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Accident

Story by Timba Bema (Read author interview) December 12, 2016

Art by Meg Nielson

La lune est couverte d’un voile de gaze. Le froid pénètre mes muscles. Je suis couché dans l’herbe, au bord de l’autoroute, quelque part entre Douala et Bafoussam. Où suis-je exactement ? Je ne sais pas. Je regarde la lune, les étoiles aussi, dont l’éclat est terne. Quelle heure est-il ? Je ne sais pas. Il y a eu un accident. Sans aucun doute. L’autocar dans lequel j’avais pris place, et qui devait me ramener à Douala, est sorti de la route. Ils sont tous morts. Les passagers. Ont-ils souffert, avant de mourir ? Je ne sais pas. Tous les passagers sont morts, sauf moi. Pourquoi suis-je le seul survivant ? Je ne sais pas. Je suis en état de choc. A cause du sang. Le sang partout. Sur mes vêtements, mes bras, mon visage. Le sang ruisselle sur mon visage comme la sueur, et vient terminer sa course à l’encoignure de mes lèvres. Je crache. Que s’est-il passé ? Je ne sais pas. Parce que je dormais. La fatigue. Les funérailles étaient épuisantes. En deux jours il avait fallu accomplir tout un tas de rituels, recevoir tout un tas de gens. Et si on ajoute que je ne pouvais pas dormir à cause des gens qui dansaient les danses sacrées pendant la nuit, on peut comprendre pourquoi j’étais au bout du rouleau. Alors, en m’asseyant dans l’autocar, je m’étais dit que j’allais enfin pouvoir me reposer. Je crois même que je me suis endormi lorsque nous avons pris la route. Il devait être 23h. Mon sommeil était habité par le  ronflement du moteur. Soudain il y eut un bruit. Un froissement. Assourdissant. De loin j’ai entendu ce bruit, et je me suis demandé quelle en était l’origine. J’ai senti que mon corps tourbillonnait, puis était projeté dans une eau stagnante. Je m’enfonçais. Je buvais la tasse. Je suffoquais. Soudain j’eus un sursaut. Alors je me suis réveillé au milieu des corps. Un empilement de corps sur mon corps. Mes articulations sont tétanisées. Mes os sont comme réduits en miette. Mon souffle est haletant. Et mon regard, est-il marqué pas l’effarement ? Je ne sais pas. Tant bien que mal j’ai réussi à me dégager de la gangue de corps sans vie autour de moi. Enfin, je suis à l’air libre. Je respire à pleins poumons. Une douleur prend naissance dans ma poitrine. Epuisé, je me couche dans l’herbe. Je suis en vie, plus que jamais en vie. Je ne me suis jamais senti aussi vivant qu’en cet instant. Pourquoi m’a-t-on épargné ? Je ne sais pas. Je rentrais des funérailles de mon père, qui lui-même est mort dans un accident de la route, et voilà que l’autocar qui devait me ramener à Douala, a eu un accident. Est-ce que cet accident est un avertissement ? Je ne sais pas. Toutes ces questions me traversent l’esprit. Soudain, je me souviens que je n’étais pas seul. Je veux dire qu’il y avait mon frère dans cet autocar. Il avait pris place à l’avant, parce que l’arrière était plein. Il voulait rentrer le lendemain matin, par le premier autocar. Mais je l’avais convaincu de venir avec moi, question de rattraper le temps passé. Il vivait à l’etranger, et n’était pas revenu au pays depuis 15 ans. Vais-je indéfiniment porter sur ma conscience la culpabilité de sa mort ? Je ne sais pas. La lune a maintenant disparu. Les étoiles aussi. Mon frère est mort. Je suis vivant, en attendant le jour.

Editor’s Note: “Accident” is part of the Global Flash series at SmokeLong Quarterly. The English translation is below.

