MISFORTUNE
by SCHOLASTIQUE MUKASONGA, TRANS. BY MARK POLIZZOTTI
In Rwanda, as in the rest of the world, Misfortune ceaselessly weaves the fabric of human life: death strikes small children, plague decimates the herds, drought leads to famine, war ravages the hillsides. Naturally, we want to know where Misfortune comes from, and especially who has visited it upon us. The suspects are many. There are of course the poisoners (or sorcerers, as the Europeans call them), who cast spells, make mischief, infect everything you eat, or drink, or touch, so that young women become sterile and men impotent, and illness strikes even the most vigorous and makes them long for the death that will soon be theirs. But there are far worse things than the sorcerer: him we know, or think we know; sometimes we even consult him in secret—anyway, he’s only plying his trade. But how can you recognize the malevolent neighbor from among all those who live with you on the same hillside, the ones with whom you share a beer or to whom you entrust your children? He is there, next to you, ready to pursue you with his unslakable hatred, aching to exact vengeance for a wrong that you can’t even remember—because the misdeed he accuses you of might have been committed by your father, or your grandfather, or your ancestors, or your entire lineage. Meanwhile, you stand by helplessly as monkeys lay waste to your granaries, tornadoes blow away the roof that was your pride and joy, a racking cough consumes your son…
So one can always blame the Spirits, especially of the perpetually unsatisfied dead, and even blame the Master of Spirits himself, assuming the Spirits have a master as the missionaries teach us, a master they call God and for whom they’ve come up with a Rwandan name, Mungu. They assure us that he is good, that he has never known Misfortune, that there is nothing to hold against him. But we Rwandans have always been suspicious. We know very well that our gods, the ancient Imana from before the time of the priests, the Imana who once resided in the trees and the sheep, often forget to be good; that sometimes they are scarcely different from Misfortune, and even (but no one dares say this aloud because of their vindictiveness) that they might be part of Misfortune. So when it came to those Imana—and why should the Mungu of the whites be any different?—we didn’t really want them to be concerned with us, we even hoped they’d forget about us for a while. This is why families that had already lost too many children gave their newest born, in hopes that it might help them survive, names that designated them as creatures of no importance, insignificant, despicable, repugnant little runts; that signaled to the Imana that they weren’t worth noticing: names like Kabwa (Little Dog), Ntakimazi (Good-for-Nothing), Manuko (It Stinks), Mavyimavyi (Caca-Caca), Ntazina (I-Have-No-Name)…
On our hillside, Misfortune had found its prey. The chosen one was called Anonciata. Some felt a cowardly relief at this: at least, while Misfortune was harping on poor Anonciata, it wasn’t thinking about them; but they soon shooed away that evil thought, for fear of blurting it out during a conversation with the neighbors. Anonciata, by then, had had four children. They all died. The death of children was hardly surprising. Many died at birth, many others by the time they stopped nursing at their mother’s breast. They were mourned, as was right and proper, but to some extent their deaths were part of the customary tribute to be paid to Misfortune. People even said that every family owed at least one child to the Imana; it was like those taxes the whites demanded.
But we also knew that enough children would survive and grow to be handsome and vigorous: those would be our children. What startled us about the deaths of Anonciata’s children, what filled us with terror, was that they died neither at birth nor at weaning, but rather several years later, at the age of six or seven, just when we thought they were in good health and were assuring Anonciata that, this time, Misfortune had spared her, that it had finally grown weary of her, that it had gone off to plague someone else. From then on, we encouraged her, she would have beautiful children, boys, at least seven, and she could then wear the diadem of corn leaves, the urugori, that crowns fertile mothers who are respected and honored by everyone. Mathilda, her neighbor, cited her own mother, who had given birth to thirteen children, seven of whom had lived.
With the death of Anonciata’s fifth child, everyone felt that Misfortune had settled onto our hillside for good, that it posed a threat to every one of us. If there was nothing we could do for Anonciata, perhaps there was a way to keep it from spreading? To that end, we forbade all contact with her, did not speak to her, did not share anything with her—neither beer nor fire nor salt—and since she had no more children and we couldn’t lend her any, she’d have to go fetch her water herself, which is an indignity.
