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Fiction, LiteratureDecember 9, 2016

J’irai

« J’irai à Kolda, écouter la Kora ». Plus improbable encore ! La Casamance a beau être le grenier du Sénégal, ses habitants sont jugés trop frustres, trop rigides, pas assez truands ou beaucoup trop en dessous de la moyenne nationale. Quelques notes de la harpe du Sahel auraient pourtant apaisé mes tensions. Mon dos est tendu comme un archer. Mon ventre n’en peut plus de mouliner à vide.

 

Mais je suis loin des virtuoses Mandingues. Je m’éloigne et le train se rapproche. J’ai raté la dernière occasion de descendre du train. Les derniers villages défilent. Des jeunes enfants nous font des signes de la main. J’attarde mon regard sur un âne, des huttes, du fourrage entassé dans un coin de parcelle. Je m’accroche à ces images fuyantes et multicolores. Et si j’avais vraiment ouvert la boite à pandore ? Tous ces fantômes n’étaient-ils pas mieux au chaud dans la malle de l’oubli ?

 

Quatrième appel téléphonique. Après un bref échange, Omar était resté un long moment sans parler. Je voulais le rencontrer. Rencontrer mon géniteur, pas encore mon père. J’entendais juste son souffle, court et irrégulier qui trahissait les mille questions qu’il se posait fort opportunément. Quelques soupirs vites réprimés. J’ai compris sa reddition à une seule question :

– Comment me reconnaîtrez-vous ?

 

Je jubilais mais me sentais un peu bête aussi. Cet homme sur lequel j’avais focalisé tant d’attention depuis des mois me croiserait dans la rue que je ne le reconnaîtrais même pas. Je courrais derrière une chimère et il comptait dessus pour se débarrasser de moi.

De nouveau, un long silence au bout du fil. De mon fait, cette fois. Il conclut lui-même devant mon silence :

La percussion sourde de la locomotive contre le heurtoir me sort de ma torpeur. Les voyageurs sont semble-t-il aussi pressés de sortir que de monter tout à l’heure. Courses échevelées. Coups de bec, coups de coude, coups de tête. Je descends la dernière. Lentement. Presque à reculons.

 

– Si vous êtes ma fille, je veux dire si vous êtes vraiment ma fille, je le saurais.

 

 

La percussion sourde de la locomotive contre le heurtoir me sort de ma torpeur. Les voyageurs sont semble-t-il aussi pressés de sortir que de monter tout à l’heure. Courses échevelées. Coups de bec, coups de coude, coups de tête. Je descends la dernière. Lentement. Presque à reculons. Quand le quai est quasiment désert. Au moins, je n’aurais pas à rechercher mes traits sur tous les hommes cinquantenaires qui me croiseront. Athlétique ? Bedonnant ? Grisonnant ? Avenant ? Je lui donne dans ma tête tous les attributs.

Je fais les cents pas un instant puis longe le quai jusqu’au bout. Là où le rails repartent vers la destination inverse : Gandiol, Louga, Kébémer, Tivaoune, Thiès, Rufisque, Dakar. Mon regard ne peut se détacher du ballast sale et glacé d’urine. Je répugne à y poser les pieds. Je reste donc à quai encore de longues minutes, le dos tourné à la gare. C’est sans issue mais je m’y tiens, ne sachant où aller. J’étais comme sur le haut d’une falaise avec le précipice à mes pieds. J’ai faim, j’ai chaud, j’ai une boule sèche dans la gorge qui m’empêche de déglutir. Et s’il ne vient pas ? J’irai à Saint Louis… Décidemment, la rime ne vient pas non plus. Toutes les combinaisons sonnent faux. Ma vue se brouille soudain. Si c’était un vrai précipice, à cet instant précis, j’aurais eu du mal à résister à l’appel du vide.

 

Je sens soudain une main sur mon épaule. Une main large et tiède. Je n’ose encore me retourner mais je sais qu’il est là. Je sais qu’il est venu.

 

J’irai à Saint Louis, remonter ma vie…

 

 

*This story was originally published in ‘Nouvelles du Sénégal’ by Magellan Editors in Paris

 

Nafissatou Dia Diouf is a Senegalese author whose fiction, poetry, children’s literature, and philosophical essays, portray diverse topics as they relate to her country such as education, marriage, polygamy, maternity/paternity, the influence of the West, the roles of business and government, and the power of the media. Diouf provides her reader with a comprehensive yet critical view of Senegal and shows how her homeland is affected by and reacts to the changes it currently faces.

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fictionFrenchMark WyattNafissatou Dia

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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