Free Black Bazaar by Alain Mabanckou Page B

same channel on the first Saturday of every month. Unable to put up with this any more, Original Colour gave him a piece of her mind one evening when Rachel was there.
    The Ivorian was quick to put her down:
    â€œSince when a woman does have the right to speak, you’d think a man like that, eh? Is a woman same on a man? Who you are taking you for, isn’t it? Are you even coming up to my ankles? Is your small French you talk bad going to push me out? Have seen your big fat bumper moving in the crowd like a black snake in a Camara Laye story cutted in half? If you don’t agree, get out our house! I spit on your race! You are not here at home, you bloody Congolese girl from Bacongo …!”
    Because Rachel did nothing to put this predatory scum in his place, Original Colour came to theconclusion that she was a crowd in their two-room apartment.
    After a heated argument with her friend who defended her man tooth and nail, Original Colour packed up her belongings during the week, and rented a room in a cheap hotel on Rue de Suez, which was mainly occupied by Nigerian female stallholders from the Marché Dejean. She was quickly introduced into the network of women who imported de-negrifying products from back home. And they wasted little time in adopting the young Congolese woman, because she helped them write the letters and fill out the forms in French that are a necessary part of everyday life. Original Colour became, if you like, their public writer …
    * * *
    Living alongside these Nigerian women was no easy ride. Petty squabbles about twice nothing set the girls against one another. Boyfriend trouble or something to do with witchcraft. As soon as one of the Nigerian ladies brought a man onto the premises, the others were all competing to sleep with him.
    And then there were the nocturnal catfights. The police would turn up, sirens blaring fit to burst the eardrums of the crowd gathered in front of the building. The Nigerian ladies would threaten each other with pestles, forks and sometimes even with cans of caustic soda. Some ended up with faces streaked withdeep scars. Was there still room for Original Colour, caught in the middle of all these frenzied females? The young French-Congolese woman needed to win her independence back. Around this time, on the stairs of their hotel, she met a man who said that he owned a ladies’ underwear shop in Les Halles. The man was a regular client of the Nigerian ladies. I never found out exactly what kind of relationship he had with Original Colour. She was very evasive on the subject. But what I do know is that from one day to the next the man hired her to work at Soul Fashion.
    She started looking for somewhere to live and found a studio in the 18th arrondissement, which meant burning her bridges with her Nigerian friends who accused her of stealing their man who “paid handsomely” and didn’t haggle …
    As soon as Original Colour appeared in front of Soul Fashion, I used to break off my conversation with my pals, leave my glass of Pelfort and rush over to her. I made sure I wore my most elegant suits, for the sole purpose of charming her, and she liked it because she knew about the Sapper scene and Château Rouge. She used to say I was the real deal, a Congolese man from head to toe. And as she said it, she would point to my tie and my Westons. Not only that but why hide it, she liked to hear me talking about my plans. And she wondered what on earth I was doing in that bar instead of continuing with my studies, since I’d made it into the final year at school. And my reply would be that I didn’t want to waste my time with a bunch of kids in a lecture theatre. I’m a trend-setter, I live my life to the full …
    * * *
    When three days went by without my showing up at Jip’s, Original Colour would go into the bar and ask Paul from the big Congo who, in her eyes, was the person in our group most likely to take her