It was evening. The sun had gone down from behind the high peaks. The deep shadow of the forest was closing in around Akomo. Flocks of toucans cut the air with great wingbeats and their plaintive calls died slowly away. The last night of my holiday in Spanish Guinea came stealthily down. Soon I would be leaving this country used by us 'Frenchmen' from Gabon and the Cameroons as a place to slip away for a break whenever things became a little strained between ourselves and our white compatriots.
It was the time of day for the customary meal of fish and cassava sticks. We eat in silence, for while the mouth speaks it does not serve for eating. The eyes of the housedog sprawled between my legs followed, full of envy, piece after piece of fish down the throat of his master, my host. We all ate our fill. At the end of the meal with our little fingers we scratched our bellies each in turn.* The mistress of the house thanked us with a smile. The evening would be full of merriment and forest stories. We pretended to forget that I was soon going away. I gave myself up to the spontaneous gaiety of my hosts whose only thought now was to gather round the fireside and tell over the endless adventures of the tortoise and the elephant.
There is no moon,' said my host, 'or we would have danced in honour of your departure.'
"We could make a bonfire in the courtyard,' suggested his wife.
'I did not think of it during the day, there is no more wood.'
His wife sighed. Suddenly there was a sinister roll of drums. I could not understand the drum language used by my Spanish
· A polite indication that one has eaten well.
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friends but I knew from the troubled looks on their faces that the drums spoke of some misfortune.
'Madre de Dios,' said Anton, crossing himself.
His wife turned up her eyes until the pupils vanished. She too crossed herself. Without thinking I brought my hand up to my forehead.
'Madre Dios,' said Anton again. He turned towards me. 'Another poor Frenchman . . . it says a Frenchman is very ill. They do not think he will last the night.'
This man was nothing to me. I did not even know him. Yet my mind was deeply disturbed. It is strange. A message of death like this in the Cameroons would have woken no more than a shadow of emotion in me - the distant pity we feel when the hour of death has come for someone else. Here, on Spanish soil, I was overwhelmed.
'The drum comes from M'foula, which is very strange,' said my host. 'There are no Frenchmen at M'foula that I know of. The dying man must have come this morning. We shall know tomorrow.'
I felt them all watching me with that look of silent compassion which our people can give their eyes. I stood up and asked Anton if M'foula was very far.
'Just the other side of the great forest . . . the lamp is full of paraffin.'
He saw into my heart and read what was written there.
We set out armed with spears. A boy went in front with an old hurricane lamp that threw a pale and feeble light on our path. We passed through two villages. The people we met who recognized Anton asked what it was that called us out to travel at night. They spoke a jargon of Spanish mixed with Pahouin. Several times I caught the word 'frances'. Everyone crossed himself. Then as they left us, they suddenly forgot these dramatics and shouted a jovial 'Buenas tardes' after us. Our path went deeper into the forest.
'Tired already?' said Anton to me. 'The journey is just starting.'
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