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At the end of the 90s I walked extensively in West Africa and I had many adventures that only Africa makes you live, especially that day when I left Togo for Burkina-Faso.
I had written this text in French, I asked ChatGPT to translate it...
It was hot. Too damn hot. But it wasn’t the heat that was driving me crazy—it was the humidity. That sticky, suffocating, relentless humidity that clung to my skin, soaked my clothes, turned every breath into a struggle. My laundry had been hanging on the line since yesterday, stubborn and defiant. Dry? Never. And yet, like an idiot, I pulled the damp clothes on anyway.
This morning, I was leaving Lomé. Destination: Ouagadougou. The FESPACO film festival was coming up, and there was no way in hell I was missing it. Ablaye was waiting for me outside. I was late. He knew it. I knew it. But we both pretended I wasn’t.
— “Ready?” he asked.
— “Ready,” I lied.
We crammed into a beat-up taxi-clando, rattling north through the capital.
The ride was a joke. Police checkpoints every kilometer. Uniformed men, bored and indifferent, demanding papers, explanations, patience. I gave up putting my passport away.
— “Passport.”
I handed it over.
— “You’re French?”
— “Yes.”
He flipped through it, closed it, then opened it again, as if I might have lied in the last three seconds. Then a nod.
— “Alright, go on."
Thanks, officer.
The bus station. A beautiful mess. Shouts, vendors, drivers calling out destinations like they were selling dreams.
— “Ouaga?” I asked.
— “7,000 CFA. Leaves in an hour.”
An hour? My ass. The bus would leave when it was full.
I found a seat and waited.
By nightfall, the old Nissan groaned to life. I watched my fellow passengers as they climbed aboard. An old man and a little girl, a goat wedged between them. Two guys my age, gripping sacks of millet. Three women in dazzling boubous. And most importantly, a traveling theater troupe from Congo. Not just a troupe. A troupe on a triumphant tour.
The moment they stepped on, they burst into song. The women wove harmonies, the men pounded out uneven drumbeats. I grinned. The road would be long, and loud.
Night fell, and with it, exhaustion. One by one, the passengers dozed off. I prayed the driver wouldn’t do the same.
Then—a thunderous crash. A scream. The bus lurched to a stop.
The driver got out. Silence. No one moved.
I climbed out first.
— “Sir?”
It was the theater director. A tall man with frightened eyes.
— “Yeah?”
— “Are there lions in this region?”
I almost laughed. Then I saw the other passengers watching me, waiting for my answer.
— “No. No lions.”
A pause.
— “I think.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Then:
— “We need fire!”
And again, louder:
— “Yes, fire! Animals fear fire!”
A woman turned to me, her gaze unwavering.
— “You. Get wood.”
Me. Of course. The white guy. The outsider. Naturally, I was the one most qualified to wander into the dark African bush alone.
I sighed and went.
When I returned, my arms full of sticks, they applauded. Applauded, like I’d just conquered Everest. For a moment, I was an explorer, a hero, a ******* Hemingway protagonist.
The fire crackled. We huddled close, a circle of weary travelers clinging to its warmth. The singing started again, softer this time.
At dawn, another bus arrived. We moved our bags from one rusting roof to another, and just like that, we were back on the road.
By the time we reached the border, it was closed. Of course.
— “Come back tomorrow,” they said.
We scattered, looking for places to sleep. I stretched out on a patch of dry earth and let exhaustion take me.
Morning. A small boy sat next to me, watching me.
I smiled. He held out his hand.
I clasped it in a firm handshake, pretending not to understand.
He didn’t give up.
And then I remembered the woman by the fire, her voice steady and sure:
— “Allah choukourou.”
So I looked the boy in the eyes and said it back.
— “Allah choukourou.”
He froze. His eyes dropped. And then—he saw something.
A crumpled plastic bag on the ground.
He picked it up. Stared at it. Then his face split into the widest grin I’d ever seen.
— “Allah choukourou! Allah choukourou! Allah choukourou!”
He looked to the sky, then back at me, then back to the sky. He wanted me to see.
So I looked.
And I understood.
There was rice in the bag.
I had prayed. And God had answered.
I sat there, unable to move, my heart pounding too hard in my chest.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
God exists.
