Free Black Bazaar by Alain Mabanckou Page A

the door of her childhood friend …
    * * *
    Looking back on it, I think it must have been Rachel Kouamé who had spoilt her. The Ivorian girl was a bit older than Original Colour and rented a studio on Rue Dejean, in the heart of Château Rouge market where she sold saltfish, having abandoned her chaotic studies in accountancy. The two girls were now working together.They bought their saltfish from a Chinese wholesaler in Rue de Panama and sold it piecemeal, on the ground, at the fringes of the market between police raids. But their business demanded patience without turning in much of a profit. Plus their stall had to be very portable, with the result that it was often just a box so they could pack it away again and take to their heels at the first sound of a police car.
    Original Colour observed the Château Rouge community and how it lived. After a few months, she came to the conclusion that we Africans spent astronomical sums on whitening our skin. That we would rather die of hunger than put up with dark skin.
    One evening, when their business had been struggling for some time, she suggested to Rachel that they try their hand at selling de-negrifying products:
    â€œWe can sell this stuff, I know where to buy Ambi rouge and Diprosone at heavily discounted prices. This trade is like being an undertaker: undertakers are never out of work because people are condemned to die. Well, it’s the same with us Blacks: we’ll never give up trying to lighten our skin as long as we’re convinced that the curse hanging over us is simply a matter of colour …”
    * * *
    Unlike Original Colour, Rachel wasn’t cut out to be a businesswoman. She bullied her customers and chased after the latest Paris fashions, which she would flaunt inthe nightclubs of Abidjan during the Christmas holidays. A chronic big-spender, she squandered their joint savings. Without warning her friend, Rachel would go off to the Champs-Elysées or Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré on shopping sprees, returning with bulging bags of clothes and luxury shoes. She couldn’t wear it all, so she sold on clothes and shoes from past seasons to her friends in Abidjan. She knew all about a taste for luxury. She bought her jewellery at Cartier on Place Vendôme, and wanted to wear the same perfume as Cathérine Deneuve, Juliette Binoche and Vanessa Paradis. She was finding it harder and harder to justify her spending when Original Colour demanded they do their accounts and look into expanding their small business to reach other Blacks from further afield than Château Rouge and Château d’Eau. Their arguments became more frequent, and at one point the two friends and business associates didn’t speak for a week. Each cooked for herself in a corner of the room, without bothering about the other. Original Colour swallowed her pride and tried to strike up a conversation, but she could barely get a word out of Rachel. In the end, Original Colour was made to feel that she was to blame for her business partner’s mismanagement. They lost the goodwill of their suppliers who refused to deliver on credit. It was cash only from now on. But the coffers were empty …
    Relations were already tense between the two girls, and they deteriorated further when Rachel imposed a manon the household. Like her he was from the Ivory Coast, and he had the muscles of a fisherman of the open sea. But it turned out he was a shrewd gigolo who became lethally violent when drunk, smashing the crockery, and threatening to set the entire building on fire. This lout moved into Rachel’s place where he considered himself master of the premises. When he returned from his trips out and about, his food had to be ready with Rachel at home to serve it to him and massage his feet. Then he would collapse on the sofa-bed in front of the television, legs splayed. He would watch the football on Canal Plus, or else the pornographic film broadcast by the