Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 12

Kamara was in Dakar when the rumours that Captain Blood was dead caught up

with him. They circulated furtively at first, afraid of their own veracity. He

dismissed them, “mere rumours”, refusing to have his vengence thwarted, not

lose the comfort of the hate he had for his old friend. But the news grew loud

and became real with the detail of the death broadcast on radio. Captain Blood's

notoriety had travelled far. Relief, even in Dakar was palpable. Sergeant

Burnhouse's death wasn't reported. His part not high enough up the cast list. “To

quick”, was Kamara's acceptance to the fact of his old friends death.



He had picked up a smattering of French in Conakry, found he was adept with

language, enjoyed playing with the sounds, the phonetics. The more he

practised, the larger his vocabulary and range of conversation, and the area of his

brain that processed language grew. It happened with juggling as well. The

structure of his brain changed. The grey matter in the left posterior intraparietal

sulcus, which processes visual motion information, got bigger. Either cell

production had increased or changes had occurred in the connections between

cells. Learning and practise makes the brain grow. Kamara's hand/eye

co-ordination was always good and got better the more he juggled.



Dakar was a good choice as a stop on the road. One big market with a myriad of

places to perform and earn the money to get further along on his journey. He

started at the Tilene in the old Medina district. Its atmosphere and clientelle was

similar to Conakry, full of locals buying their daily food needs or second-hand

clothes. People like Kamara. Poor. Tilene gave him the little boost in

confidence he needed to begin juggling and clowning in a new city. He always

drew a crowd and the stall holders near him, initially hostile, weren't slow to

notice the increase in their trade. They started offering him retainers to perform

next to them for an hour or a day.



After a month Kamara found his takings from Tilene were just keeping him alive,

paying his rent and allowing him to eat. It wasn't enough to built a travelling stash

because the people who used the market were not Dakar's most affluent. It had

been a useful month. He had found somewhere to sleep, a small room he shared

with 2 others, a father and son. He always kept the bag with his equipment near

him at all times. He was eating mostly snacks - Gnama-gnama - from stalls that

were at every street corner and which made up a quarter of the market stalls.

Fritters filled with fish and vegetables, millet, beans, dates or the 'pain de

singe' - the fruit from his beloved Baobab. Over the course of the day he'd eat a

three-course meal.



During his explorations of the city he found the Railway and the Kermel Markets

and thought that both had a greater potential to earn more, more quickly. The

Kermel was impressive. A rotunda rebuilt to the original design of the 1860's

after a devastating fire in 1994. A mix of French and Islamic architecture.

Circulating the roof were a series of 'dorma' windows like you'd see in the roofs

of Paris. Not as large or ornate as Paris, but French all the same. The entrance

was an Arabic arch of red and cream brick decorated with a knot design. The stalls

flowed out of the building and onto the surrounding streets. Basket weavers,

wood carvers, leather workers, jewellers had stalls piled high and women selling

flowers worked the crowds. The noise of barter and vibrant colour gave the city

some of its vitality, vigour and smiles. It was very touristee and every trader

aspired to have a stall there. Kamara liked the Kermel.



He tried juggling at the Railway market first though. The Kermel was to much of

a big step up all in one go for a learner juggler. A different sort of person came

to the Railway than used Tilene. They were slightly more affluent, could spare

the occassional franc instead of a centime for being entertained while they

shopped. There was a wider range of goods. Jewellery, terra cota pottery and

incense. The smells were new to him and he became intoxicated by tiouraye. It

penetrated every persons clothing with its fragrance.



The same pattern emerged. Stall holders, wary that their sales might fall, were

welcoming after they counted their days takings. Kamara drew people who

stopped and watched and who otherwise would walk on by and miss a chance to

buy from his retainer paying stall-holders. His income improved enough for him

to put aside one or two francs a week in his money-belt. The money was slowly

building toward the next leg of his journey. His route had not been thought of

yet, except it was north and the rising sun should be on his right.



He had been juggling at the Railway market for a few weeks when he met Falgout.

