From his shadow to his darkness. Story of a downfall

© Willem Ngouane, 2019

ISBN 978-5-0050-0327-0

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1

Caroline was once again acting up, and it had become very irritating even for the regular that I was. For over thirty minutes, I had to support the bad side of her high standard and demand for dressing style. The impatience that resulted from all these, plus the time elapsing, forced me to choose the first tie I saw and that pick did not at all satisfy the lady. From that moment on, she kept insisting on her preferences with the passion of the fashion critic she had convinced herself to be.

“Don’t play with this baby. Don’t forget who you are. Let me remind you-you are one of the chiefs!” She repeated with conviction and fervor.

My wife was a “fashion addict’ as they say nowadays, and unsurprisingly, my outer shell had to go the way the elegant woman she was, wanted it to be. I have to admit, her advice, even though most of the time, she abused it, had been the key factor most times in my work and lifetime in the past. Appearance counts a lot. I won many contracts and convinced many customers in my previous job also because I looked better than competitors. But this time around, I wasn’t the center of attention, so it wasn’t a great necessity for me to pay much consideration to her recommendations. If at least she could grope less, I would have gladly followed her instructions.

This is how time was passing in a funny exchange of arguments among which mine were far more relevant than hers but still couldn’t change her standpoint.

“Baby! Seriously, this tie fits you better than that one and will go well with that suit,” she persisted despite my palpable exasperation.

Then she started tenderly petting the tie of her choice and presenting it before my eyes like a dynamic sales agent in a superstore. But I didn’t fall for her seduction even after all those other techniques she used later. I was focused on the dead hour that was fast-approaching. I had barely an hour and a half left, adding that there was usually huge traffic at this time of the day. It was normal to worry!

However, some minutes later, we were still on that same subject. She insisted and finished by making me change clothes again as if I was a superstar preparing for a show. It has always been difficult for me to resist her determination. She had a strong personality, and when you add love and all the stupidity that comes with it, it becomes easier to understand how this could happen despite the electricity and the stress inside me on that day.

I was putting on this and then, change and put on a different one; a black suit and then a blue suit, a red tie then finally, a purple one. I had suffered so much. But the alarm inside my head hadn’t stopped functioning; I had frequent notifications of time without checking my watch. After each of them, my heart was brutalized and my soul, begging me to stop this nonsense we were doing and start going.

“Sorry baby! No more time to waste, I have to be there before the minister. I have to go, babe.”

“Yeah, but your job obligations shouldn’t make you lose your elegance,” she said with sincerity before adding: “you have to be well dressed in public; people will have their eyes on you. Everybody is used to seeing you stylish and classy; do not deceive them; don’t deceive all these persons who have always appreciated your dressing style, baby.”

“You’re funny love. You know, I will not be the one to be interviewed,” I said to her.

“Yeah, it’s true you are not the one but…”

Suddenly, the sound of my ringtone cut our discussion like a judge who came to end a disagreement between two lawyers. After a quick look on my watch, I felt my spirit possessed with a panic I had never felt before. I knew this could happen; I did everything to avoid it, but Eve provoked the downfall of Adam. Why me? Lord, have mercy on me.

“Where’s that phone, where is it?” I shouted at my wife who was also gravely anxious and was searching everywhere in our room in a stern terror.

I knew the call was another warning regarding my unpunctuality, but because of what happened at the beginning of the month, my greatest fear was the eventuality of mister minister being the caller. One of my colleagues narrated to me the hard time he passed through in the hands of the furious minister one time he went late to a meeting. Since that day, even his normal and regular calls sink my spirit into the darkness where doubts are like kings who abuse their power like Bokasa, ready to do whatever they want with your life as if they were the ones to provide the air you breathe. The moment his name appeared on the screen, I felt a strong pain in my head as streams of questions without answers traumatized my brain: will he sack me? Will he give me a word of warning? Then, the surplice continued during the long conversation that took place after. Finally, the deliverance comes only after he dropped the call because of his superiority and the respect he is supposed to benefit from me, create that law and expects me to follow it. So when the hard conditions of this period add to this usual stress, it was understandable to panic like someone locked in a building on fire.

The reason for all this morning frenzy was an interview the minister had planned to have at the country’s most popular private television channel on that day, just two weeks after the media revealed alleged corruption and misuse of funds in our administration. Tension was running high in this particular period and his Excellency was mostly irritated, full of grumpiness, and so far from his ordinary good temper. But regardless of all what he had been going through these last month, nobody could blame him for being so nervous.