Nor did she have a husband anymore. The men sitting around their sempiternal jug of beer condoned Anaclet’s actions: he had gone off to Katumba, the camp where they recruited miners for Katanga. He was a robust fellow and would almost certainly get hired. He was right to flee Misfortune, even if some felt it would still catch up with him. For it was said that those who go to Katanga have little chance of returning. In the Congo, most Rwandans die of fever, or—worse—get themselves ensnared by the spells, the dawa, of a Congolese woman from which it is impossible to free oneself, which is the worst misfortune of all. Then they moved on to the topic that really interested men: their cows, which in those days were giving them plenty of worry. The administrator had spoken of an epidemic of bovine plague; the authorities had decided to vaccinate all the cows. Should they trust the whites, who knew so many strange things? But what did they know about Rwandan cows? Wouldn’t it be better to hide your herd, or surreptitiously store your cows with the English? They couldn’t reach an agreement, the debate went on forever . . . A wife brought another jug of beer, then another, then another . . .
It was more than six months into Anociata’s quarantine when four powerful women gathered in Mukagisabo’s rear court, each of them crowned with urugori, feared by their husbands, revered by their sons, assisted by their daughters, heeded by all the women of the hillside, and respected by all the men.
“I’ve gathered you here—you, Mukandori, who have three sons in Kigali who have become men of importance; you, Mukagatare, whose eldest, Anselme, is a preacher in Kabgayi with the Monsignor; you, Mukanyenyeri, who declares to anyone who’ll listen that the white man’s school is the source of all evil; you, Mukakigega, who are the elder member of our hillside and know everything that memory can retain of what has happened here—I’ve asked you here to save poor Anonciata, if we can, and especially to save our hillside from the threat weighing on us because of all her misfortunes. We can’t keep her in quarantine as if she had the plague: it’s not doing any good. We can’t keep veiling our faces, and our men are useless. In the end, Misfortune will fall upon all of us rather than go away.What we have to do, we women of wisdom and experience, is find the source of the misfortune that preys on Anonciata, after which we should be able to neutralize it. But if it proves stronger than our remedies, then we will be forced to banish Anonciata from our hillside. We all know the road that leads to Burundi . . .”
There was also Mukamuswi, who sat slightly apart from the others; she was younger than the matrons, and Mukagisabo had invited her because she was her neighbor. Mukamuswi had only two daughters, which didn’t bring her much prestige, and her opinion, assuming she was asked for it, didn’t count for much. But of course, the most elementary politeness required inviting one’s neighbor to a meeting of such importance, which the other women of the hillside would end up hearing of and talking about anyway.
As was proper, it was old Mukakigega who spoke first, for she was the memory of the hillside, the one who knew your grandparents and great-grandparents, and even ancestors you’d never heard of; the one who knew everything that had transpired on our hillside since the days of King Rwagugiri, before the arrival of the whites. She said:
“Anonciata’s family is not from here. She brought Misfortune with her. She brought us Misfortune. You young people, even if you have children, you’re too young and you don’t remember anything, you only think about your pagnes and your sweet potato fields, your stores of beans, and every single one of you boasts of making thebest sorghum beer on the hillside. But I know, so listen to old Mukakigega, listen to what I know.
“Anonciata’s family came when the Belgians drove out the Germans. They came from the north, from the Bakiga. It was King Rwabugiri who appointed them chiefs among the Bakiga, at the foot of the volcanoes. The chief was Anonciata’s grandfather. When the white men went to war with each other (we’ll never know why), Musinga found himself siding with the Germans, he didn’t have a choice. The Germans told the chiefs who were near the border: Go raid the cows belonging to the English and Belgians, they have plenty, show them that you’re brave warriors. Can a Rwandan refuse to raid a rebel’s cows? They went to seize the English and Belgian herds and brought back many cows. They didn’t give them all to the Germans, since the Germans paid in rupees, which no one knew what to do with. But when the Belgians attacked—and their Congolese soldiers were many, and they had cannons—the Germans fled. So those who had fought alongside them did the same. And that’s how Ruhorahoza and his family and the few cows he was able to salvage came to our hillside. Musinga allowed them to settle here. And what came with them? The great famine they called Rumanura. Behind Ruhorahoza came the people from the north, a whole crowd who were dying of starvation at home, for the Congolese soldiers had leapt like grasshoppers on anything there was to eat and, in turn, Rumanura seized us and our children died, with empty eyes and their little stomachs bloated like calabashes. The rain fell without end, it lasted a long time—we counted: two sorghum harvests. It was like Noah’s flood in the priests’ stories, from what they tell me. After that came diseases we’d never seen before, the one that empties your bowels, the one that eats away your skin, and the fever that kills you in a single day. Yes, Misfortune gripped all of Rwanda. Misfortune arrived with the Belgians and, on our hillside, it came with Ruhorahoza, and his descendants still carry the Misfortune that came with them and today it’s Anonciata who’s the jinx, and she will spread it to all of us.