Kamara had taken a day out from the Railway to go to the Kermel market and see

another juggler that some of the children in his audience had told him about. He'd

been to the Kermel before but had always missed the Juggler, arriving to late

from his own juggling. Children in Kamara's audience had told him his own

tricks weren't as varied or his equipment as extensive as the Juggler of Kermel.

He was determined to see him.



It didn't take long to find him. There was a sizable crowd, about fifty. More than

twice as large as Kamara was attracting at the railway and with a lot of tourists

amongst them. He worked his way to the front of the audience and was

astonished to see that the Juggler of Kermel was on a one wheeled bike and had a

young boy aged about 10 as his assistant dressed all in red.



Kamara stood there for an hour while the the Juggler of Kermel completed his

routine. He was light skinned. Coffee coloured and obviously mixed race. Some

of the equipment he had, Kamara couldn't put a name to. Along with the unicycle,

he had cigar boxes, a diabolo, torches and clubs. His assistant was making

swirling patterns in the air with a ball on a string.



The equipment Kamara had, home made Devil Sticks, a patched up Derby hat

and, his prize possession, three rubber balls that he was learning new bounce

patterns with, were tawdry by comparison. The Juggler was about 30 years old

and dressed in black and white diamond patterned trousers, a bright and shinny

luminescent yellow shirt, his six foot height topped with a black top hat. He was

impossible to miss. The tricks and patterns came easy and fast to him and Kamara

realised he needed to practise more. Childrens honesty could be disconcerting.



He was turning to leave at the end of the show, when the Juggler of Kermel

approached him with a grin and his hand extended,



“Salamaleikum. I'm Fargout. I saw your show yesterday. Heard there was a

juggler at the Railway so went down to have a look.”



Kamara took his hand, “Aleikum Salam. Kamara.”



That was all he could say. He wanted to ask him thousands of questions about his

equipment and skills but was speechless that a juggler of Fargouts ability should

have come to see him perform. Kamara hadn't meet a professional juggler before

so didn't understand the fraternity and openness jugglers had for each other when

they met. This would change.



Unconcerted, Fargout said. “I didn't hang around to say hello because I had to

meet some friends from a train. You're a good juggler. Have balance and an eye

but you need more equipment and more patterns.”



“Thanks.” Kamara said.



“Come, We're going for a bite to eat at my favorite cafe. Come and join us.”

Fargout invited as he turned to help his assistant pack the small trolley that

carried his equipment.



“Madoure this is Kamara. Say hello.”



“Salamaleikum.” Smiled Madoure.



“Aleikum Salam.” Replied Kamara.



“My son, and he will be a better juggler than me in time.” Fargout told Kamara

with undisquised pride.



Kamara had thought he would be sharing a table with just Fargout and Madoure.

But as they entered the cafe he baulked. At a big round table sat at least 8 people

who all waved and called,



“Fargout your seat is here".



Fargout saw Kamara's fright, “ Don't worry. These are my friends.”



Around the table sat Africans, Arabs, Toubabs, men and women, Christians and

Muslims. Distinguished by their colour and their dress. An African woman

wearing a necklace with the cross of Christ sat next to an Arab wearing a Jalaba.

They were laughing together. Kamara had never eaten with Toubabs, white

Europeans, and was reluctant to take a seat.



“Come Kamara, let me introduce you to some of my friends.” Said Fargout as he

gently guided Kamara by his elbow towards the table.



“This is Odette, She's Sereres from Thies and works at an art gallery. This is

Abdu. He's from Marrakesh in Morocco. The white man over there,” He said

pointing to a paper thin and gawky man with his arm over the shoulder of a

voluptuous white woman, “Is Franz and the woman he is molesting is his wife

Gertrude. They're from Germany.” The Germans looked over and waved a

greeting to Kamara who nodded his hello.



Before he could finish the introductions Odette, the woman wearing the cross of

Christ, interrupted,



“I was with Fargout yesterday at the Railway market and saw you perform.

Fargout said you were good but you needed more equipment and moves. Come

and join us.” She finished by tapping the seat next to her.



Fargout gentle directed Kamara to accept the invitation just as big steaming dishes

of rice, fish and vegetables were brought to the table. Ceebu Jen, the traditional

dish of Senegal.



