Botovelo’s New Accordion
Long story short, as long as he is in the valley, I will not be able to participate in the Salanitra festival.
There are some stories that leave the deepest impressions. This is one of those. The story of Botovelo has been told so many times — a famous singer even wrote a beautiful ballad about it. It has been embellished and simplified so often that it is hard to tell which part is real and which is fiction. It takes place many many years ago in the half-forgotten but ever-charming village of Marofasika where the women are known for their basket weaving and the men for their seafaring and fishing skills.
The village is nested in the lush Amorondriaka valley, which is surrounded by the mountain ranges of Manerinerina in the north, the haunted rain forests of Analamaizina in the west, the alligator-infested mangrove of Manarizipo in the south, and the vast Indian ocean sea in the east. To get there, the rare outside visitors has to either follow a barely accessible muddy track through the densely wooded forest, or take a canoe ride. This natural isolation has over time helped create a certain mystique about the Mpiandriaka, which is how the valley’s residents call themselves.
On the south side of the Marofasika village, almost at the edge of the mangrove, there stands a modest but well kept falafa hut. On a regular day, passersby are able to hear or see Botovelo practice his accordion on the front step of the hut. But today is not a regular day. Today, Botovelo does not feel like practicing. He is deeply troubled and confused. The usually level-headed middle-aged man looks as if he has just seen a ghost from the past. He just met Mr. Martial Lezoma.
The Mpiandriaka people traditionally consider Friday to be an especially sacred day. For them, a taon-joma (or a “Friday year” — a special year that starts and ends on a Friday) is believed to be a particularly auspicious year for undertaking important activities. It is a relatively rare occurrence: a taon-joma occurs only every seven years or so. For the inhabitants of Amorondriaka, a taon-joma basically means “the Festival of Salanitra” — four weeks of merriments and festivities that they have all been anticipating and preparing for the past seven years.
Many events are planned for the Salanitra celebration. It starts with the selection by the Council of Elders of the new valley Ampanjaka (King) who will rule the valley until the next Salanitra. It culminates with the collective circumcision for all the valley boys born since the last Salanitra — a rite of passage when a boy would be integrated into the paternal tribe and initiated into the life of a true Mpiandriaka man, which means to be able to take a canoe and go fishing by himself to fend for his family. There is plenty of foods, drinks, banters, fights, and games. But the most central and permanent feature of the Festival is without a doubt the music. And this year’s Salanitra, hosted by the village of Marofasika, is expected to be a very special one, mainly because Botovelo just got himself a new accordion.
Everybody is looking forward to the magical chords that would be coming out of the new accordion. Little boys strongly believe that, under Botovelo’s golden fingers, a minor C flat chord can mysteriously make the circumcision painless, while a D sharp will keep the wounds clean. His notorious adaptation of the 6/8 rhythms is known for making the elders stand up and dance. Just as some of his signature E-based Anatole chord progressions can make any women weep with joy and nostalgia.
Over the last twenty years, the Festival of Salanitra has grown in importance and in visibility. Given its formidable convening power, it is not surprising that it has attracted the attention of the political establishment in the far-away Capital, Vohimalaza, which has decided to send a high ranking delegation to supervise and to provide any financial and logistical support that the organizers might need before and during the Festival. It is an election year across the country after all.
The two person delegation arrived yesterday in a large white Toyota Land Cruiser and it is composed by Mr. Barthelemy Ramiakatra, Chef de Service of Something or another at the Ministry of Something or another, accompanied by his driver (who also serves as his bodyguard and his non-permanent informal advisor).
The village chief came by earlier to introduce the delegation to Botovelo. The Chef de Service was wearing a sparkling white shirt, an elegant spotless white suit, and white shoes. Botovelo, who was in front of his hut, working on a particularly complicated chord progression, immediately and instantly disliked Mr. Ramiakatra — he hated being interrupted and was always suspicious of anyone from outside the valley, especially when they are wearing white. The driver on the other hand seemed to be a nice fellow. Mr. Martial Lezoma, that was his name, was dressed in a brown uniform and was wearing big dark glasses with golden rims. He was sporting a thick chevron mustache which, Botovelo noticed, went rather well with the shape of his aquiline nose.
“It is such a honor to finally meet the famous Botovelo!” the Chef de Service has started. “Please let us know if you need anything from the central government. Anything at all.” After failing to obtain the thanks or the acknowledgement he had expected from the famous musician, he continued. “You do look a bit familiar. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” responded Botovelo drily, avoiding eye contact with the stranger — the Mpiandriaka consider sustained eye contact to be rude and confrontational — and pretending to be adjusting the strap of his new accordeon. “I have never been out of the valley.”
