We spoke of conquest. We spoke of destruc-tion. We spoke of boredom. And he told mehow he was finding life painful, of his inter-minable languor, and… - Véronique Tadjo

As a bat, somewhere midway between a mammal and a bird, with my foxy-looking fangs and snout and my translucent wings, I harbor but one regret: having let Ebola escape from my belly. It was dormant in me until Man came and wreaked the splendour of the forest.

Here there are no griots, only poets. You think that you are leading an extraordinary life and that people see you as you would like them to. You adorn yourself with your writing. It becomes your identity, your bread and butter, and your reason for living. You begin to believe in what people say. You become locked up in your creation, become submerged in words, and sentences suffocate you in the solitude of your retreat. They make you forget the blood and the dust.

He has lodged himself in my heart and I do not know what to do with him. But I do not want to become a bad memory. I feel a richness pervading me. This love for you and for him. Who knows? It may rot with time… or flourish like a hibiscus in full bloom.