By the end of the meal Kamara had relaxed some. He had been taken to an african

Bohemia and the convivial atmosphere loosened him up a little. He had learnt

that his next stop on his journey would have to be Marrakesh and that it would

take him a year to earn the bus fare from juggling at the Railway. Abdu had

offered him a place to stay if he made it there. Odette had invited him to visit the

gallery she worked at on the Av Georges Pompidou. They all knew he was a

juggler from Sierra Leone but not the trauma he had experienced.



Over the next months Kamara would meet Fargout everyday to be taught new

moves, practise with his new friends clubs and cigar boxes. Learnt that the ball

on a string that Madoure swirled was a Poi. His favorite though was the Diabolo.

Fargout had an old one that he gave him and Kamara started to learn the

'egg-cup-on-a-string'. The faster he could spin the top the easier it got and the

more throws he learnt. He incorporated it into his act.



He visited Odette at her gallery. She was pleased to see him and showed it by

giving him a tour and pointing out the exquisite detail in some of the work. Life

size wire mesh sculptures of people. Abstract paintings in ultramarine, ochre

and mud-red. One exhibit, photocopies of faded black&white portraits laid on

the floor had had red paint like blood splashed over them. When he saw this

Kamara reeled, nearly fainted and Odette had to guide him to a seat. She was

worried for him.



“It's only a picture Kamara. Why would it affect you so much?” She asked.



“I saw pictures of home.” He said.



“Its almost time to shut. Would you like to walk to the Pointe de Dakar with me

and talk about it?” asked Odette.



“OK.” was Kamara's distracted reply.



They walked through the Place de l'Independence, crossed the Route de la

Corniche Est near the French Embassy and met the mighty blue Atlantic. They

watched the ships enter and leave Dakar's port for a while before Kamara started

to talk about Koidu. With his chivalry he left out some of the detail, thinking it

to harsh for a womans ear. He also talked about his dream of getting to Britain

and earning enough to send to what was left of his family and find answers to

Fatima's question. When he had finished Odette stared at him wide eyed in

incrudelity, with tears running down her face.



She took his hand conscious that she had hands to hold, to try and pass empathy

through the chemistry of the skin. It was a public display of affection in a

predominately Muslim country that anywhere but a beach in Dakar would have

been dangerous.



Odette had heard of the killings in Sierra Leone but it was abstract, removed one

degree from her. The rawness of Kamara's retelling of his story had made it real

and she was scared for him.



She pointed out an island a few miles off the Pointe, “That's Ile de Goree. For

400 years, from when the Portuguese arrived in 1444, slaves were shipped to

America and the West Indies off there. It has a 'Door of No Return' were the

captured slaves would pass through to be chained in ships. During the times of

slaving 20 million were taken from West Africa to work the plantations of

America, the West Indies and Brazil. The slaves accommodation still exists and

is now a museum. We can take a ferry to visit it if you like? It only takes fifteen

minutes to get there.”



Kamara had taken his balls out and was practising some simple throws to try and

control the reassurgence of images from Koidu that a work of art had reignited.



“Why are you telling me this? He asked.



“I thought it might help if I shared some of my knowledge about the history of

Dakar.”



“OK. You keep talking while I juggle. It might help.” Kamara said as the balls

carved an invisible infinity sign in the air. A reclining figure of eight.



Odette felt a bit self-conscious now but continued, “It was a cruel time when the

Europeans came and stole and killed our ancestors. When you told me about the

arc of light, it reminded me of the stories from the Congo in the late 1800's.

After slavery was abolished a white Englishman, Henry Morton Stanley had been

hired by the Leopold II of Belgium to conquer the Congo for its rubber and

copper. We named Stanley, Bula Matari - 'the breaker of rocks'. His men

hacked off hands and feet to terrorise the people into accepting the rule of a the

Belgium king. During Leopold's reign the popuation of the Congo halved. The

RUF have carried on Stanley's methods.



“The Portugese, the Dutch and finally the French came and conquered the Ile de

Goree and Cape Verde and the French started to build Dakar. Thats why it looks

so much like a French city, but it has an atmosphere all its own. The houses

around the Kermel market are what they call French Colonial architecture.