He was sure he had never met Chef de Service Ramiakatra. But there was something strangely familiar but uncomfortable about that Mr. Lezoma. It was only after the visitors have left that Botovelo realized it: The driver looked a lot like him. True, he had better clothes on, he was a bigger girth, he was more muscular, he still had all of his front teeth, he was well shaven, he had a nicely trimmed mustache, and his hair was nicely combed. But if one can go past those attributes, the resemblance was quite striking — at least from the perspective of Botovelo. It was as if they were somehow related. As a matter of fact, they were, but he did not know it. More than related, they were twins. They were not even aware of each other’s existence until now for the simple reason that they were separated at birth forty-five years ago.
It was indeed forty-five years ago in that very same humble but well kept falafa hut on the south side of the village of Marofasika.that Botovelo and Lezoma quietly made their entrance into this world. The year was also a taon-joma. The day was the last Friday of the Festival of Salanitra. Most villagers were busy celebrating in another village. The pair discreetly climbed out of their mother’s womb. They did not cry like typical babies — they were calmly mumbling to each other something that sounded like a melody. A pleasantly soothing melody.
That was not the only odd thing that happened on that Friday morning. Those who were around to witness their birth also noted the mysterious fact that the twins were tightly holding each other’s hand. In the face of these oddities, the four persons present — Solange, their mother; Todimanana, their father; Iendrinisoalaza, their grandmother, and Botsivavy, a distant relative of Iendrinisoalaza’s family who happened to be visiting from the far away Vohimalaza — were puzzled about what to think and what to do next.
They were facing quite a predicament because back then (not as much anymore nowadays, it should be noted), the majority of the Mpiandriaka believed that twins brought bad luck and violence upon their family and community. In the rare case of a twin birth, a Mpiandiraka basically had three options in those days: abandon one of the twins in the forest of the west to die of exposure, put it on a small raft and let the ocean of the east to take care of it, or have it strangled by the village sorcerer immediately after birth.
None of those three options was acceptable to the four. They were all persuaded that neither of the twins should die. But they also realized that the other villagers would not see things their way. After a short but very emotional deliberation, the four of them decided that Botsivavy would immediately go back to Vohimalaza with baby Lezoma, and announce that she gave birth to him while she was in Marofasika. Todimanana would accompany the two of them to ensure that they arrive safely. Then, he was supposed to come back. Meanwhile, Solange would act as if she only gave birth to one boy, Botovelo.
“They were holding hands,” Todimanana said before he left with Botsivavy and baby Lezoma. “Even if they are separated now, their fate will bring them back together at a latter date.” Those words, which turned out to be right, were the last that anyone from Marofasika has ever heard from him. He never returned.
The Mpiandriaka had an unfortunate tendency to be weary of women who are abandoned by their husbands. Solange and, by association, Botovelo, were sort of ostracized after Todimanana left. Botovelo was essentially brought up by his mother and grandmother. Having no father figure in his life, young Botovelo was never properly trained in the tough and brutal art of seafaring and fishing. He turned out to be a lousy fisherman — he could not even properly paddle and ride a canoe straight. But the aptitude he lacked in that area, he more than made up in another. Botovelo had an innate gift, a real knack for music. He was a true prodigy and a multi-instrument virtuoso.
Solange died when Botovelo was twenty-one. Grandma Iendrinisoalaza passed away a few years earlier. Neither of them has told him anything about the existence of his twin brother.
After some initial difficulties trying to make ends meet on his own in the fishing business, Botovelo turned to music and eventually discovered that people were willing to pay good money to hear him sing or play his accordion. He now makes a decent living, travelling from village to village, and playing his music for various occasions. Over the years, he had saved enough money to renovate his mother’s minuscule hut on the south side of the Marofasika village, to buy a transistor radio to listen to the news and the music that the National Radio Broadcast Services play late at night, and just recently, to purchase a pair of sun glasses and a new accordion.
Botovelo is now a forty-five year old musician, who is deeply troubled. It is still daylight but the windows are closed so it is dark in his hut. Botovelo is wearing his dark glasses and is laying down on the floor mat. The radio is on but he is only half-listening to it — something about a severe weather pattern coming their way, he is too agitated to focus. He closes his eyes and replays the earlier scene in his mind. He just cannot believe the resemblance between himself and the driver.
