Concrete Flowers Read online

  concrete flowers

  GLOBAL AFRICAN VOICES

  Dominic Thomas, editor

  I Was an Elephant Salesman: Adventures between Dakar, Paris, and Milan

  Pap Khouma, Edited by Oreste Pivetta

  Translated by Rebecca Hopkins

  Introduction by Graziella Parati

  Little Mother: A Novel

  Cristina Ali Farah

  Translated by Giovanna Bellesia-Contuzzi and Victoria Offredi Poletto

  Introduction by Alessandra Di Maio

  Life and a Half: A Novel

  Sony Labou Tansi

  Translated by Alison Dundy

  Introduction by Dominic Thomas

  Transit: A Novel

  Abdourahman A. Waberi

  Translated by David Ball and Nicole Ball

  Cruel City: A Novel

  Mongo Beti

  Translated by Pim Higginson

  Blue White Red: A Novel

  Alain Mabanckou

  Translated by Alison Dundy

  The Past Ahead: A Novel

  Gilbert Gatore

  Translated by Marjolijn de Jager

  Queen of Flowers and Pearls: A Novel

  Gabriella Ghermandi

  Translated by Giovanna Bellesia-Contuzzi and Victoria Offredi Poletto

  The Shameful State: A Novel

  Sony Labou Tansi

  Translated by Dominic Thomas

  Foreword by Alain Mabanckou

  Kaveena

  Boubacar Boris Diop

  Translated by Bhakti Shringarpure and Sara C. Hanaburgh

  Murambi, The Book of Bones

  Boubacar Boris Diop

  Translated by Fiona Mc Laughlin

  The Heart of the Leopard Children

  Wilfried N’Sondé

  Translated by Karen Lindo

  Harvest of Skulls

  Abdourahman A. Waberi

  Translated by Dominic Thomas

  Jazz and Palm Wine

  Emmanuel Dongala

  Translated by Dominic Thomas

  The Silence of the Spirits

  Wilfried N’Sondé

  Translated by Karen Lindo

  Congo Inc.: Bismarck’s Testament

  In Koli Jean Bofane

  Translated by Marjolijn de Jager

  concrete

  flowers

  Wilfried N’Sondé

  TRANSLATED BY KAREN LINDO

  INDIANA UNIVERSITY PRESS

  This book is a publication of

  Indiana University Press

  Office of Scholarly Publishing

  Herman B Wells Library 350

  1320 East 10th Street

  Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA

  iupress.indiana.edu

  Originally published in French as Fleur de béton

  © 2012 Actes Sud

  English translation

  © 2018 by Indiana University Press

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Cataloging information is available from the Library of Congress.

  978-0-253-03559-2 (pbk.)

  978-0-253-03560-8 (web PDF)

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  To Anna-Maria C.

  . . . you never say a word, sometimes the sound that you

  make, is like animals crying.

  LÉO FERRÉ

  What if we were to take off together,

  Toward a peace so tender and complete

  And reappear from our ashes,

  So beautiful, yet it makes me shiver!

  SARTRE WILFRIED PARACLET JACKSIMON N’SONDÉ

  concrete flowers

  THE BASEMENT OF tower C, a long block of concrete, empty, unsafe, condemned and scheduled for demolition, is filling up little by little. Midway through the afternoon, the youth of housing project 6000 pile in, in groups of threes and fours, filling the dusty, smoke-filled setting of the makeshift nightclub Black Move. Spotlights hang from the ceiling, and all over the place are posters of stars you can hardly make out in the dark. Drinks are lined up on a plank held up by a sawhorse and chairs, picked up from the street. The room, previously used as storage space for bikes and baby carriages, has been completely revamped. Accessible from a steep stairwell, it is a short distance off to the right, down a passageway past the spot where they used to keep the—containers. You know you’re there when you reach a door on which the barely legible inscription Black Move has been tagged with spray paint. The green, yellow, and red lettering form the shape of a clenched fist.

  The girls and boys are ready to go, an expression of joy on their faces and their muscles flexed. The youngest are caught up in uncontrollable laughter, happy just to be there and have a good time. Predatory smiles cover the faces of the stars of the hood, hair carefully groomed and clothing meticulously chosen. The charmers are in the house, and they’re looking pretty good, shimmying their way to the center of the room, cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths, on the prowl. The best dancers are standing apart, dressed in jackets in loud colors and sweat suits, the brand name proudly on display. Excited to show what they’ve got, they’ve come to try out and demonstrate their new choreographies.

  The approach is measured, gestures are calculated, every step counts and becomes part of this precise scientific movement forward, has to stand out, especially in that crucial moment of making your entrance!

  Everybody’s checking each other out, standing around, greeting one another, hearts racing. High-fiving palms smack loudly; cheeks touch, kissing sounds, and guesses are being made about breast sizes under seriously tight outfits, pubescent and confident breasts pointing so high up they’re swelling throats. The girls hold their ground, barely able to contain their excitement. There are dozens of stories to tell—love stories that only last a few days yet cause suffering for at least a whole week, hassles from parents giving them a hard time, fathers leaving and never coming back, mothers on the brink of nervous breakdowns—trying to trick their misery with three, four lies. The latest-fashion pocketbooks hanging on their shoulders, heels so high their ankles are at risk. Most of them wear excessive amounts of makeup because they’ve really come out to get some attention and show off their stuff. The teenage girls are all decked out for dancing.