“Our first elected President was the poet Senghor. He was a socialist and gave

Senegal a sense of itself, its modern political culture. Unlike most of the rest of

Africa, Senegal is pluralist and so far we have elections that are generally free

from corruption and intimidation. The city is known as the cultural capital of

Africa.”



She didn't mention that the optimism of Senghor's time was receeding and the

culture she loved in Dakar was fraying, turning seedy at the edges, becoming

aggressive. It was still a vibrant space in African life but political, electoral and

business violence was starting to show itself.



“Whats 'pluralism' and how do you know all this?” Interrupted Kamara as he

stopped his juggling and put the balls away, his eyes no longer dulled for the time

being by the images of Koidu.



“Pluralism is were more than one idea or political party can exist and compete the

ideas for the support of the people. Where different people with different

cultures and religions life together without killing each other. Respecting the d

difference. My father sent me to Paris to study at the Sorbonne. I did a degree in

commerce and studied black history in my spare time.”



“Why come back to Dakar. Why not stay in Paris and earn more money?” Asked

Kamara, suprised that anybody would voluntarilly want to leave rich Europe.



“This is my country, my home and I want to use what I have learnt to help my

country and my people to develop.” Her tone was slightly indignant, she didn't

like the way the questioning was going and Kamara picked up on it. Changed the

subject as they re-crossed the Corniche.



“Are you eating at the cafe tonight?”



“No. I'm going to the cinema with Abdu. Would you like to come?”



“No.” He replied with a slightly downcast look thinking they could be lovers and

not wanting to be in the way.



“Its alright. Abdu is only a friend and its the Recidak, the annual film festival in

Dakar. Their showing Sarraounia. Abdu would enjoy you coming.” She

responded, seeing Kamara's thinking writ on his face.



“OK. What time and where will we meet?”



“The gallery at six. See you then.” She said and waved goodbye to his grin as they

parted in the Place de l'Independence.



Kamara strolled down to the Kermel market and has he passed the houses he

looked at them in the light of the history that Odette had told him. Saw them

anew and wondered how lucky he was that someone as beautiful and intelligent as

Odette helped him with his flashback.



He got to the gallery a couple of minutes late. Abdu was already there and the

place was locked and shuttered. They stood chatting and smoking a joint for a

while. It was an opportunity to ask Abdu obliquely how he felt about Odette.



“Its alright Kamara. We are only friends and I know she likes you, and you her.”

Abdu said, not messing about.



Before they could say anything else Odette arrived.



“Sorry I'm a bit late.” She said sniffing the air. “I hope you've saved a little for me

before the film?”



“What are you talking about?” Joked Abdu, before passing her the joint of

Khatama Treble Zero.



By the time they reached the cinema they were well smashed.



At the end of the film Kamara remained in his seat, stunned. Both Odette and

Abdu had to call him and finally prod him to get him to move and follow them out

of the cinema.



“Come on. Lets see if Fargout is at the cafe.” Said Odette as they strolled in the

general direction.



“Great film. What did you think Kamara?” Asked Abdu searching forhis tobacco

and dope.



“Beautiful. But I don't know. A woman, a warrior queen fought the French and

won?”



Odette was smiling at Kamara's incredulous face and added some more wonder,

“Its a true story become legend.”



“What! No.” Kamara's voice had risen and eyes widened.



“Yes. Sarraounia was the Queen of the Aznas. Trained from birth as a healer,

warrior and leader of her people. The people of Niger still sing songs recounting

her hundred year old story.” Insisted Odette.



“I didn't particularly like the way Muslims were portrayed. What with the

barbarity of the Sudanese mercenaries and fawning Imans quavering in fear and

denouncing Sarraounia.” Said Abdu as he tried to roll a joint on the move.



Odette replied, “The Sudanese thought Sarraounia a witch and hated her. The

French were imperialist and used 'divide&rule' as all colonialist and imperialists

do when trying to conquer territory. The film did show that some Muslims and

African tribes didn't collaborate with the French and joined Sarraounia.



“It was beautiful to look at as well as being a positive story for Africans. Africa is

fabulously rich in its visual beauty and Ai Keita is the most beautiful woman in

Africa. Don't you think so Kamara?”