It all started with a harsh smear campaign by numerous tabloids in the country who accused him of being a cult member, and as if this was not bad enough, during the same period, people from his own administration started spreading rumors about his infidelity with numerous mistresses. He was trying so hard to face all these and survive from it when a bigger problem emerged. Unfortunately for him, this particular one was based on facts from the Herald, the newspaper that reported the breaking news which is known for its credible information and quality of its investigations. From the very first time, most of us read the title of their latest copies, we were prepared to face hard times. But things went worse when just a week later, they brought out some terrific proof of their allegations: in a special edition of the newspaper; they showed how an organized system of the distraction of goods and donation from Enesco had been taking place in our organization with the knowledge and participation of many of our leaders. A large part of books and school tools that were supposed to be given for free to populations had been put up for sale in the market. This misappropriation had been going on for five years; a huge mafia indeed.

They mentioned that a financial estimation of funds and goods misappropriated was in millions of dollars. This was definitely a serious matter. The saddest part of the story for us was that we, the most reliable administrators in the country, the one that had never been accused of any misuse, were now subjects to insult and deception. It was so shocking for many of our country people, even though they were sadly used to this type of deceiving news. More than any other person in our organization, the minister was deeply devastated about this situation. He, who acknowledged people’s love and hope on his person in the past, he who had always been considered by many as a role model, couldn’t feel anything else but pains to be treated as the boss of thieves. He needed to act, to do something before doubt completely changed the love people had for him into hatred.

People were waiting for his word; his supporters were expecting a reaction from him. So that’s why he went for the most watched television show in our country to calm things. This was the context of that day; circumstances made special, a usual communication move, we were asked to be more punctual than ever before, to come an hour before the boss. I couldn’t imagine after all the warning during preparatory meetings, that on the D-day, I will still be late; I was seriously upset with myself.

We were now panicking in the bedroom, searching for my phone everywhere, turning the room upside-down, such a huge crime for orderly people like us. Fortunately, after a tiring search, my wife found it. The phone had found itself under the bed.

“Baby, this is it! This is it!” She yelled while brandishing the phone as if it was a piece of gold discovered in the depths of a mine in Katanga.

“Give it to me!” I shouted at her harshly, far from the usual sweetness that comes with every word I address to her.

As my eyes fell on the phone screen, my entire body sank into a reel nightmare; my initial fears were confirmed and he was indeed the author of the phone call. I had to face my blame, no other choice! With a high level of anxiety, holding the phone with a trembling hand, I pressed the green button and accepted the call with nervousness, ready to hear the unmerciful sanctions that would come.

“Hello sir, yes sir…”

As if the situation wasn’t tense enough, while I was struggling to fight the torturous stress, Caroline was adding more nervousness by mumbling her frustration behind me. She was still possessed by the irritation I provoked in her by addressing her rudely a minute ago. Gladly, we came back to a better mood after the phone conversation ended. There was enough reason to make us forget the previous frictions we had; Mister Minister was calling me not to shout at me but to inform me of the cancelation of the show in favor of a different activity in the afternoon. I had free time to spend at home, and I was not the only one to appreciate that.

“It’s not bad news. At least, you will eat something and rest,” she said while arranging our room that was not all fit to be seen. Five minutes later, the tension was totally erased after I asked forgiveness for my attitude and blamed the fear of sanction; she happily accepted my pardon and went to the kitchen to make a good meal for me.

Just sometime later, my nose caught a pleasant aroma of a boiled egg while I was dressing the table. Caroline was a very talented cook, as good as a five-star chef of a New York restaurant. This was one of the first qualities that seduced me when we started dating; her cuisine was an aphrodisiac.

I was now on the table, waiting for her to bring the delicious meal when I saw her coming with dishes so full that some bread was almost falling from it.

“Wow, baby! This is too much, I hope it’s for both of us?” I said while looking at her with a bothered face. After replying to me with a scornful smile, she shook her head negatively.

This was too much. She slid four slices of bread, five boiled eggs, and avocado salad into my plates; I was full even before I could start eating. The mere view of all this food ended my hunger and finishing this food without suffocations at the end seemed impossible. As my clear lack of appetite was reflected in my body language and after she saw how I was struggling, she felt enjoyed encouraging me to the task with some special words.

“Eat baby, you need to eat. See how dry you are. Soon, your mother will call me to complain about your thinness,” she said with an unhappy look.

