The Shadow of the Sun Read Online Free Page B

once with a very smooth, even gait—they enter a forest path leading to a world I do not know and perhaps will never understand.
    My neighbor on the bus. A young man. An accountant from a firm in Kumasi whose name I don’t catch.
    “Ghana is independent!” he says ecstatically. “Tomorrow, Africa will be independent!” he assures me. “We are free!”
    And he shakes my hand in a way meant to signify that now a black man can offer a white man his hand without self-consciousness.
    “Did you see Nkrumah?” he asks, interested. “Yes? Then you are a lucky man! Do you know what we’ll do with the enemies of Africa?”
    He laughs, ha-ha, but doesn’t say exactly what will be done.
    “Now the most important thing is education. Education, schooling, the acquiring of knowledge. We are so backward, so backward! I think that the whole world will come to our aid. We must be the equals of the developed countries. Not only free—but also equal. But for now, we are breathing freedom. And this is paradise. This is wonderful!”
    This enthusiasm of his is universal here. Enthusiasm, and pride that Ghana stands at the head of the independence movement, sets an example, leads all of Africa.
    My other neighbor, sitting to my left (the bus has three seats in a row), is different: withdrawn, taciturn, unengaged. He immediately draws attention to himself, for people here are generally open, eager to converse, quick to tell stories and deliver various opinions. Thus far he has told me only that he is working and that he is having some troubles at work. What sorts of troubles, he’s not saying.
    Finally, however, as the great forest starts to shrink and grow thinner, signaling that we are slowly approaching Kumasi, he decides to confess something to me. So—he has problems. He is sick. He is not sick always, not continously, but intermittently, periodically. He has already been to see various native specialists, but none of them has been able to help him. The thing is that he has animals in his head, under his skull. It’s not that he sees these animals, that he thinks about them or is afraid of them. No. It’s nothing like that. The animals are literally in his head; they live there, run around, graze, hunt, or just sleep. If they happen to be gentle animals, like antelopes, zebras, or giraffes, he tolerates them well; it is even quite pleasant then. But sometimes a hungry lion arrives. He is hungry, he is furious—so he roars. And then this roar makes his head explode.

The Structure of the Clan
    I arrived in Kumasi with no particular goal. Having one is generally deemed a good thing, the benefit of something to strive toward.This can also blind you, however: you see only your goal, and nothing else, while this something else—wider, deeper—may be considerably more interesting and important.
    Kumasi lies amid greenery and flowers, on gentle hillsides. It is like a giant botanical garden in which people were allowed to settle. Everything here seems kindly disposed to man—the climate, the vegetation, other people. The dawns are dazzlingly beautiful, although they last but a few minutes. It is night, and out of this night the sun suddenly emerges. Emerges? This verb suggests a certain slowness, a leisurely process. In reality, the sun comes out as if it were a ball catapulted into the air. We suddenly see a fiery sphere, so near to us that we can’t help experiencing a frisson of fear. Moreover, this sphere is gliding toward us, closer and closer.
    The sight of the sun acts like a starter’s pistol: the town instantly springs into motion. It’s as if all night long everyone was crouching on his starter blocks and now, at the signal, at that shot of sunlight, they all take off full speed ahead. No intermediate stages, no preparations. All at once, the streets are full of people, the shops are open, the fires and kitchens are smoking.
    Yet the bustle of Kumasi differs from Accra’s. It is local, regional, as if self-enclosed.