  Rosa Maria is ecstatic. The party is about to begin, the music and everything that goes with it. The ambience is warm, sounds to make you forget, enjoy yourself, far away from family, teachers, to hide and dream in secret, to feel nothing but giddy, enjoy a light sensation of dizziness, bubbles in the head, to chase away heart-breaking images, like the one of the recent death of Rosa’s big brother, Antonio.

  She lets herself go to empty her mind for a couple of hours. Mousy, awkward, and insecure, the teenage girl tucks herself away into the back of the room, invisible. She’s going to have a good time, from a distance, too shy to put herself in the middle of the action and deal with the attention coming from everybody.

  Rosa moves into the darkest corner and hoists her five-foot-two frame onto a shaky stool from which she can observe on the sidelines, slides her hands in between her thighs, and settles in to watch the party. Once again, she’s come to admire Jason as he moves his beautiful body with rhythms coming from far away. She would gladly spend hours reveling in that, her eyes fixated on him. Se
ated, she hunches to hide her slight curves and cover up her face, which she doesn’t really like. Rosa Maria doesn’t consider herself particularly pretty with her black hair, jet-black, mid-length, curly, almost nappy, that she just lets fall in front. She even tries to conceal her thick eyebrows and dark brown eyes.

  Black Move is packed. In the darkness, to the right of the entrance behind the veil of dust, you can make out DJ Pat, who’s come expressly from Paris. His authority is indisputable. Apparently he was a huge hit in New York City. He scopes out the entire room with a confident look before zooming in on Rosa Maria, to whom he signals using his index finger. She buries herself even further into the weak light to avoid being seen, hiding her waiflike body and her face. Even while all eyes are on her in that moment, she declines the invitation.

  Now focused on the two turntables in front of him, his baseball cap on backward, DJ Pat is in command. He gives the kickoff orders, and the crowd is holding their breath. The artist looks over his record collection one last time, double-checks his equipment, buttons, switches, needles, not forgetting the equalizer, low, mid, and high frequencies, and of course, the volume.

  Bright lights go on, flicker . . . Everything is good. He rubs his hands together, places a disk on the right side, raises the turntable arm, and lays the needle gently on the groove. The basement quiets, one more second, time suspended, dry mouths, balls of saliva easing down throats, adrenaline pumping and rushing through arteries, electricity running in the arm and leg muscles, heads bubbling over with excitement, awaiting the signal, the first sounds. The young people automatically pile their backs up against the filthy walls, leaving the dance floor in the middle empty, nervous, dying to explode, to let it all hang out, completely, to not give a damn and let go.

  The DJ stands up. The moment is solemn. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead, his concentration is at its peak. The record slides back and forth beneath his long, skilled fingers. You can hear the soft melody he’s tweaking with different sounds. Suddenly, he just lets it all spin! The microgrooves begin their circular waves.

  The attack. An offensive of decibels to the point of saturation, the bass so loaded you can feel your organs vibrate, your chest and body rise up. The sound level reaches its maximum, but the shrieks can still be heard. Bodies are shaking with joy, the excitement is palpable, fists are up in the air, girls, boys, everybody clapping in tune:

  —Yeah! Here we go, it’s going to be huge, the DJ is amazing, so massive!

  The rhythm is vibrating so loud it could explode all the concrete in the projects. In the basement, after a whole week of keeping it together, about forty or more girls and boys are falling into a trance, feeling the urge to let it totally rip, far from all the daily frustrations, to roar with laughter, to let themselves experience the fever. It’s party time! Their feet slide and hit the grime in carefully designed dance steps. Finally, a breath of relief, a hymn to life, the kids in the neighborhood are spinning around, jumping, creating new and outrageous choreographies in the polluted air of the basement:

  —Show us your new style, your new moves, come on, let’s go, show us what you got. Don’t stop!

  Arms in the air, going up and down, taking on new shapes, in harmony with legs twisting, opening up, moving in surprising directions, together creating a sophisticated aesthetic with original music, drums, bass, techno, hip-hop, reggae, zouk . . . Everything goes into the mix, and the DJ raises it up a notch, it’s gonna get pumping, it’s gonna be lethal! At times, he stops the music to surprise the dancers, then he speeds up the beat, with storm warning sounds. The house is going crazy.

  —Yeah, the sounds are way too cool. It’s gonna be huge tonight. We’re gonna give it everything. It’s so amazing, the shit, man!

  Nimble feet follow circles and curves, real geometry in a space overwhelmed by fresh bodily perfumes. Hips turn, going forward, backward, flirting with indecency, shoulders going backward, moving from right to left. The young people are letting off steam. The temperature is rising. The dirty damp walls perspire drippings of a foul stench.

  Eyes keep looking around in the dark, and with the intense rush of hormones, pupils dilate, blood vessels are pumping and pulses are racing.