My size had always been a controversial topic in my family. For my mother, I was thinner now than I was in my jobless days. For her, it was unacceptable to see a wealthy person like me continue to look like I was emaciated. I needed to reflect all the blessings I received in my life and not keep on being that permanent testimony of our financial difficulties of ten years ago. That’s why on every phone call with Caroline, especially whenever she was just from seeing me, my mum never lost the occasion to remind her about how correct my diet should be. This was an implicit way to hold her responsible for my thinness. The consequence of this was full dishes like the one of that day and a funny transfer of pressure on me as I was obligated to finish every plate served by Caroline herself. This was such regular and severe torture for me; even if I was satiated nothing should remain on the table if I didn’t want to attract her anger and complaints. Eating in her presence became a valuable act of bravery; unhappily, I barely escaped to this totalitarian issue.

With the intention of changing the mood to a better and happy one after she provoked this gloomy atmosphere we were captive to two minutes later, Caroline brought out a conciliating subject while we were still on the table. Knowing that most of the time, I agreed with her whenever she complained about how stressful my work schedule was; she didn’t hesitate to talk about that.

“Seriously, I don’t get the way your administration works. I mean, with all this preparation, and then finally, they just canceled the interview like that?” She said while I was struggling to swallow bread.

“I swear, that’s terrible…” I said after drinking a cup of juice.

Even though her remark sounded like a lame tactic to reduce my annoyance against her, she was right; we had been in a traumatizing pressure since the first hours of the day, all for nothing. I was still feeling the pain of this tension; I forced myself to bathe with cold water because of rushing; I suffered to change suits many times to look good in the way my wife wanted, all this to finally hear that they changed the planning. Alas! This was just a symbolic example of my difficulties through all this period as everybody in new functions… The Minister couldn’t take all the blame even if most of the time, it was my fear towards an eventual sanction from him that was stressing me up. He had always been nice to me; I don’t even remember a single criticism from him about me. But because of all the nervousness that was going on in our ministry, I preferred panic that much but still prevented myself from ever testifying the dark side of our boss.

It was because of this same tension in our office plus, the multiple solicitations from the Minister I had to postpone my holidays. My decision really hurt Caroline that it took some months for her to finally accept it. Even though she had never explicitly complained, it was easy to see how upset she was only by noticing her moody behavior during that period. But I had no choice; I was on probation, so my dedication to work was particularly high. How could we survive if I was not confirmed? How could we pay bills? Who would have taken care of the school fees of our children? What of the house under construction? It hadn’t been an easy decision to take. I knew how difficult it was to be the wife of a busy man like me. Since my childhood, because of my parents, I also loved to spend time with my family, I needed that. My annual leave has always been special; a great celebration of love and care, a manifestation of happiness and joy, with Caroline always smiling and cheerful. Whenever I’m home with her, she would put some music, do her housework with an unusual gaiety, narrate some of her family stories that I already knew with passion. She would put on her most beautiful gown, make her face look younger with secret make-up. We would hang out in the streets romantically; hold hands and kiss publicly. Sometimes, we would return to the restaurant of our first date, enjoy peaceful and joyful moments as those of when we were still two young persons with no money, no kids and no job solicitation worries. Some other times, I will follow her to do shopping, endure to stay on a queue to buy a revolutionary product, a trending shoe or a unique fragrance. We would go back home, chilling and enjoying movies, most of the time, romantic ones, as she always preferred. After a scene, she would reminisce how it was difficult for me to convince her for a date. Then we would reminisce our sweet days in the past as if tomorrow won’t exist. She would laugh, smile; her skin color would turn red because she laughed too much. I’m always like a small child who is enjoying firewood in those days; it is so amazing to see her like that.

But I had to painfully accept to wait a long time before seeing this happiness on her face again. The situation was critical in our administration; I couldn’t leave them knowing how important I was in the organization.

The interview we were supposed to attend was replaced by a charity event where Mister Minister was supposed to donate some equipment in favor of a public school in the West Region. From the point of view of his communication team, this would have had a better impact on the national opinion than the television show. Even if it was difficult for me to understand their reasons and make them mine, at the end of the day, I had no other choice than to follow an approved decision. I was still trying to accept that modification of the planning when they notified me of the place of the donation: a village in the northern part of the West Region. That locality had terrible publicity all over the country and all was true: a risky road to reach there. With multiple accidents only this year, some thugs and bandits specialized in holding up and assaulting travelers by using tree trunks to block the road before harassing them; many things were made for this area to be known as the most dangerous place in the country. Adding to the fact that historically, the whole region had always been the base of mutineers and rebels, there was enough to hold any intention of visiting without any other argument. Even twenty years after the latest war in our republic, the place was still full of animosity; hatred toward the government hadn’t disappeared. The most recent evidence of this detestation was the vast riot that took place only some months ago; people were complaining about a government tax, a land tax. The protest movement paralyzed the whole region for months. If it wasn’t because of intense negotiations with the government, the situation would have gotten worse. But although there was a sort of peace since that time, everyone who had the occasion to travel there had always testified about the abhorrence citizens of that region felt. Every representative of state authority was not welcome. So for me, it was such a crazy decision to go there. Besides, schools in need were not lacking in the country, this was a suicide…

But finally, despite my reluctances, I put my feelings aside and follow my unpleasant duties. After a short nap, I did a brief prayer session with my wife then went to my car before heading straight to Waloua. I had to travel with two gendarmes for understandable security reasons; they joined me at the junction before the highway.

