57. päev

They say winter turns your brain into stone

ehk luuletus samast maailmast.

Sirvisin Rudec’i kontorist võetud järjekordset luuleraamatut - olen neid vihmaste ilmade aina tihedamalt kätte võtnud. Vihm sadas katkematult 9 tundi järjest, mis sulges meid päris pikaks ajaks tubasele režiimile, lausvihmas ja pimedas ikka kaamerat kotis välja võtma ei kipu. Päris ausalt tunnistades, siis on tubane elu ka rohkem mõtteid pähe toonud, palju neid, mida mõeldes naeratus näole ei kipu. Aju vajab õhku!
Vihmaperiood näikse oma tõelist palet alles näitavat, ning see pisut hirmutab. Homseks on planeeritud  filmimine õues, mis meie filmi jaoks väga oluline on.

Veel enne kui luuleraamatu juurde tulen, siis sissejuhatuseks meenutus 44. päevast ning keerulisest küsimusest, mida Ndop’is elav Daniel meie käest küsis. 

Why do people who leave Cameroon never return and why people who visit Cameroon never stay? So why do you want to go back and so soon?

Me kõik vajasime selle küsimuse järel lonksu õlut ning mõttepausi. Yuri ning Ida rääkisid inimestest, kes neid kodus ootavad. John põhjendas sellega, et tal on kool pooleli, ning soovib seda kindla peale lõpetada. Daniel pöördus ka minu poole, kuid nägin ta silmist, et tegelikult ei soovinud selliseid vastuseid/vabandusi kuulda, ning ma ei vastanud midagi. Küsisin vastu, et mis põhjusel tema arvates inimesed Kameruni kunagi tagasi ei tule...”

“Maybe it is true that life is better everywhere else than here...”

“Maybe...”

Leidsin raamatust pealkirjaga Modern Cameroon Poetry (Book III-2007) sellised luureread:

Feat the white mans country


Emmanuael Fru Doh

Fear the white man’s country
Some people go there and come back well
Some people go there and come back sick
Fear the white man’s country

Fear the white man’s country,
Some people go there and come back home
Some people go there and are heard of no more
Fear the white man’s country

But blood, they say,
Is thicker than water
Like wiper
He lay as he grew,
Calm and quiet but
A truant occasionally
Like every other child
But notoriety he
was never to abandon,
Age notwithstanding.
Then his sojourn
In the white man’s land
And when he came back
To us he was a whitewashed wall.

Unlike those before him
Who returned and had notForgotten our tongue
He had forgotten our tongue
He had forgotten those he left behind.
Some said it was the white man’s food
Some said it was too much of the white man’s book
Some said it was too much of the white man’s weather
The very cold winter and then warm summer.
They say winter turns your brain into stone
Only for summer to come and thaw it into mud;
This confuses some we hear
And turns some into black-white men we hear
But the truth we feared:
People must have sent him
Strange stories about home;
His mother, his brothers, his sisters.
Unlike the white man,
After eating all his food
After reading all his book
After sleeping with their women
After summer, fall, winter and spring,
When after all the years he returned
He cared less to find out the truth;
He had condemned us, even
From the white man’s land.
And when at last he came,
Even the white man doe not know
How to speak like a white man;
He spoke spspspspspsp as if
He could not open his mouth

He sat in a kind of white man’s
Parlor like a god, waiting
For us to come from far and wide
to visit this black-white man.

Unlike those who had returned
Before him, he was not happy
To rush and see for himself
Those he had left behind for years.
Some thought he wanted to keep His winter-coats all to himself;
Some thought he wanted to use all
White man’s things he had brought alone
People clapped their hands and said o-oh!

To him, that saying is obsolete
His blood is lighter than water.
He says he knows nobody only
His mother, not even the carrier
Of shit who gave him birth. He denied
Him and thus crushed his heart
But it was the shit money
That lay the foundations of
His white man’s life,
It was the shit money that
Cured his big man’s fainting fits.
He says to hell with country-fashion
He calls it meaningless superstition.
He cared about nothing, about nobody.
He lives alone, all alone,
Like a detainee held incommunicado.
A few people to know
Tolerate him foe a while
And then they are gone.
He claims he need nobody
Thanks to the white man’s country.
Fear the white man’s country
Some people go there and come back well
Some people go there and come back sick
Fear the white man’s country

Fear the white man’s country,
Some people go there and come back home
Some people go there and are heard of no more
Fear the white man’s country


Keeruline küsimus ei saa vist üheski riigis, kust inimesed lahkuvad(vahel naastes kodumaale, vahel mitte) seda õiget vastust.
Mulle meeldib mõelda, et tegelikult pole vahet millises maailma otsas olla, ja me kohtame tihti neid samu keerulisi küsimusi.

Emakeele õpetaja noomis, et kirjandit ei tohiks alustada millegi ilmselge tõdemisega, näiteks: “Maailmas elab palju inimesi ning nad on kõik erinevad” aga kuidas oleks, kui oleks alustanud öeldes, et “maailmas elab palju inimesi ja nad on kõik ühesugused”...


Üks ja kõik.