تُرجم شعرنا الملحمي الوطني إلى العديد من اللغات ، وكذلك العربية. أتذكر من المدرسة ، حيث قرأنا أجزاء من كاليفالا، أنني لم أفهم دائمًا كل شيء بسبب لغتها القديمة. نشأت القصص من الفولكلور الشفهي والأساطير التي جمعها إلياس لونروت في الجزء الشرقي في فنلندا. تم نشره لأول مرة في عام 1835
مبروك للمترجم العربي سحبان احمد مروة! تلقيت نسخة من هذا الكتاب في عام 2007 واستغرق الأمر سنوات عديدة قبل أن أكون مستعدًا لدخول عالم
كاليفالا باللغة العربية
هذه مقدمة صغيرة لبعض الشخصيات من الكتاب
رب السماء و الرعد
بطل الرسمي مع قوة سحرية
يعزف آلة موسيقية تقليدية ويستخدمه كسلاح
يذهب إلى بطن العملاق لاستعادة الأغاني لبناء القوارب
البحث عن الزوجة العنصر الرئيسي
بنى زوجة وماكينة النقود “سامبو” من ذهب
رجل وسيم وقح ومتهور
شاب يتحدى بطل الرسمي فاينمينين في مسابقة غنائية ويخسر
يعد أخته بالمقايضة لإنقاذ حياته
عذراء الشمال، أم شامانية. تسبب الكثير من الانزعاج لأهالي كاليفالا
يبيعه إلمرينين كعبد
كولرفو هو شاب مضطرب يقتل زوجة إلمارين وينتحر
عذراءكاليفالا الشابة التي تحمل عندما تأكل اللينغونبيري
فيناموينن يحكم على ابن مارجاتا بالإعدام لأنه ولد خارج إطار الزواج
ابن مارياتا سيتوج ملكا للكاليفالا وفيناموينن يغضب. يترك كاليفالا ويترك أغنيته و آلته موسيقية كإرث
I finished two books recently: The Book of Khartoum – A City in Short Fiction edited by Raph Cormack and Mack Schmookler; and The Jungo, Stakes of the Earth by Abdel Aziz Baraka Sakin. The former is a collection of stories in a series named “A City in Short Fiction” and it is a very poetic ride and a peak in some contemporary Sudanese fiction. I would have appreciated an edition with longer excerpts though and I’m also asking: why, almost as a rule, are the original titles in literature translated from the Arabic so often missing? Anyway, if you know who is Mehdi, you will have a good time with these excerpts.
I am already missing Baraka Sakin’s novel. It’s one of those stories in which you hate to get closer to the finish because you would like the sesame-picking seasonal workers in al-Hillah, close to the Sudanese-Eritrean-Ethiopian border, to keep you company on and on. I had a few good laughs out loud with this book! The strength of this novel is in the way it is told, almost circularly with a hint of repetition on whatever strange topic or incident shakes the lives of these people.
“We headed back to the market, leaving Alam Gishi behind to get ready for her new job. It was noon, and the bank workers were hard at work. The bank would surely be up and running before the next agricultural season. Rumors were circulating that the bank was destined to change the map of wealth and power, and restructure production relations in favor of those in lower income brackets, small-scale farmers and the poor. It was meant to extend interest-free Islamic loans to every producer and farmer. Some analysts interpreted the word “producer” to be an all-inclusive term that embraced literally everyone, without exception. Based on that analysis, it included, without limitation, the big endaya owners, peddlers, ladies selling date arrack, and charcoal sellers. Wad Ammoona thought about opening a small bar by the river bank, similar to the existing one on the eastern bank of the Setit River overlooking Hamdeyit village, which was frequented by clients who would have to swim their way to the other shore, into the Ethiopian territories, carrying no passport, ID, or even a paper with their name on it. Wad Ammoona’s bar would be a blessing for those pleasure seekers and would spare them the risk of drowning in transit.” (p. 85)
I have a t-shirt with a photo of Patrice Lumumba and every time I wear it, my friends in Senegal ask: who is that man? He was an independence leader and the first Prime Minister of the independent Democratic Republic of the Congo and was assassinated on this day, 17 January 1961.
A week ago I found this street sign in Ixelles by accident, at the other end of the street that is better known under the name of Rue de Longue Vie. If you look closer, you can see that this new sign has been glued on the official street name. Ironically, Lumumba did not have the chance to have a long life! If you also check the area on Google Maps, you can find a square that honors his name, as well as a Library called Bibliothèque Lumumba* on Rue de la Tulipe. The library is open on appointment only, which is a shame as it has an interesting collection of books related to the Congo and the region. It is run by an association that has been actively promoting local recognition of Lumumba by insisting on having a Square Patrice Lumumba close to metro Porte de Namur and a Futur Place Lumumba right behind the Church Saint-Boniface in the heart of Ixelles. The library is hosted by a very welcoming man Philip Buyck, an active member of the association, who would love to open the library on a more permanent basis. He is also one of the initiators of Matonge Art Gallery Project that transforms some of the neighborhood’s restaurants and other venues into galleries showing works by famous Congolese painters and photographers.
There is an exhibition called Congolisation coming up at Pianofabriek** on 7 to 10 February. It’s the fourth edition of the Afro-Diaspo-Arts Made In Belgium festival. There you just might stop by a giant molar among the artworks. What’s the story? A few years ago there was a documentary on the Belgian TV explaining that one of the members of the team that executed Lumumba and later exhumed his body claimed to have saved two of his teeth, while the remains of his body were dissolved in sulfuric acid. Inspired by these macabre events, Hugo Claus wrote the original poem on the teeth of Lumumba in French and there is now a wiki*** in which the poem has been translated into several other languages. If you wish, you may take part!
The teeth of Lumumba
Lumumba, the god of the Albinos
sat down on your corps as on a toilet »
I wrote thirty years ago in a poem,
and only now it slowly comes to light
how Lumumba was destroyed.
How the Belgian police inspector Gerard Soete
worked the body with a saw and sulfuric acid.
« Until nothing remains, » he says.
He ripped out two golden teeth and kept them.
« As a souvenir » he says. When he was eighty
He swung them in the North Sea.
Soete, illiterate, butchery mercenary,
think of the Argonauts who sailed in the Mediterranean
looking for the Golden Fleece.
They tore the teeth from the mouth of the Dragon
and sowed them in the sand
and from the teeth grew one hundred warriors
with axes and spears
and they lined up in rows.
And this night they come screaming by your bed.