However, I was shocked at the beginning of our trip; I couldn’t imagine it was that peaceful and joyful. The beauty of nature carried me into something I had never felt before; a brutal and sweet emotion that erased took away all my fears and made me regret all the apprehensions I had had before taking the road. The wonder ride sent me into a powerful delight and a brutalizing pleasure when I discovered the artistic way the coffee plantations were made. It was as if the farmers of that region had some creative intentions when they planted them. I had never seen anything so amazing. The architectural design of the houses was way more inspirational than the urbanity in which I was forcing myself to get accustomed to in the capital city. The air was so pure that I felt I was in heaven; a sweet humidity touched my skin, leaving me with a juicy sensation as our car was facing the wind. From time to time, especially whenever we had to stop at the transport tax office, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge crowd of aggressive sellers; an authentic demonstration of rural people’s resourcefulness. Even though most of them were teenagers, they all showed a remarkable ability to attract customers and perseverance to sell at least one of their products. They presented to us some good food I could hardly find in the city at cheap prices, and various regional provisions like cassava baton, pistachio meal, etc. Their outstanding kindness and their seductive approach rudely challenged the usual and tyrannical domination of my stinginess. I couldn’t resist for long with the addition of a guilty feeling of not helping young people in their legal hustle in a region known for its high rate of criminality. Unsurprised, I bought some things for myself and my family.

Desolately, the rest of the trip before reaching Waloua was very much more disappointing regarding this surprising start; it came as a poignant confirmation of my multiple apprehensions. Just some yards after the tax office, the juicy paradise was disappearing and replaced by a dark and pathetic picture before us. Everything was sorrowful; the indication plate that welcomed people was a sufficient sign of poverty and desperation. After all these years, the place still looked like a war zone, think Syria or Libya. The atmosphere was terrorizing as if we were in a haunted house with demons everywhere. I felt like one of those crazy reporters ready to risk their lives for professional motivations in hostile territory, so enthusiastic in their job that they finally become mad enough to accept anything.

How could they live in this misery? Poverty was running all over! Even basic things were lacking; how were they able to survive? Why all this treatment from the rest of the country? Why was the government so silent about that? It is a shame that even after all these years, many of us still considered these people as rebel supporters. Leaving them with no resources to live. Treating them with no mercy as the most hated enemies ever. We will all have to respond to this injustice one day.

It took me a long time before reconnecting my head to the mission I was assigned to do; I had never felt so pained. But as I was now trying to move over and start thinking about the first people to meet in the village, I saw a group of about ten young men coming right at our car with hostile and unsympathetic looks. And when I looked in the car to see the reaction of my bodyguards, I saw tension burning in their eyes and anger all over their body language. Their muscles were already tightening up, the rage was dominant on their faces, and their fists were clenched ready to destroy their opponents. Just some seconds later, as I was looking back at those young guys to convince myself they were not that hostile, I heard the backseat door opening and subsequently; I realized one of the gendarmes was already out and was facing the youth with his gun pointed at them and ready to kill.

“Where do you think you are, man? We’re in Waloua here man! Go ahead! Shoot! You will have to kill the entire village, man!” One of the guys said with confidence, he seemed to be their leader from the way he was behaving. Tension made him uglier in my eyes. Surely, his domination on the member of his gang was due to his hideous face because he was the least portly in the group, plus he was as small as a teenager and not really charismatic.

An insecure silence took place after his word. All the challengers were exchanging aggressive looks, gazing at each other face-to-face like in a cowboy movie, a scene that could be cast in the good, the bad, the ugly western movie, with me as the “good,” the gendarmes as “the bad,” and the youth leader as “the ugly”. A little voice in my head advised me to do something before things turn into carnage. With this high tension in the atmosphere, the gendarmes were at the point of shooting those idiots who wielded simple machetes as weapons. I needed to intervene and avoid press titles and international community blames, as they are always ready to blame and accuse African’s governments sometimes without embarrassing themselves of verifying and investigating.