Accident

Translated by Michelle Bailat-Jones

The moon is veiled in mist. The cold seeps into my muscles. I am lying in the grass next to the highway somewhere between Douala and Bafoussam. Where am I exactly? I don’t know. I look at the moon, at the stars too, at their dull shine. What time is it? I don’t know. There has been an accident. No question of this. The highway bus I have taken, and which was supposed to take me to Douala, has run off the road. Everyone is dead. All the passengers. Did they suffer before they died? I don’t know. All the passengers are dead except for me. Why am I the only survivor? I don’t know. I’m in shock. Because of the blood. The blood everywhere. On my clothing, my arms, my face. Blood is dripping down my face like sweat, and it finishes its journey in the corner of my mouth. I spit. What happened? I don’t know. Because I was sleeping. I was so tired. The funeral activities were exhausting. There were so many rituals to accomplish in two days, so many people to receive. And add this to the fact that I couldn’t sleep because of the people dancing the sacred dances throughout the night, it’s easy to understand why I was ready to drop. So when I sat down in the highway bus, I thought, finally, I’m going to be able to rest. I think that I even fell asleep as we started moving. It must’ve been about 11pm. My sleep was filled with the snoring of the motor. Suddenly there was a noise. A crumpling. Deafening. I heard this noise from a distance, and I wondered where it was coming from. I felt my body twisting, then it was thrown into a pool of stagnant water. I sank into it. Drank from it. Suffocating. Suddenly I lurched. This is when I awoke amidst all the other bodies. A pile of bodies on top of my body. My joints were frozen. It was like my bones were reduced to crumbles. And I was panting. The look in my eyes, was it marked with fear? I don’t know. I managed to get out from under the pile of lifeless bodies around me. To reach the open air. I took a deep breath. A pain rose in my chest. Exhausted, I lay down in the grass. I was alive, more alive than ever. I have never felt so alive as I did at that moment. Why was I spared? I don’t know. I was returning from the funeral services for my father, he himself died in a highway accident, and now the highway bus that was to take me back to Douala has had an accident. Is this accident a warning? I don’t know. All of these questions race through my mind. Which is when I remember that I wasn’t alone. I mean that my brother was also in this bus. He sat in the front because the back was full. He wanted to go home the next day, by the first bus. But I convinced him to come with me, somehow catch up on time passed. He lived abroad, and he hadn’t come home to the country for fifteen years. Am I going to carry the guilt for his death on my conscience forever? I don’t know. The moon has now disappeared. The stars too. My brother is dead. I’m alive, awaiting the day.

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Notes from Guest Reader Michelle Bailat-Jones

For this Global Flash piece, I wasn’t just reading for a story all on its own, but also for how I would be translating it, and how it would necessarily change in that movement from French to English. Bema’s piece has a lovely and delicate rhythm to it, despite the darkness of the subject, and this was so important for the way the reader apprehends what’s going on around the narrator and what he’s experiencing.

About the Author

Timba Bema est né à Douala, Cameroun. Il grandit dans un environnement peuplé d’artistes. Le chanteur et pianiste Eko Roosevelt est son voisin. Il croise de temps en temps, passant dans la rue, Yves Lobé, le batteur des Black Styl’s, la chanteuse Beti Beti et sa soeur Annie Disco, sans oublier Villavienne, célèbre pour ses duos avec Ebanda. Bien que passionné par la musique, il s’oriente vers la littérature et commence par écrire des poèmes. Mais, c’est lecture de Le procès de Frantz Kafka qui le convainc que sa vocation est d’écrire. Alors il se rapproche des poètes Valère Epée et Fernando D’Almeida pour apprendre. Après son baccalauréat il étudie l’Economie à Yaoundé, où il côtoie le romancier Severin Cécile Abéga. En 2001, il poursuit ses études à Nantes. Depuis 2007 il vit et travaille à Lausanne. Il est auteur de poésie, de nouvelles et de romans.

Timba Bema was born in Douala, Cameroon. He grew up surrounded by artists, including the singer and pianist Eko Roosevelt who was his neighbor. Walking down the street, he sometimes ran into Yves Lobé, the drummer from the Black Styl’s, the singer Beti Beti and her sister Annie Disco, and not least of all, Villa Vienne, famous for her duets with Ebanda. Although a passionate fan of music, he turned to literature and began writing poems. But it was reading Franz Kafka’s The Trial that convinced him his vocation was to be a writer. He then moved toward the poets Valère Epée and Fernando d’Almeida in order to learn. Following his Bachelor’s degree, he studied Economics in Yaoundé, where he spent time with the novelist Severin Cécile Abéga. In 2001, he continued his studies in Nantes, France. Since 2007 he has lived and worked in Lausanne, Switzerland. He is the author of poetry, short stories and novels.

About the Artist

More of Meg Nielson’s photography can be found at Unsplash.

This story appeared in Issue Fifty-Four of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Fifty-Four
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