“How is that possible?” Botovelo thinks to himself. There is no doubt in his mind: he has just met a close relative. As if on cue, a discrete knock on the door interrupts his deep thoughts.
“Zovy?” he asks. “I am busy.”
“Monsieur Botovelo! We need to talk. Can I come in?” The voice is unknown but not unfamiliar.
Botovelo lazily stands up and opens the door. Mr. Martial Lezoma is there, smiling nervously at him. Botovelo cannot help admiring the thick mustache and wishing he has one.
“My name is Lezoma. I am the son of Todimanana and Botsivavy, and unless I am mistaken, you are my twin brother.” This is delivered in what sounds like a mechanical but well prepared and well rehearsed manner.
“Shhhh!” Botovelo hushes him. “Are you crazy? People may hear you! Let’s talk inside.” And they go in, carefully locking the door behind.
“I have never heard of a Todimanana or a Botsivavy,” Botovelo tells his guest once they are settled down in the musky but comfortable hut. “Mom never told me about my father, let alone about you. But given your looks, I do believe that we are related.”
“Todimanana, my father, actually our father, passed away ten years ago.” Lezoma makes a quick and discreet sing of the cross with his right hand as he speaks his father’s name. “Botsivavy, my mother, who turned out not to be my birth mother, died six months ago after an illness.” Another cross sign for his mother. “Before she died, she told me the circumstances and the secret of our birth.”
Botovelo listens carefully as Lezoma tells him the story of their birth. His father apparently wanted to come back to Marofasika, but when they arrived in Vohimalaza, Botsivavy fell ill, and he just could not get himself to leave the baby alone with her. As her health improved, Todimanana gradually became attached to her. They eventually fell in love and decided to raise Lezoma together, as a married couple.
As he watches and listens to his twin brother, Botovelo feels some serious struggles and contradictions slowly emerging from his loins. Feelings of happiness, anger, sadness, and fear are all mixed up inside of him. He is not sure how he feels about this news. He does not know how he is supposed to feel after meeting his brother for the first time.
“Am I supposed to be happy?” He ponders as Lezoma painstakingly describes his happy upbringing in Vohimalaza. “Am I supposed to feel sad?”
Before he has time to answer those questions? His overactive brain moves on to the next question. “Should I feel jealous because he had a better childhood than me?” And then to the next. “What are the implications of this new information?” Specifically, the local tradition clearly stipulates that twins are not allowed to partake to any activities directly or indirectly related to the Festival of Salanitra.
“What do you want from me?” Botovelo tries not to sound confrontational as he asks Lezoma the question. “Why did you come here? Why now?”
“Why?” Lezoma is taken aback and confused by the set of questions. “I just wanted to meet and get to know you, my twin brother. I volunteered to drive Chef de Service Ramiakatra here so that I can meet you. What could be wrong with that? I thought you would be glad to see me.”
“Listen, I am really happy to meet you my dear brother, Razamba.”
“Lezoma, not Razamba.”
“Whatever. I am thrilled to make your acquaintance, I am sure, Lezambla. But you have to get out of here! This is just not a good time. Don’t you know how the Mpiandriaka feels about twins?”
“Come on!” Lezoma says, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you guys still believe that bunch of nonsense! If the Mpiandriaka are causing troubles, let us get out of here. You can come and live with me and my family in Vohimalaza.”
Although he lives in a rather friendless isolation, Botovelo loves the valley and the people in it. It is out of question for him to live anywhere else. In fact, he is one of the most conservative members of his community. He is among those who insist on upholding the traditions. He finds his brother’s statement insensitive and offensive but decides not to say anything in reply. While he no longer think that twin babies should be abandoned in the forest, he still strongly believes, at least before today, that they should not be allowed to participate in the Salanitra festival.
But at the same time, playing music during the Festival of Salanitra is the only time that Botovelo genuinely feels like being appreciated and being respected by the other villagers. And it happens only every seven years. This is what is troubling him the most.
“I am so sorry if I do not appear overjoyed from your visit, my brother,” Botovelo says after a lengthy awkward silence during which he carefully selects the most appropriate words. “I am really happy, please believe me. But, there is a lot to think about. If it is all the same to you, I would like to take some time tonight to digest the new information, and to reflect about its implications.”
“Fair enough,” says Lezoma pleasantly as he stands up to take leave from his twin brother. “I totally understand. Please take your time and let me know when you are ready to talk. In any case, I will be staying in the valley until the end of the Festival of Salanitra, so no rush. I am really looking forward to listening to your famous music.”
