1938 March 7 | CLAUDE

Then – Doroko on the Mari river, Cameroon

Zanne was now discarded, irrelevant, a memory of someone now gone. Suzanne remained. And happened to Life. 

Oh, she believed scrupulously in God, in Country, State, Polite Society, School, Medicine, Cuisine and commonly held rules. Else, what would society become? Packs of feral men. That is what all of it was. Social glue, stage rules, nothing more. It is not a question of trust or belief, it is awareness, senses sharp and eyes wide opened. Always. Ever. Else, even here, in the blank spot on the map of Cameroon, they, Life, would happen to you. 

Life would never again happen to her. 

Helmet tilted to the back of the head, she walks up in the mid-day Sun to the tomato plants at the back of the garden. The short inspection proves satisfactory: the gardener works hard. Good, she nods. She strides back to the veranda. Claude is in her cot in the shade under the awning. Suzanne lets out a smile: life is light and warmth again, the sky endlessly blue, the clouds just far enough on the horizon, waiting for their turn to come and water the area on time. Because they lived on a hill at the confluence of two rivers, the Lom and the Mari, it was a common phenomenon, François had explained, not a sign nor anything. Of course. 

On the top of the hill, with this commanding view, the bungalow looks like one of these Far West cavalry outposts out of these dreadful cowboy movies. 

A shame the two little monkeys had to go. They tried to attack Claude as soon as they saw her, not yet coordinated, vulnerable, a competition for Suzanne’s attention. She had to throw them out of the room twice. They had come back charging and screeching twice: too domesticated to return to the Wild, and too driven by their natural imperative. With a heavy heart, she had signalled to François to take them for a final walk in the forest. The family would not be, could not be threatened by any liability. 

Sad. Regrettable. Necessary. Unavoidable, she shakes her head, leaning over Claude to adjust the bedsheet. 

There were health worries, she smiles again: there always are. But the kid just ploughed through every single one of them like a steam engine with a wink and a smile. A lightning bolt. Slightly on the edge of a bit too much, to be honest. But, my girl, just remember the long walks of the 27 November 1937 in the gardens of Yaoundé with François: the silence, the anxiety. Even the dog had been disturbed that last week… Yes, just always remember the pressure. And the release: Claude had popped up in the world like a jack-in-the-box 5 days later. She would had laughed her way out if that had been possible. On the 2^nd of December, the Victory of Austerlitz, if you please. Life sometimes just speaks to you. 

Claude, twisting and turning any which way since that day, curious, inquisitive, impatient to live and enjoy every minute of it. 

And four short months later, here we were, look at that biblical scene: Claude stretches in her reed cot on the patio overlooking the river snaking to the horizon, cooing and babbling. Nanny watches over her, her own kid in a cloth belt at her back. No one loose end this time, nothing is left to chance. Suzanne has boiled the nappies herself this morning in the great cauldron, checking and rechecking everything with the long stick until satisfied: not a safety pin, not a bedsheet, not a milk bottle. Soon, she would wean Claude to the revolutionary new Guigoz milk, UHT, already stockpiled. Safe, Swiss. 

Her daughter kicks and pedals, as if already trying to run around. 

Suzanne sings to her traditional French nursery songs. Yes, all the ones about death and war: the Green Frog, Malbrough… It is either that or double-entendres. But hey, C’est la France, she frowns… The wet nurse had been slightly surprised at the songs; she probably does not rock her kids to  sleep by singing about retaking Alsace or killing some Redcoats. 

Claude. A second daughter. 

A name rare enough in France to have some distinction, she checked that in the Almanach. She would have asked the opinion and blessing of the Aunties, but the mail would arrive too late. Too bad. Claude Anne Françoise Victoria. A bit on the nose, but you layered the possibilities. Annie was there, memory, François was there too, the Family. Victoria for Africa and prestige, naturally. A first-name not recognised by the French State and Church? Too foreign for you maybe? Your loss. 

The Almanach said that Claude were intelligent, curious and analytical, spiritual, creative and idealistic. So there. 

Probably. Maybe.

Claude was also the main character of the autobiographical series of novels by Colette, that scandalous, feminist rebel she-writer. Who knew? What a coincidence, my favourite author, she smirks. Writer, Creator, a Life lived by her own rules. Lesbian? Yes, men would say that, of course they would, the little darlings. And they could even be right! Who cares? Naturally, there was the slight issue that Colette was atheistic, but faith always was a personal choice when it came to others. Claude, what a clever name, she mischievously thinks. 

The Naming of Things was, is and would always be hers and hers alone, whether for animals or children. To the last day. 

Suzanne has started dropping hints of the saga in invisible ink on everything around her.

Nanny, the wet nurse, is on standby. Young, enthusiastic, proud of the trust put in her. Always laughing, scolding and tchiping at the child when needed. A soft lullaby always at the ready, even when Suzanne herself would have been too tired to even crack a smile. 

Claude finally sleeps. 

Suzanne pulls out a sheet of paper and starts writing to the Aunties, listing news from Claude and listing the safety measures taken. In the envelope, she would slip the picture from Claude’s communion. 

And what a picture that was, she smiles to herself! 

Everyone was there, Commandant x… Father y…, Mr z… the whole CEM management of the area, the villages from all around, Suka, Doroko, Kissi, all travelling for the occasion to the Mission in Bétaré Oya. And the photo? Take a step back and picture this: everyone in white, and all Cameroonians in their most colourful boubous, smiling. Me? Cheekily hiding behind Claude, propping up a sunhat over Claude, beaming! … Of course, there had been chicken and beer, even a crate of wine from the CEM. And the White Fathers own brew. 

Tintin in the Congo. 

A grand affair it had been. Vindication, redemption.

In the bungalow on the top of the hill, Life is moving again. 

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You read part 26 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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