Since the beginning of the Corona pandemic crisis, we have barely talked about African migrants who still die, trying to cross the Mediterranean aboard inflatable boats. All far on the horizon, pink birds fly free over the waters. With her tired voice, Miss UNHCR says: “Just for the year 2021, about 315 people died in Mediterranean Sea.” She walks through warm sand, a bright sun. she keeps her gaze down. The reality is too bright to watch with bare eyes. She always needs a few minutes, gazes down, shouts and cries in echo, a few minutes to understand what is really happening. Discouragement. On her face. No way to cry. At some point, you get used to the bitter taste of your job. She feels powerless. “We are just in March! 315!” It sounds like a shout. Like young men taking the streets in anti-government protests. Stones. Hoods. Broken glass bottles. Burned wheels. They shout. “Go!” “Enough!” “We be tired!” “Over TIRED” Look at her gaze. UNHCR’ gaze. She’s not even afraid. She must be sorry. A little cat to pet. That’s what she precisely wants. Now. A meowing cat. A little cat’s tongue lapping on her left cheek. That’s what she really desires at that moment. The sun. the waves. The night. A vessel. What’s her vessel’s name? Wait. Wait. Vikings. Something like that. Uhum. Vikings Vessel, like in the 5th century. You know, Vikings. Ragnar Lothbroth, Lagertha. Floooki! They now rescue migrants in the Mediterranean, in the 21st century.
My people? Oooh! My people? Ooooh! Tell me: Why you people keep on killing our sons, our own blood? Why? Roooh! You people talk-say Oh dem di nyanga boys! Oh dem di girly boys! Oh dem di fille-garçon! Oh dem di cursed by our traditions! Oh dem di go to hell! Oh dem di have anus troué! Oh dem di ceci! Oh dem di cela! C’est quoi? Quoi? What’s wrong? Una no be shame? Feel the salty taste of una pikin blood! Your baby. Go along through the Red Sea. Your Moses. Take back your son.
Listen: once upon a time, in a rainy and cold night, Mama Mango calved lots and lots of puppies. Puppy Mangos. They are so cuuute! All of them! In a way or another. A cloud of colourful puppy Mangos. Blue. Black. Beur. Sueur. Yellow. Green. Pink. Even rainbow. It’s fine. Really it is. All puppy Mangos can’t have the same fur!
In somma, an old story. Young and strong people flee from countries with illegal regimes. In Europe, they are already illegals. European countries are crying their deaths. Here in Switzerland where I live, in Geneva, the psychiatrics say they are overloaded. Pumpkin heads. Lock down. Loneliness is when you get bored of your own smell. In my bed, my pillows, I’ve been swimming in my own smell. The fragrance is fragile. Over there, the Covid Cantonal front-line personnel are exhausted. “But who’s not exhausted?” says Miss UHNRC, exhausted herself. Everybody is exhausted. No more applause. Here in Geneva, at the first wave, we were used to come at our balcony to applaud, cheer and shout. We were sharing, as one man, the joy of hope. It was like a chorus. Chirping, twittering. Twitter. Bravo!
Every night. 9pm. Bravo! Bravo!When does the sound start decreasing? From where?
Who is the first to stop the applause?
Now, it’s quiet. Silence. Muffled snores of the electronics in my kitchen.
Silence.
I miss that special feeling of clapping my hands in theatre, at a concert, in a music or literature festivals.
Not sure that European leaders are willing to bribe Libya again to tackle the flows of migrants from the South. Where is Muhamar Khadafi? And Berlusca? Sarkozy and the others? Fo who side dem di dey? Where are they? Question!
Not sure neither they will want to support the Ocean Vikings’ vessel and the other vessels working harsh and hard likewise graceful birds flying over Mediterranean. They save young lives.
Look, this young woman is stretching out her son to rescuers. A soft nest. Taken like a pearl. A pearl of life. They took him. Oh chicky! Chicky is saved! Oh my Chiii! Look at how my Chicky is beautiful, wearing his little yellow life jacket.
The economic crisis is already hitting. Everywhere. Giant waves like roars are hitting. Upheaval. Agitation. Vulnerability. Vulnerability is when the mountains fall down. The ashes are like quicksand. People are sinking. My people are being sunk for years. On purpose.
Besides, how many African migrants in Europe have lost their jobs? How many African families are touched directly or indirectly from that increasing financial insecurity? The World Bank estimates the direct investment coming from the Nigerian diaspora in 2019 at almost 30 billion USD. Which means about 7% of the Nigerian GDP in the same year.European countries are squabbling like kids over anti-Covid vaccines doses. This is mine! Oh no it mine! Oh stealer! Oh give it to me! Me! Me Oh no! Cron! Cron! Cron!
