Novel Excerpt: Nearafrica
- Nov 12, 2019
- 5 min read
by Süreyyya Evren
Author’s note: Nearafrica is the non-chronological story of Boubacar, a young Senegalese who is famously called the “felon of Dakar” and jailed for murder. The book consists of a journalist’s interview with Boubacar, as well as Boubacar’s own accounts of the events that led to his conviction.
On a Dakar Flight with Air France
A Senegalese, an earthling and an alien sit right beside one another on a falling plane. They soon realize that there is nothing to do, as the plane is about to crash at full speed. While their security passes fall between their fingers, their lives flash before their eyes. The alien, who is known for his deep words all his life and has become even more wise in his last minutes, says: “The fox knows a lot of things; the hedgehog, on the other hand, knows only one significant thing.” The earthling nods, and says: “The fox remembers a lot of things; the hedgehog, on the other hand, remembers only one significant thing.” Now, it is Senegalese’s turn, and he says: “The fox forgets a lot of things; the hedgehog, on the other hand, forgets only one significant thing.” When the officials investigate the remains of the plane, they find the alien’s body in one piece. Though the body parts of the earthling cannot be pieced together, a small accessory believed to be belonging to him is enough to make him a symbol for the disaster. Seventy-two nations mourn his memory. What about the Senegalese, you ask? Well, he was traveling under a false name anyway.
So, that false name did not exist for me. I was a Senegalese in a falling plane with his real name. My name is Boubacar, and I’ve always fallen as Boubacar. I’ve always been the only one who feels like falling as the plane takes off. There was something, something that is hard to be named, and I was always cold through the eyes of that thing. I was always offended. Nevertheless, I was also enthusiastic about life. I think I had self-confidence, because I was convinced that I’m capable of bringing trouble on myself. But well, whenever I bled on my own, I clotted way too late.
Actually, rather than all this, I’d prefer to talk about the modest Airbus A319 that we’re in, about the journey. It was a difficult trip. I was stuck in the middle throughout the fly. I was either squeezed, or felt like it. I was never able to spread my wings. I’ve always been suspended. Never gone through the phase of “becoming,” and was forced to remain in what has “become.” Why?
Because of a comedian, an anklet, a tattoo, a bottle of wine, a braid, a waiting, and the gaze of a woman.
To be precise, because of a snoozing comedian who’s about to be bored to death with his comedy, an Indian anklet suffocating the ankle with its chains, a meaningful and elegant tattoo which I figured out what it says way too late, an 18,7 cl bottled wine given on planes, red hair in faux locs plaits, a hopeful wait, and the decisive gaze of a standing woman.
In order to let you imagine it properly, I must provide a few details. I’ll try not to overdo it. Imagine a row of three seats, just as the seats mentioned in the joke at the beginning. We are at the right hand of the plane. Right behind the wings. I sit in the middle. I’m returning to my country from Europe, am born and raised in Dakar, a young man of Jola from mother’s and of Wolof from father’s side; a seemingly curious guy with whirling eyes. There’s still six months till my 30th birthday. There’s a middle-aged man with a small belly and glasses sitting on the window seat. He doesn’t seem to be interested in anything. He looks at the clouds sometimes, stares outside, moves his legs, scratches his cheek. This is the man I thought as a comedian since the first time I saw him. A comedian thinking about retirement, perhaps. And of course, as you’d agree, I suppose, no comedian traveling on plane tells jokes; on the contrary, they constantly get bored. Once you compare the person sitting next to you with a comedian, you can assume that he’s a celebrity. Who knows, maybe he’s indeed a celebrity. Maybe he’s a big shot of a field you’re not interested in, or have no idea about. Maybe he’s achieved tremendous success in his time, and now just sitting beside you with weariness, with boredom. It might be. It is also useless to look at the window, since the night trip offers nothing but pitch dark. I look at the man, and feel like he scratches himself more than I initially thought — he scratches with such joy that this movement simply excites one — If I slip for a second, my hand will reach to the man’s cheek to scratch. I’ll just claw his face out of the blue, just like that. He’s gonna get me in trouble. Spare me. Ignoring his face, I turn to my left, to the aisle.
Now, imagine a woman, again seems to be born and raised in Dakar. A woman with an enchanting Wolof taste, a woman worth to keep. Suitable to turn into a myth, deserves to be preserved against all disturbances, as if she needs to be handled only by professionals, and never to be removed from its box without gloves. And naturally, a woman that can be copied. She is so original that she looks duplicable. Who knows, maybe the woman sitting next to me is not the original one; maybe she is just a replica. Maybe one day, she felt so desperate and so lost that making a copy of herself was the only way to start a new life. Maybe somewhere far away, there is an original one that was sloughed and left alone; idle, old, and useless. The miserable, deserted and original Ms. Beauty of Dakar. Maybe. Or maybe, this woman sitting on the aisle seat next to me, the woman playing with her crimson-dyed braid with her long and promising fingers regardless of her authenticity, maybe she does really exist; maybe she really is here, and maybe her braid sinking into itself does hide from strangers’ gazes, and cannot be caught or contained no matter what. As the braid wraps and locks the hair up, it also grants an unruly sense of being. Her hair does not exist in its natural presence anymore; it pays the price, immobilizes and takes control of its form, and directly approves the interchange between forms. Fingers playing with the braid just take advantage of this situation….
Süreyyya Evren writes on contemporary art, political theory, daily life, and literature. He is the author of several books in Turkish, including the recent novel Yakınafrika (Doğan Kitap, 2018), a new collection of essays titled Dokunan Kitap (Karakarga, 2019), and a volume of collected stories entitled Evsel Dönüşüm (Can, 2019). His writings have also been published in various languages including English, German, French, Czech, Serbian, Icelandic and Albanian. He did his PhD at the Loughborough University, UK, on the historiography of anarchism. He works as the editor of Arter, a contemporary art-based institution in Istanbul.