Abdu had slowed up, his joint rolling while walking was proving difficult, and had

fallen behind.



“If I had seen her before you, yes she is the most beautiful woman in Africa.”



Kamara's reply had made Odette's coal deep eyes sparkle and her skin ripple with

a shiver like stone thrown in still water.



Abdu came running up with the smoking joint. The vibe had changed. What was

before had become something else altogether. Odette's and Kamara's eyes were

locked on each others and their breathing had shallowed. Abdu stopped himself

from passing on the joint and disturbing his friends revere, slowed his pace and

created some distance. Left them to it, smiling to himself.



They walked like this till they got to the cafe and Abdu awoke them.



“Hey. You two. We're at the cafe.”



“Salamaleikum.” Called the table as they entered the cafe. They were all there.

Fargout, Franz and Gertrude, Madoure.



“Aleikum Salam”, was the reply.



“We've been to see Sarraounia. Kamara couldn't believe it was a true story.”

Odette said smiling at Kamara.



“Ya. She.......” Said Franz.



His words were cut short and finished by Gertrude, “....... lived. An inspiring

leader to her people and others. A hundred years later and she is still inspiring

people.”



Franz tried to add, “The man.......”



And again Gertrude finished his words, “...... who lead the French forces attacking

Sarraounia had underestimated her. Typical. The white racists who colonised

Africa just could not believe that Africans had a thousand year old civilisation

before the white man 'discovered' Africa. Could produce political figures with the

stature of Sarraounia. Or that a woman, a black African woman at that, could

defeat them in war.”



Fargout quickly interjected, “Med Hondo the director of the film is half

Senegalise and half Mauretanian and is following the great Senegalise director

Sembene. The father of African cinema. Films about Africa made by Africans

speaking to truth. It makes a change form all the shite that Hollywood produces

about Africa. How we are used as background for European or American stories.

Or how we had no history or how we all seem to be starving or killing each other

and are unable to help ourselves. Sembene and Hondo have exploded that myth,

at least for Africans whose thinking hasn't been poisoned by hundreds of years of

the white mans propaganda.”



Fargout knew he sounded like a speechifier but he didn't care. He was always

passionate about the lies peddled against Africa and Africans and wanted it to be

known.



“We only used to get the films from Hollywood at home,” Said Kamara, “Like

Rambo, Independence Day and Total Recall. I really enjoyed them like everybody

who went to see them. The excitement, the fights, the good guys winning. But I

always left the films with a feeling of unease, the only black people in the films

seemed to be servants or secondary characters. Sarraounia was something else.

Black Africans as stars.”



Franz started to speak, “Ram.....”



And Gertrude started to interrupt again, “......Bo is.....”



“Gertrude! Bitte!” This time Franz wasn't going to be stopped speaking.



“Sorry Franz. Was I doing it again?” Said Gertrude feeling contrite.



“Ja. Now can I say something please?”



“OK Schatz. Sorry.”



Just as Franz opened his mouth to talk about Rambo, Abdu said, “Rambo is an

aweful film,” looked at Franz and burst out laughing. The whole table curled up.



Franz was that rare thing - a German who could take a joke at his expense and he

joined in the laughter.



When they had all calmed down he said, “Right. Rambo is an aweful film. It

panders to the lie that the Vietnamese were secretly holding American prisoners

of war after their defeat in Vietnam. It shows Vietnamese as just being the

stooges of the evil Russians. That they couldn't have defeated the mighty

Americans by themselves. Its basically propaganda trying to justify America's

murder of millions of Vietnamese.



“Independence Day is another piece of American propaganda. This time as the

saviour of the world. Now that America is the only super-power, only it's

military might can protect the world from enemies. The aliens are metaphor for

anybody that threatens corporate Amerika. The film blatently manipulates

peoples emotions, with the use of music and heightened language, to support

America's imperialism.”



“Total Recall's not like those,” interjected Kamara, “The mutants were the

underdogs and won against the company.”