“I, old Mukakigega, say to you that you must drive Anonciata from our hillside and Misfortune will leave with her. I have spoken: peace be with you.”
The women remained silent for a long time, weighing old Mukakigega’s words. Then it was Mukagatare’s turn to speak:
“Mukakigega knows many things from ancient times, and if we were to ask her to list all the kings since Gihanga, I’m certain she could name them without missing a single one. But what does she know about things of the present? Has she realized that times have changed? That nothing is the way it used to be? What does she know about what the white men have brought us, what they’ve taught us? Is she baptized? No, of course not! I am—as are you, Mukagisabo, and you, Mukandori. And so I will tell you where Misfortune comes from, as the abapadri have taught us. The good Fathers say that their god, the god of the whites, Mungu, is good, that he knows no Misfortune, that he doesn’t wish to bring Misfortune to men. But they also say that Mungu has a kind of brother he can’t get rid of, who is like his shadow, and it’s he who is the cause of all misfortunes, he is Misfortune itself, and despite everything that Yezu, Mungu’s son, has done to come to men’s aid, he is still there. The Fathers call him the Devil, Shitani, the demon, the Evil One. I tell you, he is the Great Poisoner, and he will always be there, at Mungu’s side.”
Mukagatare fell silent for a moment and her companions cast a worried glance at the large jugs in which the beer was fermenting and behind which, as the tales had it, spirits always hid, benevolent and evil both.
“But,” Mukagatare resumed, “the Fathers know how to defend themselves. If the devil torments someone too closely, if he possesses him and inhabits him, as Ryangombe does with his henchmen, they have a means of driving him out. My son revealed their secret to me. As you know, Anselme attended the seminary and they made him an umupadri, just like a white man, and so the whites were obliged to tell him some of their secrets. And they taught him how to drive out the devil when he has taken possession of someone. I believe that the devil is in Anonciata, somewhere in her house or her belly, I’m not sure, but my son will flush him out. My son is Father Anselme of the native clergy. I’m going to have him come from Kabgayi as soon as he can, for he is an important secretary to the Monsignor. As soon as the Monsignor gives him permission, he’ll come sprinkle Anonciata’s house and Anonciata herself with the water of the abapadri,which is a potent remedy. The devil will flee, he can’t stand that kind of water, and Misfortune will flee with him. If Anonciata’s husband returns on holiday from Katanga, we’ll tell him that there’s nothing more to fear, that he can stay with Anonciata or take her with him to the Congo, that he’ll have children who will grow up like the others, boys, yes, especially boys. That is what I have to say, and that is what we must do. Peace be with you.”
As if to underscore her words, Mukagatare jingled with her right index finger the necklace of medallions and little crosses that she wore on a finely woven string of herbs, clearly expecting the audience’s approval. But at that moment, Mukandori spoke up:
“Mukakigega has looked for the source of Misfortune in the past, and Mikagatare has traced it to the heavens. I, however, tell you: Misfortune does not come from so far away. It is right next to us. The cause of Anonciata’s misfortunes is in the vicinity, it’s one of us, on our own hillside. For us, Misfortune is not called the devil; it is called envy, greed, spite, rancor. And what provokes such evil feelings? Wealth, power, and beauty, and the fact that some have them while others do not. But Anonciata’s family is not terribly rich—no one on our hillside is very rich—and she no longer has any power. Of course, some might resent her family for being somewhat arrogant: it’s foolish to keep reminding us that their grandfathers were once chiefs among the Bakiga. That is long over and done with, and it’s a mistake to pride yourself on powers you no longer possess. Buttheir long-lost pride is not what brought Misfortune down upon Anonciata and her family. The only wealth that others could envy is the beauty of their daughters, and it was Anonciata’s beauty that drew Misfortune to her. Think for a moment of all those who asked Anonciata’s hand in marriage—and didn’t every mother with a marriageable son wish to have Anonciata as her daughter-in-law?—of all the fathers whose doweries were spurned, all the rejected suitors: think carefully, for I am certain that is where you’ll find the poisoner.”
