Read Online In the Belly of the Elephant by Susan Corbett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Corbett
Tags: Memoir
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the tin roof of my patio, over the top of my courtyard wall, to the horizon. Sunlight spilled over the land. I pulled aside the mosquito net and swung my legs over the side.
At my feet, Anna Karenina lay dog-eared next to the kerosene lamp. I had stayed up past midnight until the final page. On the edge of the Sahara, a place without movies or TV, the expats passed books around like little boxes of gold coin. Western man had long ago lost the art of preserving stories by memorizing and telling. For us, it was the written word. But Africans still carried their literature in their heads and passed its flame through the art of storytelling.
In the beginning, Zambe, son of the supreme God, created a chimpanzee, a gorilla, an elephant, and two men—A European and an African. To these creatures, Zambe gave the tools of survival—fire, water, food, weapons, and a book.
Zambe came back later to see who was using which tools. The chimpanzee and the gorilla had discarded everything but the fruit; the elephant, to my disappointment, couldn’t remember what she’d done with her possessions.
The European kept the book but discarded the fire, while the African discarded the book but kept the fire .
Time would tell which was the wisest choice. They both seemed like a good idea to me. So, when someone like Old Issa or Hamidou told a story, I listened, and perusing Don’s books, I had found Tolstoy and taken him home.
I gathered the mosquito net into a twist, flipping the lower half upward to rest on its canopy-like top. The slap slap of my flip-flops accompanied me into the bathing room where I splashed cold water on my face. Anna Karenina, despairing over her lover, Prince Vronsky, had committed suicide by throwing herself in front of a train. Seemed that uppity women who had the gall to follow their hearts and seek their freedom came to very bad ends. No doubt both Europeans and Africans had plenty of stories about that.
After 239 chapters, I had taken Tolstoy to heart and become somewhat of a social recluse. Or, had I used him as an excuse to become one? Either way, since the news of Liberia’s coup two months before, except for working in the villages and going to the office, I hadn’t ventured very far from the security of my courtyard. I had boxed myself up with my friends: J. S. Bach, Joni Mitchell, and Leo Tolstoy. Joni sang about me—a lonely painter, living in a box of paints.
Don was keeping an eye on me but not asking any questions. Philip had stopped by once and knocked at my gate. I had hidden in my outhouse until he left.
In the out-kitchen, I lit the single-plate kerosene stove with a wooden match, filled the teakettle from the water filter and placed it on the blue flame. Reaching for the tin of Nescafé, I struck up a conversation with several inanimate objects. Something I was doing more and more.
“You miss Rob,” a spoon said to me. “Just admit it.” My promise to myself to forget Rob was proving difficult.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. The guy was a jerk and I was too stupid to see it.” Just as Anna had been with Vronsky. If only I could stop dreaming about him.
I opened the refrigerator and stood staring at the tub of margarine. A sane person NEVER stood with the frigo door open in the Sahel, letting all that kerosene-cooled air escape, especially during September, the month between rainy season and cold season when the heat returned with a vengeance.
I had tried to follow Lily’s advice, imagining Rob in a hot air balloon, drifting away from memory, out of sight and mind. I tried it again. Just as he rose nearly out of sight, I hefted a shotgun out of nowhere and shot the balloon. My preoccupation with guns and violence was getting to me.
“I just miss being loved,” I said to the loaf of bread.
Some breakages cannot be replaced like a pot.
The teakettle whistled. I added it to the tray of Nescafé, a tin of sweetened condensed milk, bread, and jam, and walked the path to the
At my feet, Anna Karenina lay dog-eared next to the kerosene lamp. I had stayed up past midnight until the final page. On the edge of the Sahara, a place without movies or TV, the expats passed books around like little boxes of gold coin. Western man had long ago lost the art of preserving stories by memorizing and telling. For us, it was the written word. But Africans still carried their literature in their heads and passed its flame through the art of storytelling.
In the beginning, Zambe, son of the supreme God, created a chimpanzee, a gorilla, an elephant, and two men—A European and an African. To these creatures, Zambe gave the tools of survival—fire, water, food, weapons, and a book.
Zambe came back later to see who was using which tools. The chimpanzee and the gorilla had discarded everything but the fruit; the elephant, to my disappointment, couldn’t remember what she’d done with her possessions.
The European kept the book but discarded the fire, while the African discarded the book but kept the fire .
Time would tell which was the wisest choice. They both seemed like a good idea to me. So, when someone like Old Issa or Hamidou told a story, I listened, and perusing Don’s books, I had found Tolstoy and taken him home.
I gathered the mosquito net into a twist, flipping the lower half upward to rest on its canopy-like top. The slap slap of my flip-flops accompanied me into the bathing room where I splashed cold water on my face. Anna Karenina, despairing over her lover, Prince Vronsky, had committed suicide by throwing herself in front of a train. Seemed that uppity women who had the gall to follow their hearts and seek their freedom came to very bad ends. No doubt both Europeans and Africans had plenty of stories about that.
After 239 chapters, I had taken Tolstoy to heart and become somewhat of a social recluse. Or, had I used him as an excuse to become one? Either way, since the news of Liberia’s coup two months before, except for working in the villages and going to the office, I hadn’t ventured very far from the security of my courtyard. I had boxed myself up with my friends: J. S. Bach, Joni Mitchell, and Leo Tolstoy. Joni sang about me—a lonely painter, living in a box of paints.
Don was keeping an eye on me but not asking any questions. Philip had stopped by once and knocked at my gate. I had hidden in my outhouse until he left.
In the out-kitchen, I lit the single-plate kerosene stove with a wooden match, filled the teakettle from the water filter and placed it on the blue flame. Reaching for the tin of Nescafé, I struck up a conversation with several inanimate objects. Something I was doing more and more.
“You miss Rob,” a spoon said to me. “Just admit it.” My promise to myself to forget Rob was proving difficult.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. The guy was a jerk and I was too stupid to see it.” Just as Anna had been with Vronsky. If only I could stop dreaming about him.
I opened the refrigerator and stood staring at the tub of margarine. A sane person NEVER stood with the frigo door open in the Sahel, letting all that kerosene-cooled air escape, especially during September, the month between rainy season and cold season when the heat returned with a vengeance.
I had tried to follow Lily’s advice, imagining Rob in a hot air balloon, drifting away from memory, out of sight and mind. I tried it again. Just as he rose nearly out of sight, I hefted a shotgun out of nowhere and shot the balloon. My preoccupation with guns and violence was getting to me.
“I just miss being loved,” I said to the loaf of bread.
Some breakages cannot be replaced like a pot.
The teakettle whistled. I added it to the tray of Nescafé, a tin of sweetened condensed milk, bread, and jam, and walked the path to the
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