“No. They didn't win.” Continued Franz, “They benefitted from Schwarzenegger

winning. The superman coming to the rescue of the poor, the disenfranchised,

is a typical Hollywood story line. The poor can never help themselves according

to Hollywood and need the help of a big muscled macho white man and who isn't

disabled. Schwarzenegger the maker of atmospheres and worlds. Schwarzenegger

as God. A German philospher called Neitzche developed the theory of the

superman and Hitler believed him. And its nonsense.”



“How do you know all this.” Asked Kamara, repeating the question he asked

Odette earlier in the day.



“He studied film at the Sorbonne.” Odette answered for Franz. “That's were we

met and became friends. Franz' knowledge of film is second to none. He's here

to write a script for a film but won't tell what it's about.”



“No. I never talk about what I'm writing before its finished because I think I'll

lose the story and the words by talking them instead of writing them. Did that

make sense?” Franz asked more to himself than anyone in particular.



“Yes.” Said Gertrude as she hugged him.



The group of friends that Fargout had introduced Kamara to saw romance in the

air. They had come to accept Kamara as a friend and were pleased for them both.

Odette was always asking for Kamara, and Kamara for Odette and they were

gently ribbed for it, it was obvious the new lovers enjoyed each others company.

And all the while Kamara had his journey at the back of his mind. Odette knew he

would be moving on at some point. Was resigned to it. She took his love while

she had it, would miss him when he left but never regret having loved him. She

had taken him to an internet cafe, taught him the rudiments of the world wide

web and organised an email address for him. They'd keep in touch after he left.



Dakar considers itself the cultural capital of Africa and Odette helped Kamara to

discover it. Not that he needed an introduction to the city's music. Mbalax. He

had heard the songs of Youssou N'Dour and Ismael Lo in Koidu. Had danced with

Mariam to the rhythms. But here, in Dakar the music was different, had a

distinct social meaning being so close to its root. It was also ten years old music

and a new, more aggressive sound was emerging from the streets of Dakar. Hip

Hop had reached Senegal and was being changed by it. Made anew by a younger

generation speaking to their own wants and needs and views. Being flavoured

with Wolof. It would grow to displace Mblaxa as the dominant musical form

within four years.



Music is central to the life of Senegal and Dakar. It was everywhere, or so it

seems. Stalls in markets blare out the songs they are selling. Drifting on the

air from out the sea-breezed houses of the rich and the hovels in the slums of the

poor. Where ever he turned people would look like they were dancing as they

walked or strolled. No one could not dance to the rhythms of Mbalax. Nor ears

miss the ghetto-blasters blazing hip hop and not join in the rapping. Dakar's

music had grown to travel the world and then brought back new sounds,

instruments and tunes.




Kamara had seen groups of kids from the slums clearing away illegal rubbish

dumps, painting murals on any wall they could find and all the while singing

'Set-Setaal' ('Clean - Let's Be Clean'). A social movement had been created from

the songs of Youssou N'Dour. Odette had told him about the album 'Set'

released in 1990, that in Wolof 'Set' means 'clean' or 'pure' and that young

kids like her in 1990 went out and started cleaning up the city. For what ever

reason, the city government wasn't doing it. No one organised them but

themselves and it was still going on, not as intensely but still happening.




Things were going well for Kamara in Dakar and were about to get better. For

the past three months he had been working the Railway market, building up his

stash for the next leg of his journey. New friends had been discovered and his

love for Odette had deepened. She had shown him the Internet and taught him

the rudiments of using it for research. He was still sharing a room with the

father and son and still carried his belongings and tools of his trade with him

where ever he went.



He was in the cafe when Fargout approached him, “Salamaleikum Kamara.”



“Aleikum Salam.” Replied Kamara extending his hand to met his friend's.



“I want to ask you a favour Kamara.” Fargout asked.



“If I'm capable of fulfilling it, I will Fargout.”



“In a month I travel to France.” Said Fargout.



“Why?” Was Kamara's suprised response.



“You know I told about my father being a white Frenchman working as an

administrator in pre-independence Dakar. Well despite his other family in

France, my half brothers and sisters, he recognised me as a son which means I

have both Senegalise and French citizenship and Senegalise and French passports.

Good Eh?



