Yamoussoukro, 2012
by David Backer
The soldiers in blue helmets hold the screaming man by the arms and push him to the floor and handcuff him. He is underneath them. His head is like the head of a worm.
Writhing. Eyes closed.
Dyula watches with white wide eyes with the rest of the people in the voting line. She holds her baby Felix closer to her chest, sensing danger. The man continues screaming.
"Lies! They will not let us be free! They will choose for us! This is the world's dictatorship of democracy!"
This is Dyula's first time voting. This is the first time any of the young women in this line have voted. This is the first time anyone in Côte d'Ivoire has voted in ten years.
Felix wriggles in her arms. He paws with his fat hands at Dyula's breast, his round-brown cheeks rouged with health and dimpled from a fleeting smile.
"These soldiers! They're not our own! They are not ours! They will not let us be free!"
The soldiers in blue helmets remove the man, dragging him. Dyula stares, agreeing. Take him out, she thinks. He is wrong. Now we will be free.
Dyula hears whispers from other young women in line. She cannot hear what they are saying, but the collective tone of their voices has a certain electricity. She feels this feeling in the air, breathing it in a slow breath. She exhales and whispers those electric whispers to Felix.
In line, they move forward.
Writhing. Eyes closed.
Dyula watches with white wide eyes with the rest of the people in the voting line. She holds her baby Felix closer to her chest, sensing danger. The man continues screaming.
"Lies! They will not let us be free! They will choose for us! This is the world's dictatorship of democracy!"
This is Dyula's first time voting. This is the first time any of the young women in this line have voted. This is the first time anyone in Côte d'Ivoire has voted in ten years.
Felix wriggles in her arms. He paws with his fat hands at Dyula's breast, his round-brown cheeks rouged with health and dimpled from a fleeting smile.
"These soldiers! They're not our own! They are not ours! They will not let us be free!"
The soldiers in blue helmets remove the man, dragging him. Dyula stares, agreeing. Take him out, she thinks. He is wrong. Now we will be free.
Dyula hears whispers from other young women in line. She cannot hear what they are saying, but the collective tone of their voices has a certain electricity. She feels this feeling in the air, breathing it in a slow breath. She exhales and whispers those electric whispers to Felix.
In line, they move forward.
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Author's Note
This is another attempt at pragmatic fiction.
The UN Security Council's most recently published resolution regards the protection of voters and free elections in Côte d'Ivoire. You can read the resolution here, along with other published documents by the SC.
http://www.un.org/Docs/sc/unsc_resolutions10.htm
"Dyula" is the most common language spoken in Côte d'Ivoire. Félix Houphouët-Boigny brought independence to the country in 1944. Yamoussoukro, the political capital, was founded by Houphouët-Boigny. It was his home town. It continues to serve as the administrative center, despite its being only the fourth largest city in the country.
Other stories by David Backer
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The title of this made me jump. I lived in Cote d'Ivoire for 3 years as a teenager from 1966-69. I'm guessing you're going to expand this. It certainly had me wanting more. My story, When I Became a White Girl, is based on my Ivoirian experiences.