Haiti: empty words, the living and our dead

Thursday, August 18, 2022 ((rezonodwes.com))–

I’m not going to Ciné Senegal tonight. The doors of Martissant are closed, the antechamber of death. My childhood home has been occupied for years by local conquistadors. They have heavy artillery and cartridges as numerous as the grains of sand of my neighbor of yesteryear: the sea.

Am I doomed to drop the anchor of my paper boat and stab through the water?

My patron saint Bernadette (my queen, my mermaid) who stuffed me with love and attention had to seek refuge elsewhere. Some assure me that she took refuge in Carrefour. Others say she went offshore to the “Walking Islands” (Cayo Lobos, Cayman Islands, Turks and Caicos Islands) or anywhere that isn’t Martissant.

May the sea be fertile for him. She must have had waves in her soul.

At Télé Haïti, we are projecting tonight, in black and white, The call of the open sea. It promises, doesn’t it? Me, I would have liked to see something more endearing like The twilight of scoundrels.

I don’t know if it’s worth changing channels. At Canal Plus, there is also on the bill I’ll go spit on your graves, by the writer Boris Vian. Sounds a bit shocking to you? Neither do I ! Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry. Writing down our ills is an agony. I mourned with anger.

This evening I remember Martissant, my “encircled land”, spared the stench of the blue sentinels of the Cité Macoute. It was the land of Magny Manigat, a bearded, multi-millennial patriarch who had escaped the Bible flood. He lived in an ebony house which had nothing to do, either painted or painted, with the Tower of Babel. As if his silence were already eloquent and eloquent, he spoke little. Its mere presence in Martissant was obvious like a tutelary totem in an African village that time forgot.

Brutus, Thomazeau’s kid, stared covetously at Monsieur Magny’s pipe. The water came to his mouth. Looks like he wanted to do some clouds too. Brutus often had an insular bonhomie on his face. As who would say in a previous life he had been rasta. He always gently declined invitations from Arthur, barber, official hairdresser of Cité Manigat.

I am thinking this evening of the cobbler’s wife, a neighbor Virgin, who made a miraculous appearance every morning to say to us: “Hello neighbours. How’s the body? And, invariably, we replied: “Not so badly, neighbour.” »

Voisine Vierge also left for the island of Montreal.

At that time, I was not yet attending the famous college of Belair. I didn’t know the Frankish language well enough to know the difference between the shoemaker’s horn and the bewitching body of the holy nitouches.

Ma Fifine was not afraid of the evil spirits and the bad airs that haunted my genesis. Armed with her rosary and her holy scriptures, she went to mass at midnight and at four o’clock AM. In my fearful child’s eyes, she was brave as an Amazon. Me, I dreamed of growing up, of being a centaur and of hunting vampires and guinea fowl.

Truce of nostalgia. Let’s go back to square one, to the real chat I wanted to have with you on the other side of midnight. Let’s get to the heart of the matter. For only the knife knows what is in the heart of the yam. For good measure, let’s also add the scalpel. As a reminder to our PM surgeon, suspected of having abandoned medicine to become a consultant at the Pèlerin slaughterhouse.

Oh oh. When I think I’m changing scenery, I’m wrong.

-Hello Doc! Hello PM! Badio again on the phone. The surgery was completed successfully. The patient is DCD. I’ll send you the video in ten minutes. Don’t talk about it on Lapsus Calami, no.

A year after this verbal exchange, Felix Badio disappeared from circulation. It is under official protection. Those responsible for finding his address respond in chorus: “Kay kraze, nimewo efase. It’s movie time. It’s time for the actors. Tonight, Badio will replace Louis de Funes in the role of Fantômas.

Poor JoMo, main shareholder at JoMar Bank, died with a financial capital of 45 million at hand. It has become a statistic. A drop of blood in the icy ocean of churning cash. Another victim of the “cannibalism of our political mores” would say Master Roger. A fellow looking for a disease, Doctor Ariel would say.

“In politics, you don’t kill a man; an obstacle is removed. »

Don’t go so fast! This is not a moral thought of Michel Martelly about the death of JoMo. It could easily be mistaken. It is rather an innocuous passage from Alexandre Dumas on page one hundred and nine of the Count of Monte Cristo.

More than thirteen months after Jovenel left for the afterlife, nothing has been done to do him justice. The beyond is a remote island, an overseas island, which does not fall under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Justice, the Ministry of the Interior or the Ministry for Haitians Living Abroad.

To his intimate enemies, he had launched a great challenge: “After God, it is Me! You cannot exile or kill this president! We took him at his word. He is dead.

JoMo had signed a verbal agreement with the blackmailer. In the end, he changed his mind and wanted to cling to power through a flawed and suicidal referendum. He had forgotten that he had sold his soul.

“It’s our property!” »

This is how Sophia Martelly spoke about Jovenel Moïse. Those who have followed JoMo’s political trajectory closely (from his first public appearance next to his “master” until his death) will have understood the terminology, the colonial jargon of the old First Drama. That is what it was all about: voluntary servitude for the ecstatic enjoyment of power.

Jovenel Moïse (aka After God) had promised bananas and electricity. He left the thorns of the exodus, of the rescue who can, of the crucifixion. Dr. Ariel Henry, the newest incarnation of PHTK, has nothing to offer. Not even spinach. Not even a roadmap. As a leader, he does not exist.

At the end of the story, will we have to call Magalie H. (the dangerous ex-DG of the Solid Waste Management Service) to inform the “authorities concerned” that Ariel Henry is already languishing alive in the dustbin of the story ?

Castro Desroches

In the center, the author, as a child, in front of the family home in Martissant, supported by Me Victor Benoît’s father; on the left, Magny Manigat, the uncle of Professor Leslie Manigat. At the time, this district of Martissant was called Cité Manigat.

Haiti: empty words, the living and our dead