“Every year I go to join a troupe of preformers that tour around France for three

months. There are about 12 of us. Acrobats, Magicians, Jugglers. We visit

towns and cities when they are holding their annual festivals. Places like Ameins,

Angers, Lorient, Nantes and Toulouse.”



Romantic names that held Kamara's attention and pushed the unknown favour to

the back of his mind.



“In France they hold festivals for anything. Puppet theatre, film, music, food -

the French adore their food, treat it with reverence. They even have festivals

celebrating comics and each town has a different festival.



“Anyway. I can earn as much in France in three months as I can earn in nine

months here. The money from juggling in Dakar helps keep the cafe going. What

I earn in France goes on improving the cafe. Last year I earned enough to build

the stage. The year before I earned enough to refit the kitchen. This year I'm

hoping to bring enough back to build an extension in the yard that will be an

internet cafe. You know that Abdu owns some internet cafes in Marrakesh. Well

he's said that he will help with the computers and setting it up.”



Kamara was slowly starting to see the direction that Fargout was taking, “What

happens to your pitch at the Kermel?” He asked.



“Thats the favour I want to ask. Would you take over the pitch for the three

months I'm in France? I've already spoken to the stall holders and they have

agreed to you doing it. But not at the price I get from them. I've managed to get

them to give you 70% of the retainer I get.”



A wide-eyed grin from ear to ear gave Fargout his answer.



“The other thing is. I will be taking Madoure with me. His room will be empty

and he has asked if it would be alright for you to use it while he is away. I've said

yes. So do you?”



Kamara just nodded. Dumbfounded and grinning like a child in a storm of

Butterflies.



“You've asked him then?” Said Odette as she entered the cafe and saw Kamara and

Fargout shaking hands and laughing.



“You'll have enough to get to Britain by the time Fargout gets back.” She said to

Kamara with a smile, pleased for him. (It disquised the pain she felt knowing he

would leave. Had to leave. Had to achieve the goals he had set himself since

escaping Koidu. The arriving at Britain and the answering of Fatimas question.

The arc of light and Fatima's question is ever with him.)




The time for juggling in the Kermel had arrived and Kamara was nervous. Fargout

had given him an old set of clubs to learn with and find new tricks. He'd been

using them for a month and wasn't very proficient. But it would come. His skills

with the other tools of his trade were almost as good as Fargout's. He had

mastered the complicated patterns of the balls, most of them. Cross Arm

Tennis, Burkes Barrage, Mills Mess, Rubenstein's Revenge all names that

Fargout had taught him. Most of the moves he had discovered himself.



Madoute had been spenting time with him at the beach showing the workings of

the Diabolo. Holding the handsticks properly, was easy. It was the same as the

devilsticks he was so good at as a boy. The next step, getting the eggcup to spin

on the string above the ground, took a week. Then another week to gain control

of the spinning Diabolo. The faster it spins, the more stable it is. Chinese

whipping and he could spin the eggcup really fast. He overdid the spin once. To

confident to early and he tied himself up in knots. Madoute scoffed. By the time

of his debut at the Kermel he had learnt to throw the Diabolo high enough for

him to do a double pirouette, or sit down and stand up, or cartwheel before he

caught it. Madoute applauded.



Madoute and Karama had fun playing long distance passing with the diabolo, trying

to extend the distance between them every time they threw and caught the eggcup

from and to each other. They did it at the Kermel before Madoute went to

France. Fargout had suggested it as a way to introduce Kamara to the pitch. The

space was not enough for them to reach the record they made at the beach. At

Kermel they were limited to 15 feet. Impressive enough for the stall holders and


audience.



They all came from the cafe to watch his solo debut at the Kermel and give him

support. Fargout, Madoure, Abdu, Franze and Gertrude. Odette came too but

she only stayed for the first 10 minutes, Kamara's opening few moves and general

clowning were already drawing a crowd and his confidence was steady.



The cafe wasn't really the same without Fargout and Madoure. The atmosphere

was still good. Pinda, a 50 year old Wolof matriarch who ran the cafe for Fargout

and was rumoured to be in love with him, worked hard to keep up the ambience.

It was good, but different and Kamara found himself drawing closer to Franz and

Getrude. He told them his story.