j'ai décidé d’être heureux
de danser la rumba jusqu'à l'usure
de reprendre tous mes noms, bricoles d'antan
de demeurer l'enfant de la mine
et du chemin de fer
la mémoire familiale épousant la locomotive
l'exil dans l’œuf, l’éternelle solitude
j'ai décidé d’être insolent et désagréable
de cracher dans la soupe de ceux qui arrachent les dents à la vie
de pisser sur leur prétendue bonne foi
de glousser en guise d'insolence
et de me repentir, par la suite, auprès de l'Esprit-Ainé
combien de temps résisteront-ils?
déjà, ils ont fait de ce pays un mouroir
j'ai décidé de formuler des rêves
aussi vastes, aussi colorés, aussi grandiloquents
que l'espérance
des rêves somptueux
aussi baveux que la pluie tropicale
la seule éructant la malédiction
renversant tout sur son passage
furieuse et éternelle et digne de déluge
quoiqu'on ne fera plus pénétrer dans l'Arche
le couple de tous les animaux purs
le mâle et la femelle
j'ai décidé de demeurer l'enfant du Zaïre
de fabriquer des voitures à l'aide des boites de conserve
ou des cerfs-volants à partir des sachets
d'y accrocher un long fil
et de courir dans le soleil, de courir et de courir
jusqu'à ce que l'engin gagne le ciel . . .
lorsque le fil de raphia se rompait
le cerf-volant zigzagant se perdait dans le firmament
il ne nous restait qu'un sentiment de regret
j'ai décidé encore de rêver
non pas de marcher sur la lune
ou d'inventer une énième arme chimique
mais d'ouvrir une espèce de bar merveilleux
d'y bazarder non pas l'ivresse ou une quelconque beuverie
mais l’espérance
j'ai décidé d’être l'homme-orchestre de mon destin
moi-même à la batterie: KENNY CLARKE
moi-même à la trompette: MASEKELA
moi-même au piano: TAPSCOTT
moi-même à la contrebasse: MINGUS
moi-même au saxophone: SANDERS
voix de MAKEBA en sursis
de me trémousser de l'aube à l'aube
et de fredonner pour ma mère (MA'NANGA) et les étoiles
l'Indépendance cha-cha
Norwich, 11.02.2017
Kasala pour moi-même
Fiston Mwanza Mujila
“Kasala for Myself” is a subdued poem—at least by the standard Mujila has set for linguistic turbulence in his other work—of existential affirmation. The speaker’s choice of happiness is made in a context of exilic longing, cultural in-betweenness, and postcolonial memory. Proceeding by a bricolage of lightly sketched souvenirs and oracular commentary, the poem ends with the speaker’s powerful intention to become a kind of eudaimonic bartender, serving up draughts of hope to an imperiled world.
As indicated by the title, the poem draws upon the generic resources of the kasala, a form of praise poetry practiced by the Luba people of the Democratic Republic of Congo. In Le chant kasala des Luba, Patrice Mufuta describes the kasala as “a free-verse poem made up of praise-names. It is sung or recited in an elevated tone, in public settings . . . It is intended to elicit yearning, and is sometimes performed with musical accompaniment.” Originally an oral form composed in Ciluba, the kasala was adapted for written French in the 1960s by the important Congolese poet Clémentine Faïk-Nzuji.
For Mujila, the orality of the kasala survives in the improvisatory freedom of the performer. “If I recite my poem,” he told me, “it will end up being longer because I’m going to improvise or choose variations from the main text.” This extensibility—some critics have charted instances of the kasala extending past eight hundred lines—prompts Mujila to note similarities with the blues or jazz, an artistic kinship he makes explicit in the jazz-suffused soundscape of the final stanza of “Kasala for Myself.”
As indicated by the title, the poem draws upon the generic resources of the kasala, a form of praise poetry practiced by the Luba people of the Democratic Republic of Congo. In Le chant kasala des Luba, Patrice Mufuta describes the kasala as “a free-verse poem made up of praise-names. It is sung or recited in an elevated tone, in public settings . . . It is intended to elicit yearning, and is sometimes performed with musical accompaniment.” Originally an oral form composed in Ciluba, the kasala was adapted for written French in the 1960s by the important Congolese poet Clémentine Faïk-Nzuji.
For Mujila, the orality of the kasala survives in the improvisatory freedom of the performer. “If I recite my poem,” he told me, “it will end up being longer because I’m going to improvise or choose variations from the main text.” This extensibility—some critics have charted instances of the kasala extending past eight hundred lines—prompts Mujila to note similarities with the blues or jazz, an artistic kinship he makes explicit in the jazz-suffused soundscape of the final stanza of “Kasala for Myself.”
Fiston Mwanza Mujila was born in 1981 in Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of Congo, and now lives in Graz, Austria. His selected bibliography includes the Man Booker International Prize-longlisted novel Tram 83 (2014), the poetry collections Craquelures (2011), Le Fleuve dans le ventre (2013), and Soleil privé de mazout (2016), and two plays published as Et les moustiques sont des fruits à pépins; Te voir dressé sur tes deux pattes ne fait que mettre de l'huile sur le feu (2015). His writing foregrounds its debt to jazz, responds to political turbulence in his native country and its effects on everyday life, and displays an often incandescent, improvisatory verbal energy, replete with bouts of irreverent humor and surprising tonal shifts. He is the recipient of many literary prizes, including, most recently, the Peter-Rosegger-Literaturpreis (Austria, 2018).
J. Bret Maney is an assistant professor of English at The City University of New York where he teaches US literature, translation, and the digital humanities. A past recipient of a PEN/Heim Translation Fund grant, he translates from the French and Spanish. His translations have previously appeared in journals such as Asymptote, Exchanges, Gulf Coast, Small Axe, The Brooklyn Rail, and CENTRO Journal. His first book-length translation, of Guillermo Cotto-Thorner’s foundational Latinx novel Manhattan Tropics (1951), is forthcoming from Arte Público Press.