  The girls are checking each other out, dancing, pretending not to care, and letting themselves feel desired from a distance. They provoke stares only to avert them afterward, juvenile games of seduction in the basement ambience. The boys look on without making themselves too obvious, careful not to miss their moment, a powerful aroma of charm is present at the party. The scent of sweat-filled pheromones overwhelms the atmosphere.

  To stand out from the noisy and animated mass, some of them lean back against the walls, awkward, stiff and upright, smoking cigarettes. Among them is Mouloud, calm and reticent. The young man never dances. He spots Rosa Maria in the back of the room, goes up to her, and has to basically scream to be heard:

  —Hey Rosa, how’s it going?

  —Cool, and you?

  Without an answer or a smile, Mouloud tries to hide his discomfort in front of the young lady. He steps back, lights a cigarette, and settles about three feet away from her.

  For a moment, he managed to distract Rosa Maria, otherwise hypnotized by Jason’s elegance, as he wiggles and gets carried away by the rhythm. Attentive, she follows each and every move he makes. Rosa Maria is amazed, she knows all of his old moves and anticipates the new ones . . . He dances even better now than he used to, more fluid and light on his feet. She admires the texture of his dark brown skin, especially when the drops of sweat trickle down, glistening on his temples, and continue down his neck. Rosa Maria is waiting patiently for the day when he will take her in his arms and make love to her, tenderly. Together the harmony of their bodies will create a gentle, languorous, and torrid vibration. Yes, the first time will be with him, he will only have eyes for her, and will whisper affectionately in her ear I-love-yous-you-are-the-only-one-for-me.

  She has loved him ever since he came up all timid and afraid from his native Guadeloupe and thinks about him all the time. Jason had had a hard time getting accepted into the neighborhood. He had an accent when he first arrived that made everybody laugh. His family wasn’t respected and was one of the poorest in housing project 6000. His mother, who raised him alone with his three sisters by doing housework anywhere she could, often had a hard time making ends meet. As a child, Jason was dressed any which way, and people ridiculed him and kept him at a distance. Rosa Maria remembers the tenderness she felt watching him keep a low profile in the neighborhood on his way back from school. At times, she used to console him when he would bawl his eyes out and rub them with his fists, after he’d been bullied or humiliated by the older boys.

  Times have changed, and today Jason has made a name for himself as one of the best dancers in the projects, a good-looking guy with an irresistible smile, tall with broad shoulders, hair cut short, always in a way that flatters him, his slender frame supported by legs that never quit, in Rosa’s eyes. He’s sought after by all the girls and apparently by all the music video choreographers as well. Girls even come from neighborhoods on the other side of Paris just to watch him dance. At eighteen, the young man has become one of the stars of the projects. Due to the hours of weight training he never skips and the hours he’s spent glued to his TV learning new choreographies, he now struts his stuff proudly, lets his presence be known. Chest protruding, his head is filled with ideas about the conquests to be made down in the basement. Tenacious and with great stamina, Jason had figured out, thanks to his performances on the dance floor, how to change his image and get accepted into the hood.

  Miniscule, sitting in the back of the room, Rosa Maria stares at him, completely enamored. She appreciates the smallest detail and has convinced herself that they’re made for each other, bound by some very special bond. She is totally consumed by this feeling and is certain that one day Jason will wind up recognizing the obvious, that he will open his arms and declare his love for her.


  He’s moving around on the dance floor and thrilling his admirer. Rosa Maria loses herself in her daydreams and completely forgets about the beating waiting for her when she gets back home. She knows her father will not miss the opportunity. He’s forbidden her to go to the basement and can’t bear the idea of her hanging out with the young people in the neighborhood.

  Ever since the death of the oldest son, Rosa Maria’s family has been living in turmoil. Antonio was found dead one morning in the supermarket parking lot. The garbage men had picked up the cadaver of an ageless man, ravaged by heroine, behind the shopping cart area. Naked, clearly stripped of everything by the homeless, his body had turned practically blue, his skin spotted everywhere with scabs from past shoot-ups, most visibly on the forearms. You could barely make out his facial features, his face washed-out as it was from the effect of the morning dew. He had to have been beaten up before he died; one of his eyes was nothing but a hideous violet-colored wrinkle that went from the bridge of his nose to his temple. The other eye, half open, sunk into a gray filthy hole surrounded by scratches. His hair had lost all of its brilliance, it was all caked together, dull, dirty, and hardly concealing the incredible sadness on his face. According to the medical examiner’s conclusions, Antonio’s death was the result of an overdose, and the police had wasted no time closing the case.

  His mother, hysterical and in tears, had not been allowed to see his remains so as to spare her the horror of having to face her first child, unrecognizable, frozen in a pathetic pout, whose expression revealed profound agony.

  Salvatore, the father, forever proud, had not opened his mouth. Standing close to the kitchen window smoking a cigarette, with a lost expression staring into space, he was even tougher and more uncompromising than ever. Salvatore had loved Antonio during his childhood more than anything but had wound up despising this smooth-talking useless son. He would throw in Antonio’s face: