“Nostalgia initiates with food,” said Che Guevara; perhaps recalling a juicy Argentinean asado while sharing an insipid yuca with mojo with his comrades in Sierra Madre. Maybe because this nostalgia -the lacón with turnip tops and the octopus á feira in my case- I had decided to spend a few days in my hometown, which by its landscape and peasantry may well be called Galicia. It also had certain influence the realization that I wasn’t in such a good mood long ago, so it come forward the need to move. The problem is that I live by the Mediterranean, and here the sky turns daily to red. Keeping the bones warm, I have to concede. In my native land, on the contrary, the sky is wearing a perennial gray dress. You know, sun rarely rises -glorious melancholy- in mythical countries.
I’d need boots. But going for them I retraced that had thrown them out, in a reverse attack of the same melancholy, the previous year. It may sound exaggerated, but it’s as it’s: you’re never too old to lose hope; so my personal Odyssey was set to start with a visit to the mall two blocks away from my house. It was strange to get out after so long, but everything was familiar, of course. And it was hot, as hot as to pose to me turning around and get back to my lair. However the octopus á feira seemed to fix its suckers on my brain, which didn’t produce me an erection, only salivate, but enough to continue straight to the consumption’s temple. Along the way I expected to see something green, if only a tree, but no luck.
My epos at the mall had all the nuances of an old house’s reforming: I bought a pair of boots. And then I judged necessary to show them first time with new socks, and then with a new shirt, and then with new jeans, and so on until the new briefs. Fucking capitalism! I was only a few feet away from base and I had already spent a fortune. I left there a little pissed, laden with bags, and headed off for home. As consolation I tried to animate the walk back with the reverie of the May’s greens till the sea and the bountiful rains and perpetual winds sweeping the fields of my homeland. In my supernatural world anything is possible … A motorcycle’s horn, coming from nowhere, along with a reasonable “nutter”, abruptly pulled me out of my fantasy. I blamed the octopus á feira for planting the seed of that lunacy. So while some beyond enjoy the rain, others, hither, have no time to dream it rains. I hadn’t seen anything green, but, wow! how many events for a single day! I put, as they were, the bags in the closet, locked it, and cooked a fried egg. The octopus released my brains and seemed to swim away -as octopuses often do. “Every time I get out, I feel more alone than before.” It wasn’t just a nice reflection, but I let it be like that.
I do not know why I’m telling you all this. But among Galician -we all know-, on one hand you know, and on the other, what you want for me to tell you?
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).