1937 Summer | Farming with a VENGEANCE

Then – Mari River, Cameroon

She is nearly done for today. Only two handfuls of grain and corn left in her apron’s pocket, and the geese chase her around the garden, honking, braying. Boy barks, but stays well away, clearly conscious that the only relevant answer would be snapping their neck, which would terribly displease his mistress. He tentatively growls and barks from a distance. Suzanne suddenly turns around to confront the birds. Her steely tone petrifies them, and they haughtily waddle away, cackling to themselves how heartless the boss is.  

With a hand, she scatters the remaining grain for the chicken and goats. The other is busy holding the Smaller Monkey. 

The bungalow sits on a bluff above the valley. It overlooks the Mari river, and, from the veranda, you can see it snaking through the dense shrub, glittering like an ochre ribbon. It is drier than Katanga, more primal, rawer. The monkey crawls up to nestle in the crook of her elbow. Both hands tucked in her apron, Suzanne looks at the view. Their view. Later tonight, an exhausted François and his team will emerge from the tree line, after a day at the drilling site. As always, they will dump the tools noisily, their day done. As ever, François will wearily walk up the small hill for the evening dinner. Then it will be the official end of the day, the sign-off. 

The daily schedule of the past 6 months. Suzanne sighs. Not Tanganyika, nor the Kiymbi, this. 

Overall, this was a good month, she could not complain. She had done the accountancy and the husbandry book was up-to-date. Things went well in the farm, finally. And she only had to scold the gardener once. The Little Monkey, the other one, sneaks up her leg and nuzzles himself in her other arm. She does not mind; they weigh nothing. A thin smile, she carries them everywhere. Especially in the village. Either that or wear a placard: Do Not Shoot Monkeys. François had found them both while hunting, their mothers shot by local hunters. He had brought them home to her delight. And wrath for heartless people. 

Thinking about it, it was still surprising that he had done that, as he had never done it before. 

With already so many animals to care for? Was he growing soft, taking pity in animals? Anyway, she loves the attention of the two little guys, desperately clinging to her everywhere, like she was their mother. She feeds them figs. They would have to release them in the wild. Eventually. Until then, how cute it was to put them both in their little basket for the night and watch them sleep. 

Right. Cat, dog food laid out first, of course, eggs done, chickens and geese fed, goats and sheep as well, pig is next. The owl could take care of itself chasing mice at night. 

Saying she had an enclosure would be a step too far for the square of dirt, delimited by an excuse of a fence made out of wobbly pointy sticks. A metaphorical barrier between a notional inside and outside, philosophically depending on the good will of its residents. And their predators. Boy was supposed to help, but he is just that little bit in over his head. Anyway, he prefers following her everywhere, panting and barking fiercely on request. It would be heartless to ask anything more from him. And Lolly? Ah, yes, the cat. Having a great time, she has. But, truly, not her climate. 

A farm at the edge of the World, at the edge of life. 

It was all about caring, checking, feeding and, of course, a good slice of patrolling for effect. And once done, if anything remained of the day, supplies. Every hour of every day to bring a much needed order to this natural chaos. The bonus? Predators here were not myths nor legends, but clear and present. Not the neighbour’s dog or cat, or a wanton fox. Leopards and snakes, crocodiles and scorpions. Name it and it will live in the next bush, behind the next tree, under the next rock. 

Taking her mind off things? As if she had the time, she snickers. 

And so, as the glorious morning light already moves on, Suzanne checks the feed bucket and takes a pause, in her jodhpurs, tilted helmet and puttees. From afar, the very picture of an explorer out of the last century imagery. But for the apron. Strategically placed though, it is a tactical choice for her social standing: at four months, there was no gain in letting the villagers gossip on her potential pregnancy. So there. 

A farm on the Frontier, but hopefully, soon, once again a family at the edge of Society. A laager.

This is the Africa François enjoys most, the visceral Africa of legends, the true Heart of Darkness. His novelty this time? Crocodiles. He shot one and dragged it with his team all the way up to the hill to show her, purring with joy. Well, the meat tasted like chicken, the kids can make amulets out of the teeth, the sorcerers fetishes and the medicine men brew potions out of its innards. Great.

It is a very different life though, another world.

No-one understands her Kiswahili words. Or pretend they don’t. The villages around speak Peul. 90 plus national languages, most of which are not understood beyond the next river bend, so everyone speaks a pidgin French. Of course, some of the elders speak Deutsch, as a former German colony, but that does not do, not to her, not to them. And so Suzanne and François speak, well, French, to everyone. 

Socialising? Well, that means the personnel of Compagnie Équatoriale de Mines. She sighs.

Yes, it was building up. Somewhere around 30 young, eager, French engineers and overseers scattered across Cameroon. All with one mission: find gold. And so, there was always the latest monthly production to discuss. Who had struck… gold (hoho, she could be good at that engineer humour if she put half her mind to it). And so, once in a while, she would come in contact with bright eyed youngsters, enjoying every new landscape, contact, village and tree; living in the present. As she had once been. 

Within a month, she had realised she and François lived waiting for Tomorrow. 

Oh, they were enjoyable social occasions. Just, our expectations are so apart. And then, inevitably, would come The Question. So, it would be, weather, the farm, supplies, the War in Spain, compliments on the food, complaints about the basic Algerian wine they were supplied with. Mundanities now done, there would be some form of breath intake, and, when nothing else could spoil the mood, the words: Condolences, we heard that you lost… And Suzanne would answer with her routine performance, eyes like icicles, tone as flat as a news reader: acknowledge, nod, shrug. Then speak. Yes, it has been a terrible shock. We cope. Life has to go on. The name? Yes, Annie. Where? Watermael. No, it is in Brussels. It is Life. C’est La Vie.

See you at mass in Bétaré-Oya next week, yes? 

And then François would propose a picture, the guests impressed by his practised set-up. As far as she was concerned, it was just that he missed shooting someone alive. 

No, too nasty. 

What a brilliant memory that will be, dear! Show me that smile! 

Suzanne looks at the river flowing at her feet, past the bend, into the horizon. 

A sentinel of tomorrow. 

Suzanne’s 1936-1938 husbandry and accountancy book (i.e. number and type of animals on their farm accounted for, amount killed for food, given to the chiefs or villages, etc..)

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You read part 25 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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