Tchicaya U Tam’si (1931-1988), the terrible child of African literature is a great voice in the continent’s poetry. Born in Congo Brazzaville, he was a journalist and was marked by the struggles and assassination of Patrice Lumumba in 1960.
His real name, Gérald Félix Tchicaya, his pseudonym means in the Bantu language, “The leaf that speaks for its country”. “I consider myself to be from the forgotten generation”, he said to me one day, thinking of LS Senghor and A. Césaire. And for good reason, Tchicaya U Tam’si questioned the attachment to negritude.
Critic, rebellious and angry man, first against his own, Tchicaya recalled that his name meant lament, in Arabic. He loved to stay in Asilah, Morocco, where a literary award is named after him. I got to know him during a trip to Haiti in 1986. The sealed friendship prompted us to engage in a demanding “Maghreb-Black Africa” dialogue. Poet, novelist, playwright, he was an international civil servant at Unesco. He died in Normandy, in 1988.
His complete works (vol. I), published under the title, “ I was naked for my mother’s first kiss ”, are republished by Gallimard (2013), thanks to the care of his compatriot, the critic and academic, Boniface Mongo-Mboussa. Among his works (poetry), ” The Bad Blood ” (1955); ”Bushfire” (1957); ‘‘Epitomé’’ (1962); ”The belly” (1964) (roman); ” Moths ” (1984); “ These so sweet fruits of the breadfruit ” (1987).
Tahar Bekri
I gave my head against a false nothingness
To rediscover the broad epic of the giants …
I am the hardened steel, the fire of new races
In my big red blood, the troubling foam of the rivers
Rivers where poisons grow starkly
World rudeness Cursing mouth star
See I bring more than a human dream in my hands
I need the space and I’m ashamed of the hunger
My flesh cried harshly against my temples
Glittery passions floating suns without a pole
My scorched fate is bursting in the sun
You must not sleep, I ring the alarm clocks
At the corner of a sky, o scavenger, time mischief
You will not have my carcass I come out victorious
My apple is of steel, my laughter is of iron
My hands have detailed everything I made the day clear
I dislocated the winds since they have to hear me
To find hurtful desires that we don’t sell
I am the hardened steel, the fire of new races
In my big red blood, the troubling foam of the rivers
Extract from the collection ” Le Mauvais sang ”.
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