Mukandori took a long draw on her pipe and silently considered the interest her words had inspired in her listeners.
She needed say no more. Everyone knew how stiff the competition had been among the suitors, or rather the suitors’ mothers. Anonciata’s parents, Mariza and Kamanzi, had had five children, three of them girls. Anonciata was the youngest. The two older daughters had married very well: an instructor and an agronomist, nothing but “evolved” matches! But Anonciata was by far the most beautiful of the three and she had even attended the village primary school, at least for the first three years. Her sisters had had children, which augured well for Anonciata’s fecundity, and Mariza and Kamanzi did not have to seek out suitors for their daughter: the mothers of all the marriageable young men on the hillside made advances and came by to discreetly laud their sons’ advantages. The gift jugs of beer piled up in the rear courtyard, and it was as if Kamanzi needed only name the number of cows they should give him for his daughter’s dowery.
In the end, two candidates for Anonciata’s hand took the lead. One was Anaclet, Kabayiza’s son. The odds weren’t in his favor: his family wasn’t rich, and everyone wondered how they could ever raise the exorbitant dowery that Kamanzi said he demanded. But rumors continued to circulate that the two families remained in quiet negotiations and that Anaclet had the audacity to hover around the enclosure of his prospective fiancée, which scandalized quite a few matrons. They even claimed—but clearly this was in mockery—that he had been writing songs whose sole refrain was Anonciata’s name.
Everyone favored Joséphin, Karegeya’s son. On our hillside, Karegeya was something of a notable. Not because he owned more cows than anyone else, and not for any particular authority he might have wielded over the population. No, his prestige derived from the fact that he was the sole possessor of objects that were indispensable to all the hillside’s inhabitants: ingobyi.
The ingobyi is a long, basketlike wickerwork object, made from slats of bamboo and with handles, that serves to transport people. Back in the day, before it was replaced by the automobile, it served as the litter of kings, queens, and chiefs. It remains the palanquin on which the new bride, trembling and tearful as custom dictates, leaves the paternal enclosure for that of her new family.
These days, it’s most often the stretcher on which family members or neighbors carry a patient to the nearest clinic when the traditional remedies have failed and they resign themselves to seeing the nurse, who will parsimoniously dole out a few pills that the white doctor left him.
The ingobyi is also the litter on which the deceased embarks on his final voyage. He is relegated to a small hut at the back of the rear court, out of sight. When removing him, you should never use the main entrance, for that would mean crossing through the large courtyard where the cows enter in the evening, which would bring them bad luck.
The ingobyi of the dead is used only for funeral rites and not for any other purpose, especially not for carrying a young bride, even though nothing distinguishes it from other ingobyi. The man who lends an ingobyi for a wedding—an honor that cannot be refused—will obviously be careful not to lend the one used for corpses: this would mean calling down Misfortune upon the bride and all her offspring.
The entire hillside was certain that Kamanzi would give his daughter to Joséphin, Karegeya’s son, but to everyone’s surprise, she went to Anaclet. No one understood why Kamanzi had granted Anonciata to the person offering the fewest cows. Perhaps, some said, he wanted to do like the whites, who, it seemed, let their poorly educated daughters marry whomever they liked. People disapproved of this marriage, but no one went so far as to reproach Kamanzi. They did what you do at every wedding: they danced and drank a lot of beer and, as custom dictated, wished upon Anonciata many children, especially boys, many boys.
The matrons, of course, knew the whole story and quickly understood where Mukandori was heading:
“So you think Karegeya cast an evil spell on Anonciata out of revenge?” they asked in chorus.
“I’m certain of it.”
“And do you know how he did this? Did he hire a poisoner?” “He didn’t have to. He has everything he needs right there at home.”
“Like what, then?”
“Use your heads! Who on our hillside owns the ingobyi? Who does one go to for a litter to carry the bride?”
“You believe Karegeya lent the ingobyi of the dead to carry Anonciata!”
“That is what I think.”
