‘Mémoires de porc-épic’ (‘Memoirs of a Porcupine’) by Alain Mabanckou (Review)

If it’s true that you should never work with children and animals, then I need to be careful with today’s post.  You see, as well as finishing up with a couple of mischievous kids, my latest read is actually told by an animal, a rather spiky fellow in more ways than one.  We’re off to central Africa to sit by a tree and listen to a rather tall story, told by someone grateful to have lived to tell the tale, so settle down and listen to our friend’s memories – memoirs, even…

*****
Some of you may remember Verre Cassé (Broken Glass), the raconteur who told us all about life in the small bar Le Crédit a voyagé (Credit Gone West).  Well, it appears that Alain Mabanckou’s creation had more than one story up his sleeve, and a second novel has found it way to a French publisher, who was kind enough to bring it into the world.

Mémoires d’un porc-épic (Memoirs of a Porcupine)* begins with the titular narrator mourning the death of his master, Kibandi, at the tender age of forty-two.  The porcupine served Kibandi for most of his life, and if that sounds like a rather long lifespan for an animal, you’d be right.  The thing is that our friend is no ordinary porcupine, but a double nuisible (a harmful double), connected to his human master through a touch of black magic.

Having been linked by a ceremony at a tender age, the two share a bond which allows them special abilities.  Thanks to his human environment, our porcupine is astonished to learn he can read and, later on, even talk.  But what does Kibandi get out of this?  Well, as it turns out, his spiky double serves a rather sinister purpose, namely to get rid of anyone who crosses his path…

Mémoires de porc-épic is a fun story looking at greed, power and human nature through some very un-human eyes.  It all unfolds against a backdrop of African mythology and superstition, such as the idea of ‘doubles’, which provides an explanation for sudden deaths in the village.  There are also a number of witch-doctors, scary old women, sinister children and animals doing what they shouldn’t, making for a rather intriguing life for our porcupine friend.

As you’d expect, there’s a rich vein of dark humour running through the book, with numerous sly touches.  One section focuses on a European-educated local, and his obsession with books:

…mais pour simplifier les choses et ne pas te polluer l’esprit, je dirai que les romains sont des livres que les hommes écrivent dans le but de raconter des choses qui ne sont pas vraies…
pp.154/5 (Éditions du Seuil, 2006)

…but to simplify things and avoid polluting your mind, I would say that novels are books that men write with the aim of relating things that are not true… ***
(my translation)

If that’s the case, then what are we to make of the visiting (white ethnologists) and their research into coffins seeking revenge?  Or the rather crass way in which Kibandi escapes discovery by placing palm nuts somewhere rather personal?

Much of the charm of the novel comes from the porcupine himself.  He’s a talkative soul with pangs of conscience for what’s he done (‘eating’ his master’s enemies), and in his persuasive manner, he does his best to excuse himself:

…je ne voudrais pas que tu me juges sans tenir compte du fait que je n’étais qu’un subalterne, une ombre dans la vie de Kibandi, je n’ai jamais appris à désobéir… (p.188)

…I wouldn’t like you to judge me without knowing that I was merely an underling, a shadow in Kibandi’s life, I never learned to disobey… ***

Much as he’d like some forgiveness (although I’m not sure the tree he’s telling the story to will be much use on that front), there’s many a death weighing on his conscience, and it’ll take more than a few contrite confessions to wipe the slate clean.

The narrator is certainly an interesting character, almost philosophical at times, and a born storyteller, if prone to tangents:

…mais peut-être me suis-je un peu éloigné de mes propres confessions en parlant de toi, hein, c’est encore ma part humaine qui s’est exprimée, en effet j’ai appris des hommes le sens de la digression, ils ne vont jamais droit au but, ouvrent des parathèses qu’ils oublient de refermer… (p.151)

…but maybe I’ve wandered a little from my own confessions in speaking of you, eh, it’s the part of me that’s human speaking, you see, I’ve picked up from men the habit of digressions, they never go straight to the point, they open brackets that they forget to close… ***

One of his little quirks is his frequent use of the expression nom d’un porc-épic, an exclamation playing on the common French expression nom d’un chien (‘damn’, ‘for goodness’ sake’), with the last word changed for obvious reasons.

The style Mabanckou uses also adds to the enjoyment, and there’s something of a fairy-tale air to the book.  It’s divided into several chapters with titles such as comment j’ai quitté le monde animal (‘how i left the animal world’), and each of these is broken up into several sections, making it an easy book to pick up and put down at your leisure.  The first-person narrative is also devoid of capital letters and full stops, reflecting the oral nature of the story and pulling the reader on through each section.

While it’s certainly a fun tale, the letter closing the book lays claim to its being an allegory – but of what?  It’s probably best described as a tale exploring power, and the way it corrupts those who come to possess it.  As we learn, both Kibandi and his father meet their fate because of their inability to control their appetite, lashing out via the porcupine for ever more trivial reasons.  Mabanckou expands upon this through a nice addition to the group.  Kibandi and the porcupine are just two sides of a triangle, and the third side is even darker and more disturbing than our murderous duo.

It can be a bit silly in places, but Mémoires de porc-épic is an enjoyable crime romp where we know from the very start that he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword, although that doesn’t seem to be the case for those who use spikes instead.  Our prickly friend, relating his tale to the friendly baobab tree, has survived to live another day – let’s hope that his next adventures are slightly less homicidal…

* Memoirs of a Porcupine is available in Helen Stevenson’s translation from Soft Skull Press (US) and Serpent’s Tail (UK).