I saw Him.
I had written this text in French, I asked ChatGPT to translate it...
Africa semper aliquid novi
It was hot. Too damn hot. But it wasn’t the heat that was driving me crazy—it was the humidity. That sticky, suffocating, relentless humidity that clung to my skin, soaked my clothes, turned every breath into a struggle. My laundry had been hanging on the line since yesterday, stubborn and defiant. Dry? Never. And yet, like an idiot, I pulled the damp clothes on anyway.
This morning, I was leaving Lomé. Destination: Ouagadougou. The FESPACO film festival was coming up, and there was no way in hell I was missing it. Ablaye was waiting for me outside. I was late. He knew it. I knew it. But we both pretended I wasn’t.
— “Ready?” he asked.
— “Ready,” I lied.
We crammed into a beat-up taxi-clando, rattling north through the capital.
The ride was a joke. Police checkpoints every kilometer. Uniformed men, bored and indifferent, demanding papers, explanations, patience. I gave up putting my passport away.
— “Passport.”
I handed it over.
— “You’re French?”
— “Yes.”
He flipped through it, closed it, then opened it again, as if I might have lied in the last three seconds. Then a nod.
— “Alright, go on."
Thanks, officer.
The bus station. A beautiful mess. Shouts, vendors, drivers calling out destinations like they were selling dreams.
— “Ouaga?” I asked.
— “7,000 CFA. Leaves in an hour.”
An hour? My ass. The bus would leave when it was full.
I found a seat and waited.
The bus, the breakdown
By nightfall, the old Nissan groaned to life. I watched my fellow passengers as they climbed aboard. An old man and a little girl, a goat wedged between them. Two guys my age, gripping sacks of millet. Three women in dazzling boubous. And most importantly, a traveling theater troupe from Congo. Not just a troupe. A troupe on a triumphant tour.
The moment they stepped on, they burst into song. The women wove harmonies, the men pounded out uneven drumbeats. I grinned. The road would be long, and loud.
Night fell, and with it, exhaustion. One by one, the passengers dozed off. I prayed the driver wouldn’t do the same.
Then—a thunderous crash. A scream. The bus lurched to a stop.
The driver got out. Silence. No one moved.
I climbed out first.
— “Sir?”
It was the theater director. A tall man with frightened eyes.
— “Yeah?”
— “Are there lions in this region?”
I almost laughed. Then I saw the other passengers watching me, waiting for my answer.
— “No. No lions.”
A pause.
— “I think.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Then:
— “We need fire!”
And again, louder:
— “Yes, fire! Animals fear fire!”
A woman turned to me, her gaze unwavering.
— “You. Get wood.”
Me. Of course. The white guy. The outsider. Naturally, I was the one most qualified to wander into the dark African bush alone.
I sighed and went.
When I returned, my arms full of sticks, they applauded. Applauded, like I’d just conquered Everest. For a moment, I was an explorer, a hero, a ******* Hemingway protagonist.
The fire crackled. We huddled close, a circle of weary travelers clinging to its warmth. The singing started again, softer this time.
At dawn, another bus arrived. We moved our bags from one rusting roof to another, and just like that, we were back on the road.
The border, the boy
By the time we reached the border, it was closed. Of course.
— “Come back tomorrow,” they said.
We scattered, looking for places to sleep. I stretched out on a patch of dry earth and let exhaustion take me.
Morning. A small boy sat next to me, watching me.
I smiled. He held out his hand.
I clasped it in a firm handshake, pretending not to understand.
He didn’t give up.
And then I remembered the woman by the fire, her voice steady and sure:
— “Allah choukourou.”
So I looked the boy in the eyes and said it back.
— “Allah choukourou.”
He froze. His eyes dropped. And then—he saw something.
A crumpled plastic bag on the ground.
He picked it up. Stared at it. Then his face split into the widest grin I’d ever seen.
— “Allah choukourou! Allah choukourou! Allah choukourou!”
He looked to the sky, then back at me, then back to the sky. He wanted me to see.
So I looked.
And I understood.
There was rice in the bag.
I had prayed. And God had answered.
I sat there, unable to move, my heart pounding too hard in my chest.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
God exists.
I saw Him.