So I suppressed my fears, opened the car door, and addressed the gendarmes in the most polite manner possible:

“Hey guys, it’s ok, put your guns down. Let’s discuss with them, ok?”

After clearly showing their discontent via body language, they finally obeyed. None of them would have felt guilty after shooting and punishing those miserable hooligans.

“Hey! My name is Paul Endenne. I work for the Minister of National Education, and we are here for the charity event organized by the Minister himself for the benefit of your village’s public school. Please, just allow us to carry on with our duty…” I told the youths in an imploring manner.

Strangely, they took my gentle manners as an insult to their authority and started staring at me with disrespect. For them, I was not fearful enough and was too confident as if they could not do anything wrong to me. This was just the normal and predictable conclusion one could expect from terrorist like them since they were used to fear and fright from visitors. As a matter of fact, if a stranger did not kneel before them, it meant he was not afraid or he was impolite. If they could only see inside my brain, they would have realized I was far away from the self-control displayed in my attitude. In fact, I had never been so terrorized.

“Charity event?” One of them asked.

“Yeah, charity event, idiot!” Another one replied.

Then the entire group started a conversation in their local tongue. Despite my knowledge of most of the dialects in our country, I couldn’t get any word from what they were discussing. While I was patiently and calmly waiting for them to address us, the gendarmes were getting more nervous than ever before, still ready to fight, carrying their guns, and staring at the group with much enmity.

“Alright, alright, you people can continue to the village, but we are doing this because you are with Mister Agbwala. If this would have not been the case, you know what would have happened…” The claimed leader said two minutes after the beginning of their conclave.

After this conclusion, the entire group moved out of the road synchronically. Rage was still full on the gendarmes’ faces as they returned to the car. This conclusion was just another disrespect for them, insolence men like them could not tolerate knowing how people usually treated them and punishment they gave to this type of thugs in the past. Even though I was as annoyed as they were, sometimes, it is better not to respond to aggression with violence but to peacefully discuss with these hooligans. Gracefully, we arrived at the center of the city with no other incident.

When we reached the school, I met with the principal first but unfortunately, I couldn’t find her in her office. On my way back to the car a few seconds later, as I was walking across the school courtyard, I had the genuine idea to find about where she could be from a young man who was selling cigarettes. He pointed her as she was discussing with some kids on the opposite side of the courtyard. It shocked me to discover how beautiful she was. My head was full of clichés before I met her. I was expecting to see a woman with dry skin and heavy spectacles, cold personality, and unsympathetic. She was just the opposite; gracious, attractive on her high heels and long hair. This was the tempting beauty men usually chase all their life not only for marriage. She had an average height, dark-skinned, and a round pretty face with sensual lips covered in red lipstick. Sublime in the African gown she was wearing, more like a Ghanaian gown, her entire person was buzzing off an amazing freshness capable of provoking addictions and admiration like one of the most splendid Michel-Ange work of art. It had been so difficult for me to stay focused on our discussion without contemplating her face. Her gorgeousness absorbed my entire person like Indian air does to cobra. Apart from my eyes, nothing else functioned. I turned deaf, I couldn’t even hear her name. But the sudden irritation in her facial expression surprised me and pushed me back on the right track. As I started listening to her with more attention, I rapidly felt her involvement in the community; her frowning face was putting more intensity to her speech, complaints after complaints were continuously running out of her mouth with sincerity and passion. After delighting me, she now put me in deep melancholy. The saddest part was that I wasn’t the solution to most of the problems she was narrating, so all I could do was listen with commiseration.

Our conversation ended when she left for the chief’s house, leaving me with sadness in my heart not only because of the difficulties she expressed to me but also because of her gracious person leaving, replaced by this old man, a less sympathetic individual with an old school manner. A quick look at him made him a sexagenarian in my eyes, I didn’t need to see this picture of him with a military uniform on the wall to conclude he was surely a veteran. The direct opposite of the principal, the man caught my attention quick; his first words were full of charisma and power before he asked me:

“Mister Paul! Tell me! For you, what’s the reason for this charity event?”

“Sir, you know Mister Agbwala is a very generous person. Plus, you know he is…”

“Exactly!!!” He shouted. Many people here are accusing him of having a hidden agenda of using this region for his political ambition. That’s bullshit. I know him! And I know he is a man with a lot of compassion and concern for every citizen of this country. He has a good heart, unlike most of his colleagues. You know, after twenty years, they still consider us as traitors, as outcasts, but most of us have never been in any way associated with the rebels. It’s unfair that today, we are suffering because of that. Even basic needs, we cannot fulfill, no light, no current water! Why will the youths not turn bandits?”