Don’t get me wrong. There’s an exotic red canary inside me that wants to get out but I’m too adamantine for him. He’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die, and yet he’s nice enough to make me weep, but I don’t weep. It’s just he can’t understand I’m the kind who looks at dreams from below, from the perspective of the downtrodden and humiliated, always expecting for a sharp and precise bare-knuckle blow from fate. His bird’s-eye watches me from above, how he might understand? Nothing to argue about, nothing to remember, nothing to forget, is sad and not sad. But some nights, somehow like an outcast brother of Cauldfiel, sweet hero of Salinger, that has had to learn the rules of a unforgiving harsh survival, I write, accordingly, with a complete absence of illusions, transparent, without self-pity, and in stoic brotherhood with all underdogs of the worlds other, the backyards, the seedy bars, the dirty port alleys.
I’m fifty-five. I don’t make love for six years. I do not even think about a relationship with a woman. Whatsoever. Women cry much, men drink too much, both crawling endlessly from one cot to another, albeit nobody ever finds the one. The flesh searches for more than flesh, but nothing else than flesh covering a bone, a bone of tough fate, as you won’t avoid to live and die alone. Love and death. Love associated with death, in a peculiar sense, as a lame freedom that oozes through the skin of the lover, and the dead. Its obscenity. The bodies, in both cases, at last, have nothing to hide —postures, grins, contortions, gestures, expressions, as if the whole body merely were a human-shaped bladder where even silences belong to both worlds. My flesh, covering my bones, with a mind there, sometimes a soul, at night I masturbate, as a fit of mild madness that makes me smile, and allows me to move around a tiny space that is neither above nor below, a ground islandized between a road and a railroad, where the slightest move will be a false move. Because at the end, my glass fills, my bin fills, my toilet bowl fills, my graveyard will be filled, and nothing else fills.
Don’t get me wrong. There’s an exotic red canary in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too sullen, too cunning, that I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad, I’m writing because the joy of blood in the veins, because of you. Then I put him back in his day cage.
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).