The African

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EVERY HUMAN being is the product of a father and a mother. One might not accept them, might not love them, might have doubts about them. But they’re there, with their faces, their attitudes, their mannerisms and their idiosyncrasies, their illusions, their hopes, the shape of their hands and of their toes, the color of their eyes and hair, their manner of speaking, their thoughts, probably their age at death, all of that has become part of us.

For a long time I dreamt that my mother was black. I’d made up a life story, a past for myself, so I could flee reality when I returned from Africa to this country, to this city where I didn’t know anyone, where I’d become a stranger. Then when my father came back to live with us in France upon his retirement, I discovered that in fact it was he who was the African. It was hard for me to admit that. I had to go back in time, start all over again, try to understand. I wrote this little book in memory of that experience.