War. Or something like it.
On every frontpage of the “Eveil du Cameroun”, whenever she can get her hands on it, that is. There, Suzanne can read the war updates, rendered in pretend-military language. It turns into a laundry lists of ships sunk, damaged, troops sent here or there…
Suzanne and François are in Bangbel, on the hill overlooking the River Lom, their island in the middle of the Sun, the blood and the teeth.
Just North of Bétaré Oya, a stone throw from Suka, a walk from Kissi. They still greet and cheer at the chief of Suka…
The SS Ussukuma ploughs through the waves of the Canary Islands, the swells just there to reinforce the impression of a race to the stables. It could have been a perfect 10 year anniversary of the First Crossing, but for a year. Anyhow, Tenerife then, Tenerife today, Tenerife tomorrow. The…
Camp 6, Doroko on the Mari river.
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…
Cameroon, Mari River. 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 treeline, after…
She will forever be, for any of them, the one that abandoned her child. She could never fix that, why even try?
“Life is a sh*t sandwich you bite every day.” ~ Suzanne Dulière, 1982, verbatim.
The first time, it is a bucket list of hopes, dreams and plans that shatter into a million wonders, surprises and threats. The second time, it is anticipation, excitement and anxiety. Drink in that trepidation.
For the third time, it just is.
“It is no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” ∼ Lewis Carroll
It is all already here, in the small viewfinder. Click.
Caudéran looked somehow more dangerous than Congo. Well, wielding a 16 gauge shotgun, as she had done there, was not what the Polite Society expected. So, in with the glistening fence. She chides herself at the remark, dismissing any criticism. However amusing it sounded, you did not Want to Get…
They were back on the SS Njassa, 2 years later, this time back home. Everything felt as if it had just stood still all these months waiting for them.
She keeps smoothening the small crease. Disappointing. The conversations around her drone on, so she drifts for a moment; the countdown…
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