“That is exactly the problem,” Botovelo thinks to himself after his look-alike leaves. “As long as he is in the valley, I will not be able to participate in the Salanitra festival. I have invested so much time, seven years, and money preparing for this Salanitra, and now all of that will be for naught just because he shows up with his stupid Chef de Service at the wrong time? I was very much looking forward to performing my new compositions and to showing off my new accordion.”
Botovelo feels his thoughts becoming increasingly dark and sinister. “As long as he is in the valley, I will not be able to participate in the Salanitra festival.” He repeats the phrase to himself. At the same time, his eyes slowly gravitate towards the drawer where he keeps his sharp benitra knives that he uses to fillet the fishes he does not catch. “As long as he is in the valley, I will not be able to participate in the Salanitra festival.” He clinches his fists.
Botovelo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. On the radio, someone is reading the latest news bulletin but he is too agitated to hear the serious weather warning issued for the area surrounding the Amorondriaka valley. He is trying to get rid of the negative thoughts but cannot. Rationality and objectivity seem to have left his psyche. He is mad at Solange, his mother, for hiding him the truth. He is furious at Todiamanana, the father he never knew for not being there for him to help him become a better Mpiandriaka. He is envious of Lezoma for having had a better childhood and a better life than him. He is even irate at Mr. Barthelemy Ramiakatra, the Chef de Service, for reasons he does not fully comprehend. In a nutshell, he is just annoyed at the whole world at this point. He eventually falls in a tormented slumber.
Very early the next morning, when the village is still quiet and the sun is barely a red spot in the lower eastern sky, Botovelo quietly goes out of his hut. He is carrying a small bag with him. His sharpest knife is tied with a rope around his waist. Armed with a plan, he walks briskly towards the place where the white Land Cruiser is parked. He sees Lezoma fast asleep in the backseat of the car. He briefly looks at his twin brother and takes a deep breath. “I wonder how long it took him to grow that mustache,” he mutters to himself. Then he continues towards the place where he stores his canoe. Frogs in the forest are just starting to croak. Botovelo is going fishing.
During the night, Botovelo came to the realization that he has acted like a jerk with his brother. Tradition or not, he has to welcome his brother warmly. And whether people like it or not, he will play his music in the Festival of Salanitra. He has decided to make amend and prepare a sumptuous seafood feast for Lezoma. He wanted to get to the best fishing spot in the ocean before any of the other villagers were up and about. He brought his new accordion with him in case he has some time to practice while waiting for his net to swell with fishes.
The roosters in the village are just starting to crow when Botovelo starts paddling awkwardly towards the eastern horizon. He glances back at the village and sees someone waving frantically at him — it is his mustached brother Lezoma who is tying to warn him of the inclement weather but he does not get the message. Instead, he smiles and excitedly waves back. As usual, he is having a hard time keeping his canoe steady. He is about one mile away from the shore when he notices that the ocean is becoming more troubled and more agitated that usual. He also observes dark clouds hanging heavily towards the south and coming rapidly in his direction.
Botovelo quickly realizes that today may not be a good day for going fishing after all and decides to go back home. He tries to turn the canoe around, but the waves are very strong. Too strong for him. Heavy rain is starting to fall and the wind is becoming gusty. Botovelo totally loses control of his canoe. He loses control of his fate. He curses his twin brother. “As long as he is in the valley, I will not be able to participate in the Salanitra festival.” Those are his last thoughts before a giant wave of salt water washes him under.
Thus ends the story of Botovelo. It has been heard so many times, it is difficult to ascertain which facts have been exaggerated and which ones downplayed.
In any case, the Festival of Salanitra was particularly quiet that year. The call of the antsiva (a drilled conch shell) was heard at regular intervals throughout the valley, as was the steady beat of the hazolahy (a large, deep-toned drum). The Mpiandriaka women did their best with their beautifully polyharmonic antsa. But the mood was just not there without Botovelo’s new accordion.
Botovelo’s canoe was eventually found washed up on the beach, with his new accordion in it. His body was never recovered. Some fellow Mpiandriaka actually claim that he did not perish from the storm, that he was picked up by a Somali pirate ship, and that he is now hapilly playing his music somewhere in Africa — somewhere near Mogadisho.
Back in Marofasika, people still remember that the Mpiandriaka boys who were circumcised had to suffer more than usual. There was a lot of crying that year in the valley. From pain. And from sadness.
