home. She had hers in the hall, above the bureau. The icon represented the spirits of the ancestors, who were the guiding light for the family and for the entire society.
The light, she thought. Kontômé lights the path. We thank Kontômé for what we are and what we have, now and in the future. And Kontômé helps us when fate unfolds on that path.
Yes. She believed in it. It was in her blood. That was as it should be.
Aneta Djanali had been born at Östra Hospital in Gothenburg to parents from Upper Volta. The country’s name had changed to Burkina Faso in 1984, but it was still the same impoverished country, filled with wind, like the music she listened to, steppes that became deserts, water that didn’t exist.
It was a vulnerable country.
Dry Volta. Impoverished Volta. Sick Volta. Violent Volta. Dangerous Volta.
Her parents came to Sweden in the sixties, a few years after the country’s independence, fleeing persecution.
Her father had been in prison for a short time. He could just as easily have been executed. Just as easily. Sometimes it was only a question of luck.
The former French colony inherited terror and murderers from the Frenchmen who had murdered there since the end of the nineteenth century. Now the Frenchmen were gone, but their language remained. The people were African but out of their mouths came words in French, the official language.
She had learned French as a child, in Gothenburg. She was the only child in the Djanali family. When she wasn’t little anymore, when she had been with the police for a long time, her parents chose to return to their hometown, Ouagadougou, the capital.
For Aneta, it was an obvious choice to stay in the country she was born in, and she understood why Mother and Father wanted to return to the country they were born in, before it was too late.
It was almost too late. Her mother had come back with two months to spare. She had been buried in the hard, burned red earth at the northern fringes of the city. During the funeral, Aneta had watched the desert press in from all directions, millions of square miles in size. She had thought about how there were sixteen million people living in this desolate country, and how that wasn’t so many more than in desolate Sweden. Here they were black, incredibly black. Their clothes were white, incredibly white.
Her father mulled for a long time over whether the journey back had caused the death, at least indirectly.
She kept him company in the capital as long as he wished. She walked with big eyes through streets that she could have lived on her entire life, instead of returning to them as a stranger. Ouagadougou had as many citizens as Gothenburg.
She looked like everyone else here. She could communicate in French with the people—at least with those who had gone to school—and she could speak a little Moré with others, which she did sometimes.
She could keep walking, without attracting attention, all the way out to the city limits and to the desert, which assailed the city with its wind, the harmattan. She could feel it when she sat in her father’s house.
She heard the wind, the Swedish wind. It sounded rounder and softer, and colder. But it wasn’t cold out. It was brittsommar.
Right. She got up and went to the bookshelf along the far wall and got out the Swedish Academy dictionary. She looked up the word:
A period of beautiful and warm weather in the fall—named after Saint Birgitta’s Day on October 7.
She didn’t know much about the holy, but she suspected this was true for most Swedes, white or black. October seventh. That was a while from now. Did that mean it would get warmer?
She smiled and put back the thick volume. She went to the bathroom and undressed and ran a hot bath. She slowly lowered herself into the water. It was very quiet in the apartment. She heard the telephone ring out there, and she heard the machine pick up. She didn’t hear a voice, only a pleasant murmur. She closed her eyes and
The light, she thought. Kontômé lights the path. We thank Kontômé for what we are and what we have, now and in the future. And Kontômé helps us when fate unfolds on that path.
Yes. She believed in it. It was in her blood. That was as it should be.
Aneta Djanali had been born at Östra Hospital in Gothenburg to parents from Upper Volta. The country’s name had changed to Burkina Faso in 1984, but it was still the same impoverished country, filled with wind, like the music she listened to, steppes that became deserts, water that didn’t exist.
It was a vulnerable country.
Dry Volta. Impoverished Volta. Sick Volta. Violent Volta. Dangerous Volta.
Her parents came to Sweden in the sixties, a few years after the country’s independence, fleeing persecution.
Her father had been in prison for a short time. He could just as easily have been executed. Just as easily. Sometimes it was only a question of luck.
The former French colony inherited terror and murderers from the Frenchmen who had murdered there since the end of the nineteenth century. Now the Frenchmen were gone, but their language remained. The people were African but out of their mouths came words in French, the official language.
She had learned French as a child, in Gothenburg. She was the only child in the Djanali family. When she wasn’t little anymore, when she had been with the police for a long time, her parents chose to return to their hometown, Ouagadougou, the capital.
For Aneta, it was an obvious choice to stay in the country she was born in, and she understood why Mother and Father wanted to return to the country they were born in, before it was too late.
It was almost too late. Her mother had come back with two months to spare. She had been buried in the hard, burned red earth at the northern fringes of the city. During the funeral, Aneta had watched the desert press in from all directions, millions of square miles in size. She had thought about how there were sixteen million people living in this desolate country, and how that wasn’t so many more than in desolate Sweden. Here they were black, incredibly black. Their clothes were white, incredibly white.
Her father mulled for a long time over whether the journey back had caused the death, at least indirectly.
She kept him company in the capital as long as he wished. She walked with big eyes through streets that she could have lived on her entire life, instead of returning to them as a stranger. Ouagadougou had as many citizens as Gothenburg.
She looked like everyone else here. She could communicate in French with the people—at least with those who had gone to school—and she could speak a little Moré with others, which she did sometimes.
She could keep walking, without attracting attention, all the way out to the city limits and to the desert, which assailed the city with its wind, the harmattan. She could feel it when she sat in her father’s house.
She heard the wind, the Swedish wind. It sounded rounder and softer, and colder. But it wasn’t cold out. It was brittsommar.
Right. She got up and went to the bookshelf along the far wall and got out the Swedish Academy dictionary. She looked up the word:
A period of beautiful and warm weather in the fall—named after Saint Birgitta’s Day on October 7.
She didn’t know much about the holy, but she suspected this was true for most Swedes, white or black. October seventh. That was a while from now. Did that mean it would get warmer?
She smiled and put back the thick volume. She went to the bathroom and undressed and ran a hot bath. She slowly lowered herself into the water. It was very quiet in the apartment. She heard the telephone ring out there, and she heard the machine pick up. She didn’t hear a voice, only a pleasant murmur. She closed her eyes and
Similar Books
The World Above
Cameron Dokey
Arsonist
Victor Methos
Jack in the Box
Hania Allen
Por qué ganaron los aliados
R. J. Overy
An Unlikely Friendship
Ann Rinaldi
Sparrow Nights
David Gilmour
Her Dark Knight
Sharon Cullen
WANTON
Cheryl Holt
The Tudor Secret
C. W. Gortner