BLOUSON NOIR
Throw down your heart
A true story, for the most of it.
You’re this man, walking on the path back home. It’s a lukewarm night, but even the cold drops sliding down your deep dark skin doesn’t help it cooling down. Neither your mind. You don’t feel those ideas overheating on the background of your head, you don’t let them get to your consciousness anymore. You’re focused on the road, one step after another, your empty look just sees the stones passing on the red copper dirt. Suddenly you realize, this constant beat hitting your crane. It gets louder and louder, your eyes turning extreme left trying to see inside yourself what your ears let pass in.
— Octave !! Octave !
- Hé, hé. How’s the kid?
- Shaken. He’ll recover.
- Take care of him
- Safi. You were amazing, as always !
- Don’t run so loud back home.
- Sawa, sawa. Why not ?
- Just don’t
- Sawa. Usiku Mwema champion.
That’s for living. That’s what this work’s for. You can’t live without a pay. There’s no pay without your wrist. There’s no other way. Nothing grows out of your hands. Nothing you built ever stood. Mother’ve always said. And you can’t raise a sheep knowing its end neither, it’s a lie too long to keep. At least your life is honest — Is it ? — at least your work makes you stop thinking. At least for a moment. And there’s this hope you embody. People here need hope, you can see their pride in their shining eyes — but that pride feels wrong in your thorax — Does the eagle feel wrong about the fish when it closes its grasp on it ? — there’s no nature in it; they’re predators as well, that’s lions’ bodies and pride you break to entertain.
That running kid broke your barriers. It’s too easy, you should get stronger. You cling on your head trying to physically pull out those conversations away. Under the shadow of a palm tree, you get through your door wondering how those twenty minutes of walking went so fast.
Finally you’re cooling down. Sat on your wooden chair, the moonlight coming on your back by the kitchen window marks your thrilling skin with thin triangle blue shades. You like the emptiness of the room; it’s peaceful, it’s quiet. And there’s this painting. Each time you cross it you can’t get your eyes off it. It comes from a contemporary art painter from Arusha. Round forms and smooth traits cross themselves exploding harmoniously in colors from vivid red to deep blue, sometimes covered by quiet purples, heavy greens and sparkling yellows. What’s amazing is the temporality of it, the process. Nothing was planned, none of those shapes have been foreseen — what’s the matter for the painter to continue his drawing if he already has the final version in his head ? That would be copying, not art. The only thrill strong enough for him to keep carrying his paintbrush is the unknown, maybe the intuition, but most of all the blind trust in what’s to come. The coherence soon comes, the harmony appears like magic.
All of this will make sense. Maybe Berlin will be the brain wave you’re waiting for. For sure you may just have to continue, trust again, live like the painter. It’s just 8pm, gather yourself, get up and go look for this crowd waiting for you.
A s you approach, you’re slowly immersed in the bright pink light of a neon bar. You start feeling the singings and the laughs reasoning in your belly. The warmth of the place acclaims you; here you come.
- ooooO — OCTAVE ! OCTAVE !
Five years ago you were nobody.
- For the victory, my friend.
Today there’s none like you in the whole country.
- Where’s the kid ?
- Ha-haaaaa right there !! Man I couldn’t dream better. That dance with such a hero, tonight your my guest!
- Haha Safi, A-Sante. Huge dance right, how’s your nose ?
- It’ll soon get back to its best shape no worry. Take my drink -
- Octave!
- Juma!
- Mchakji, how great you were! As always. Man we need to talk about Berlin. You’re super close right now.
- I know I know, two weeks hé.
- Everybody’s watching you. See them, we’re all behind you on this. The Tanzanien about to conquer Europe right ? Héhé. Mchakji, I’m your coach since ever — Please, Europe is another thing, get that speed right. Right punch is alright but left, hey get that fast sawa ? Your legs also, I know the kid’s great but you were lazy on that ring. Forget now, celebrate!
One drink too far. You could nearly feel that mbege flowing into your veins. Everything has that banana smell. There’s that girl but, ‘stime to leave before there’s no way back. Pain got away, the inner conversations stopped. Now there’s just Berlin, the work to lift the entire nation. But that headache…
- Pikipiki!
The motorbike stops. You hardly handle to tell your address to the driver. He’s young, he has this proud look, up on his brand new Bajaj custom with traditional colors. White for purity. Blue for peace. Red for maturity. Sat in the side car, the fresh air gives a break to your head, the sound of the bike cradles you, your eyes let themselves closing slowly.
A bump wakes you up. Passing your hand on your pocket you realize you forgot your wallet on the counter before leaving the bar. You have to stop the driver, you won’t be able to pay him.
- But you have to. I drove there.
The man was poor. Obviously he has to cover his debts for the motor bike. All of them have to. Oil is an expanse too. You understand, try to explain yourself but the alcohol blurs your vision and confuse your words.
- You have to pay me now.
What you can’t know is that he cannot purchase enough oil for another trip without the money you owe to him. His tank was nearly empty. Without the cash, his father promised not to let him in his house. He was said not to let anyone stand against him. So he stood. For you, there’s no issue. But you don’t want to harm him, the alcohol in your blood would prevent you from managing your strength, a punch could be lethal. So you ran.
- Muwzi.. Muwzi !! MUWZI !!
He can’t have said that.
- MUWZI !!
One house after the other enlightened itself. One house after the other, people got out of their homes. One house after the other unleashed the justice of the street. You can take out a man with just one punch but your strength is of no use against a whole village. In Swahili, “Thief” is a sentence to death.
Running is pointless. Soon, we’ll discover your cold beaten body on the sand of Bagamoyo, still warm from the day. Around your neck, you’ve been attached this soft long and round shape shell, wealth of the past. The moon couldn’t be stronger. While piercing the last drop left from your race, the light explodes into thousands splashing as a rainbow on your large shoulders. Bwaga Moyo they said.
“Throw down your heart”
