Who knows? Let’s face it; fraternity among countries clearly has its limits. When all is said and done, when itcomes time to belting out a tune, we all have our different rhythms and melodies, whether in Beijing, Moscow, Brazzaville, or Paris.
    Besides the Chinese delegation responsible for building bridges, roads, and hospitals, we also had Cuban militia and East German henchmen in place to ensure the quality of our security services. There were French overseas volunteers to guarantee a rational school education and to promote French-language usage at the equator, as well as special envoys from the Vatican sporting black frocks, guardians of the African soul. They made it very clear that given the current state of affairs, the autochthon was far more in need of catechism than mathematics, and that it was important to learn to prioritize! The sovereign, independent nation to which freedom had been generously granted now found itself once again in good hands. First, we learned to ask for things, then we protested for what was rightfully ours, and today we’ve succeeded in becoming a nation of panhandlers, plaintiffs, our hands always outstretched and our bellies perpetually empty. Sad eyes turned toward the sky because salvation comes in the form of a cargo aircraft filled with medication and food or celestial blessings.
    Caught up in the flurry of the intermingling of different nations, inspired by the many people originating from faraway lands, your father quickly caught the travel bug and sought out new places to which he could bring his language, his history, his knowledge, as well as that of his beloved people. He also wanted you to be rid of inhibitions and discover the world in all its diversity. He therefore prepared your departure for France with great enthusiasm. The world was yours for the taking.
    Get some more rest now. Don’t start kowtowing . . .

    In the quiet and calm, I’m still able to find refuge in the lingering effects of the alcohol and marijuana. My quarters of fortune are filthy, and it’s dark. A few square feet of floor space in which to find myself face to face with myself, with a story to write and most of thepages still practically blank. In my turmoil, I just pissed on myself. The warden is cracking up like a whale behind