Mamadou Mahmoud N'Dongo

N'Dongo is a Senegalese writer and filmmaker. He is the author of Bridge Road and L’Errance de Sidiki Bâ,. His latest novel is El Hadj (Serpent à Plumes; 2008)

The following are translations of extracts from his first novel, Bridge Road, by Jarmo Pikkujamsa

• interview
• essay

EXTRACT ONE

CÉLIA DANIELS

The night gave birth to Jesus

Lord, will you never have enough of the crying and the screaming of your people? His Calvary became ours. His chains, our chains. The night gave birth to Jesus. The son of God was black. The hair of Christ is frizzy, the night gave birth to Jesus. The son of God was black, did you know that? Black as charcoal.

They tied up my father, beat my mother. They tied my father. Beat my mother. My mother. Beat my mother. My mother died in the arms of my father. I saw my beaten mother. My mother was beaten to death by the owner of the laundry. The man refused to pay the money he owed to my mother. My mother broke the window of his shop and the man, together with other men, came on the Night of the Fire. They tied up my father, beat my mother.

They tied up my father. Beat my mother. My mother. Beat my mother. My mother died in the arms of my father.

The hair of Christ is frizzy, the night gave birth to Jesus. The son of God was black, did you know that? Black as charcoal. They tied up my father, beat my mother. They tied up my father. Beat my mother. My mother. Beat my mother. My mother died in the arms of my father.

Lord, will you never have enough of the crying and the screaming of your people?

 

 

 

EXTRACT TWO

CYRUS CARTER

I was born in 1954

I was born in 1954, the year that the Supreme Court made segregation illegal in schools. I grew up with hastily effaced signs in front of my eyes, signs that used to read “Whites”, “Blacks” “Colored”, “White Women”, “Black Women”. All these names make the history of my race. Nigger, Man of color, Black American, Afro-American. I was born in a country where my place was never mine, where everything was taken away from me, my name, my history, down to the colour of my skin. My name is Carter. I had to adapt myself to this name that was given to me. Nothing is given in America, everything has to be taken. The way you looked when these people told you their stories. In every black American family there is a crime committed by white Americans. We endured for such a long time. Everything is forgotten, especially the fear, the pain, the grief… But some do remember, or rather, they are made to remember. Norton was sacrificed on the altar of our collective history.

Norton wanted to make up for our history. This is how I explain his gesture, and his madness, it did not start yesterday. There is no use Jennings saying that young Norton was out of his mind. He is mistaken. I am filled with anger. Anger against our country. We the Afro-Americans, we are on our way to extinguish ourselves, we are not accepting ourselves.
How many generations does it take to be in peace with ourselves? We are like those isolated soldiers, who did not hear about the armistice and who go on with the war. From time to time this defiance is justified, especially in a society which today has more subtle ways of still keeping you in a subaltern position. But we are also the actors of this society. Nothing is given in America, everything has to be taken.

You don’t know what it is like to live in America when you are a Black American. The story of Clarence Brown, for people who do not know America, is detestable. For Americans, it is current affairs.

Translated from the French by Jarmo Pikkujamsa