Poem
Fiston Mwanza Mujila
Kasala for my Kaku
my great-grandfather, Kaku, as we affectionately called himhad lived for a long time
he was 105 years old; 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
maybe even 2 centuries of age
my Kaku was such an antique
that he had stopped counting the years
he was no longer certain even of the century in which he was born
my Kaku was as old as the sun
my Kaku was as old as the flood
my Kaku, yes, my Kaku was as old as the Zambezi River
my Kaku was as old as the Mississippi
my Kaku was as old as the Danube
my Kaku was as old as the Lubumbashi-Ilebo railroad
my Kaku was as old as New Guinea (x 5)
more than once, my Kaku had wanted to die but death had boycotted him
every morning, we settled him in his rocking chair
on the veranda, facing the sun
we fed him at noon
at dusk, my Kaku was still working his jaws
then we put him to bed
the body, his body, the body of Kaku no longer responded
due to old age, he had lost his ability to move
only his voice and memory remained intact
Kaku talked without stint
Kaku retold his early childhood in Dimbelenge
Kaku expounded upon his turbulent youth
Kaku held forth on his life in the mines of Bakwanga and Katanga; Kaku, with his legendary verve, recounted the family exodus, reeled off the genealogy of Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, summoned up memories of Zaire, dilated on the first war in Shaba, evoked Lumumba, the massacre of the Katakelayi diggers, the secret agents of the Second Republic...
Nestled in his rocking chair
an oceanic beard swallowing up his chin
my Kaku became a prophet
he augured Republics to come, incandescent stars, railroads connecting all points of the nation, cities drunk on light, dumbfounded populations
with the same verve, the same pleasure, the same spittle, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked...
(laughter)
what nostalgia, what melancholy, what solitude, what anguish we, the centipedes, we writhe against this dog’s life
Kaku, up above
between heaven and earth
chuckles at the rest of us
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
© Translation: 2019, Bret Maney
Kasala voor mijn Kaku
mijn overgrootvader, Kaku, zoals zijn koosnaam luiddeis heel oud geworden
hij werd 105, 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
misschien wel 2 eeuwen oud
mijn Kaku was zo stokoud
dat hij zijn leeftijd niet langer bijhield
hij was zelfs vergeten in welke eeuw hij geboren was
mijn Kaku was zo oud als de zon
mijn Kaku was zo oud als de zondvloed
mijn Kaku, ja, mijn Kaku was zo oud als de Zambezi
mijn Kaku was zo oud als de Mississippi
mijn Kaku was zo oud als de Donau
mijn Kaku was zo oud als de spoorweg Lubumbashi-Ilebo
mijn Kaku was zo oud als Nieuw- Guinea (x 5)
meer dan eens wilde mijn Kaku het loodje leggen, maar hij werd geboycot door de dood
elke ochtend plaatsten ze hem in een schommelstoel
op de veranda, in de zon
’s middags brachten ze zijn eten
’s avonds zat mijn Kaku nog steeds te kauwen
daarna zetten ze hem in zijn kamer
het lijf, het lijf, het lijf van Kaku gaf er de brui aan
vanwege zijn hoge leeftijd was hij niet langer mobiel
alleen zijn stem en zijn geheugen waren nog intact
Kaku praatte aan één stuk
Kaku vertelde over zijn prille kindertijd in Dimbelenge
Kaku sprak over zijn bewogen jeugd
Kaku wijdde lang uit over zijn leven in de mijnen van Bakwanga en Katanga; met zijn legendarische welbespraaktheid verhaalde Kaku de exodus van zijn gezin, ontrafelde de stamboom van Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, bracht Zaïre in herinnering, hield halt bij de eerste oorlog van Shaba, had het over Lumumba, het bloedbad van de mijnwerkers van Katakelayi, de stillen van de Tweede Republiek...
als hij in zijn schommelstoel zat
met zijn oceanische baard waarin zijn kin verzonk
werd mijn Kaku een heuse profeet
hij voorspelde nieuwe republieken, fonkelende sterren, spoorwegen over het hele land, steden dronken van licht, overdonderde volkeren
met dezelfde gloed, hetzelfde vuur, hetzelfde speeksel praatte mijn Kaku, praatte mijn Kaku, praatte mijn Kaku maar ...
(lachen)
wat een heimwee, wat een weemoed, wat een eenzaamheid, wat een angst
wij, arme duizendpoten, vechten tegen dit hondenleven
Kaku, daarboven
tussen hemel en aarde
lacht zich om ons te pletter
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
© Vertaling: 2019, Katelijne De Vuyst
Kasala pour mon Kaku
mon arrière-grand-père, Kaku, comme on le désignait affectueusementavait longtemps vécu
il avait 105 ans; 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
peut-être même 2 siècles
mon Kaku était tellement vieillot
à telle enseigne qu’il avait cessé de compter son âge
il ne se rappelait même plus dans quel siècle il était né
mon Kaku avait l’âge du soleil
mon Kaku avait l’âge du déluge
mon Kaku, oui, mon Kaku avait l’âge du fleuve Zambèse
mon Kaku avait l’âge du Mississippi
mon Kaku avait l’âge du Danube
mon Kaku avait l’âge du chemin de fer Lubumbashi-Ilebo
mon Kaku avait l’âge de la Nouvelle Guinée (x 5)
plusieurs fois, mon Kaku souhaita crever mais la mort le boycotta
chaque matin, on le déposait sur une chaise à bascule
dans la véranda, face au soleil
on le ravitaillait en nourriture à midi
au crépuscule, mon Kaku tournait encore ses mâchoires
puis, on l’installait dans sa chambre
le corps, son corps, le corps de Kaku ne fonctionnait plus
à force de vieillesse, il avait perdu de sa mobilité
seules sa voix et sa mémoire demeuraient intactes
Kaku parlait sans frein
Kaku racontait sa petite enfance à Dimbelenge
Kaku pérorait sur sa jeunesse mouvementée
Kaku s’étendait longuement sur sa vie dans les mines de Bakwanga et du Katanga; Kaku de sa verve légendaire retraçait l’exode familial, égrenait la généalogie de Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, rappelait à la mémoire le Zaïre, s’attardait sur la première guerre du Shaba, évoquait Lumumba, le massacre des creuseurs de Katakelayi, les barbouzes de la Deuxième République . . .