In the meantime, African leaders wait asides, drinking palm wine. Tranquilles! The Covax, Spoutnik, Sinopharm or Sinovac will come to them. Streets are egg cells. I’m drinking with them. Miss UHNRC asked me say: “In the end, who’s going to pay?” I answered: “Are you asking me?”
Last month, thousands of young Senegalese went on strike in anti-government protests. Fruits are getting rotten. The farmers can’t sell their food: everything’s closed in Europe. And why can’t they sell their food in the inner market? Because their food is crude oil.Who knows, perhaps food will come to be missed soon.
On the screen of my phone, I watch Pa Gbagbo dancing. I try some dance steps with him. I smile. Pa Gbagbo and uncle Blé Goudé from Ivory Coast have been released by the International Criminal Court. Uhum! After seven years in La Haye. Uhum. So, I was happy for him. I was happy for them. After that video, another video. Automatically. The technology of Oyinbo people! The video was showing a man. A papa. The woman talk-say he won di elections with 60% of votes. I put back my glasses well-fine on my negro nose. “Is that not Pa Sassou Nguesso here?” Vraiment! He won the elections with six-thy per cent! He’s being President of Republic of Congo for ages. Pa Biya of Cameroon has turned 88 last February. He must have already received his second dose of AstraZeneca.
On this interactive map from mapthenews, a website database on Covid mortality pro country, we can easily notice Africa is barely concerned. At least once. South Africa most be considered an exception. There must always be an exception to prove the rule.
743 deaths in DR Congo for about 84 M inhabitants.
In Switzerland, about 11 K victims.
The population of 65 and above:
In Mali, 2%
In Italy, 22%
A few days ago, I travelled to Benin. Over there, the sky has no colour, the beauty is the beach, fresh wind whirls, the sun will never stop shining. Sweltering heat. The Zémidjan are yellow birds. They fly on their motor bike picking one client there and there. They look like bees. With a matriculation on the back. A stamp. Over there, I could feel it again, the real perfume of distilled palm wine, the Sodabi. My friends in Geneva love it!
Bent palm tries. Men having a nap under the shadow. This one has a traditional conic hat on his face. These men there are playing Songô, an African board game. Five balls. The balls click on the blister hooded game. The sun feigns disappearing. Nothing higher. As waves roar. The cries of those who had left and yet, still never came back. In Haiti rest dem souls.
Over there, people don’t know about Corona. I mean yep, yep, yep, they must have heard about Corona. Yep. But they don’t know the Corona I’m talking about. Mostly in the inner country. They closed the beach, touristic area. You close the Belters, the Inners are protected. They don’t know about your Corona. They struggle with what they have and solidarity – in Ouidah, I met a woman who sewed free masks for her people. She uses some colourful pieces of pagne.
It’s swarmed with young people. Young Black men who have to flee from their own homes. “No dream can blossom here,” they think.
But I live in Geneva.
A friend of mine lived at Izzawia’s refugee camp, at the far north of Libya, exactly where all the migrants await the possibility to cross finally the waters. “The Asylum center – the UHNCR, he meant – is locked”, he told me one day on phone. He just wanted to cross waters, to overcome that last wave after he had already dealt with human trafficking. He told me about slavery, forced prostitution and rapes. Many colourful puppy Mangos.
I last had my friend on the phone about four years ago. I had sent him money to pay his tickets to embark aboard an inflatable boat. Openly gay, he wanted to be set free. All of them, all kind of colours, persecution, torture, insults, the blade is sharp. Abuse. They just wanted to be set free.
Cut the chains. Leave Izzawia!
I could feel it at my phone vibrations. The warmth of the muezzin call.
Lampedusa.
I still have no news from him.
The only raw material Africa really holds today is its youth. A wonderful brave and multi-coloured workforce. Rather healthy men. Multilingual young men; African languages matter. They speak Yoruba, Fongbé, Fufuldé, Wolof, Bassa, Lingala and many other languages.
With the Covid waves still die my people. Brave gurls. Brave! Strong and talented young people, sinking in the waters, sold by their own countries. On purpose.
African leaders are sacrificing, they are trafficking their own young men to keep their throne, to spare their own selves and wealth, to have a prime access to the vaccine doses against Corona.
Actually, mister President needs it: he is a way too old.
Max Lobe
Geneva
2021