blotti dans son rocking chair
une barbe-océan lui dévorant son menton
mon Kaku devenait même prophète
il prédisait des Républiques à venir, des étoiles incandescentes, des chemins de fer reliant tout le pays, des villes enivrées de lumière, des populations ébahies
avec la même verve, le même engouement, la même bave, mon Kaku parlait, mon Kaku parlait, mon Kaku parlait . . .
(rires)
quelle nostalgie, quelle mélancolie, quelle solitude, quelle angoisse
nous, scolopendres, on est en train de lutter contre cette vie de chien
Kaku, là-haut
entre ciel et terre
se marre de nous autres
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
© 2019, Fiston Mwanza Mujila
Poems
Poems of Fiston Mwanza Mujila
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Kasala for my Kaku
my great-grandfather, Kaku, as we affectionately called himhad lived for a long time
he was 105 years old; 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
maybe even 2 centuries of age
my Kaku was such an antique
that he had stopped counting the years
he was no longer certain even of the century in which he was born
my Kaku was as old as the sun
my Kaku was as old as the flood
my Kaku, yes, my Kaku was as old as the Zambezi River
my Kaku was as old as the Mississippi
my Kaku was as old as the Danube
my Kaku was as old as the Lubumbashi-Ilebo railroad
my Kaku was as old as New Guinea (x 5)
more than once, my Kaku had wanted to die but death had boycotted him
every morning, we settled him in his rocking chair
on the veranda, facing the sun
we fed him at noon
at dusk, my Kaku was still working his jaws
then we put him to bed
the body, his body, the body of Kaku no longer responded
due to old age, he had lost his ability to move
only his voice and memory remained intact
Kaku talked without stint
Kaku retold his early childhood in Dimbelenge
Kaku expounded upon his turbulent youth
Kaku held forth on his life in the mines of Bakwanga and Katanga; Kaku, with his legendary verve, recounted the family exodus, reeled off the genealogy of Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, summoned up memories of Zaire, dilated on the first war in Shaba, evoked Lumumba, the massacre of the Katakelayi diggers, the secret agents of the Second Republic...
Nestled in his rocking chair
an oceanic beard swallowing up his chin
my Kaku became a prophet
he augured Republics to come, incandescent stars, railroads connecting all points of the nation, cities drunk on light, dumbfounded populations
with the same verve, the same pleasure, the same spittle, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked...
(laughter)
what nostalgia, what melancholy, what solitude, what anguish we, the centipedes, we writhe against this dog’s life
Kaku, up above
between heaven and earth
chuckles at the rest of us
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
© 2019, Bret Maney
Kasala for my Kaku
my great-grandfather, Kaku, as we affectionately called himhad lived for a long time
he was 105 years old; 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
maybe even 2 centuries of age
my Kaku was such an antique
that he had stopped counting the years
he was no longer certain even of the century in which he was born
my Kaku was as old as the sun
my Kaku was as old as the flood
my Kaku, yes, my Kaku was as old as the Zambezi River
my Kaku was as old as the Mississippi
my Kaku was as old as the Danube
my Kaku was as old as the Lubumbashi-Ilebo railroad
my Kaku was as old as New Guinea (x 5)
more than once, my Kaku had wanted to die but death had boycotted him
every morning, we settled him in his rocking chair
on the veranda, facing the sun
we fed him at noon
at dusk, my Kaku was still working his jaws
then we put him to bed
the body, his body, the body of Kaku no longer responded
due to old age, he had lost his ability to move
only his voice and memory remained intact
Kaku talked without stint
Kaku retold his early childhood in Dimbelenge
Kaku expounded upon his turbulent youth
Kaku held forth on his life in the mines of Bakwanga and Katanga; Kaku, with his legendary verve, recounted the family exodus, reeled off the genealogy of Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, summoned up memories of Zaire, dilated on the first war in Shaba, evoked Lumumba, the massacre of the Katakelayi diggers, the secret agents of the Second Republic...
Nestled in his rocking chair
an oceanic beard swallowing up his chin
my Kaku became a prophet
he augured Republics to come, incandescent stars, railroads connecting all points of the nation, cities drunk on light, dumbfounded populations
with the same verve, the same pleasure, the same spittle, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked...
(laughter)
what nostalgia, what melancholy, what solitude, what anguish we, the centipedes, we writhe against this dog’s life
Kaku, up above
between heaven and earth
chuckles at the rest of us
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
© 2019, Bret Maney
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