Everyone remained silent for a long while; some surreptitiously invoked Ryangombe, while others made the sign of the cross. Then Mukanyenyeri addressed the group:
“Mukandori has brought a serious accusation against Karegeya. But who can prove that the ingobyi that transported Anonciata to her wedding was the one reserved for the dead? Why is she going after Karegeya? I consider him a respectable man, of good family. To the best of his knowledge, his ancestors have always lived on our hillside. He is well regarded by everyone: he has never refused to lend his ingobyi, not to brides, not to the sick, not for the dead. And it was always the appropriate ingobyi. Mukandori can spin fairy tales, but we’re not children. Personally, I think we should look more carefully at Anonciata and her father. Don’t you find it surprising that he gave away his daughter to someone who couldn’t pay the requested dowery? They say he didn’t receive half the cows he demanded from the families of the other suitors. It created a scandal throughout the hillside. And why was that? Because of one of those diseases—one among many—that white people have inflicted on us. These diseases afflict our young people, especially our young girls. Our children imitate everything the whites do. At school, the students, even the girls, are made to read white people’s stories, and you know what they recount in white people’s stories: boys choose their brides without their parents having any say, and girls choose the boys they want to marry without asking their paternal aunt’s consent. They claim there’s nothing they can do about it, that their children are ill, that there’s no cure for it. This illness is what they apparently call love. ‘What can you do? It’s love,’ say the parents of white children. And we Rwandan mothers, will we have nothing to say about this? And what about the family in all this? And our lineage in all this? And the cows in all this? How can there be a marriage if the paternal aunt has not given her blessing? It’s the paternal aunt who arranges marriages. Her blessing is what ensures they’ll be fertile. Now, I happen to know Anonciata’s paternal aunt, Mukamugisha. They said nothing to her, they even hid the wedding preparations from her right up to the last minute; she did not bless the newlyweds. Maybe she even cursed them! I tell you, my sisters, do not send your daughters to school. Anonciata studied under that teacher Théogène for three years, and she believed everything she heard in the white people’s stories. This is the curse that the whites have brought down upon us: Innovation, Innovation that comes from the city, Innovation! Misfortune, yes! Peace be with you.”
Mukagisabo, Mukandori, and Mukagatare nearly interrupted Mukanyenyeri several times, though that would have been a serious breach of Rwandan etiquette. They therefore let her continue all the way to the end, but the second she finished with the customary formula, Mukagisabo intervened:
“Mukanyenyeri, you are worse than Mukakigega. For you, too, Misfortune comes from the whites. It is true that the whites have brought us many misfortunes, and I fear they’ll bring us many more. But what can we do? They are powerful, and it’s pointless to fight them face to face. Instead, we must penetrate their power, and it will be our children and grandchildren who will get hold of it and surpass them. I sent my three daughters to school, my daughters who should have been helping me in the home and the field, and my sons went to the seminary or to school in Astrida. Anonciata went to school, but I don’t believe that’s what brought Misfortune upon her. And even if it was, what could we do about it?”
The matrons seemed rather disconcerted by the divergent opinions that had been expressed. Mukandori constantly filled her pipe, Mukagatare jingled her medallions, Mukakigega crammed her nostrils with snuff, and Mukagisabo went to get the nth calabash of banana beer that she was about to pass around to her companions when, from behind the circle of matrons, rose Mukamuswi’s faint voice.
“You are all women of experience and great wisdom and I’ve listened to your words with all the respect you are due. But if you’ll allow me . . . I would like . . . That is, if I may . . . You surely know better than I the proverb, ‘Your father wishes only the best for you, yet the name he bestows on you might be for the worst.’ Perhaps my mind wandered a moment, but it seems to me that I never heard Anonciata’s real name spoken, the one her father gave her, and perhaps you were af raid to speak it. As for me, too bad if the curse falls on me! I’m going to say it anyway: Nyirabyago, She-of-misfortune.
“Do you know why a father might give his daughter such a name? Was Anonciata born in a time of great misfortune? Had famine befallen Rwanda? Had the cows stopped giving milk, and had Kamanzi’s favorite, Rusesabagina with her generous teats, recently died? Was he desperate because he hadn’t had any boys? You, who are the wisdom and the memory of our hillside, do you know why Kamanzi bestowed the name Misfortune on his own daughter?”
The matrons, astounded at the sudden audacity of someone whose timidity they despised—Mukamuswi, The-baby-chick—shot each other inquisitive looks. Finally, Mukakigega spoke up:
“How can anyone know? Who can say what goes on in a father’s head when he is presented with his newborn? It is dangerous for us to revive such memories. There are things that must be buried as deep as possible in the earth, in a serpent’s pit, like for the milk teeth of children born without a father. But now, since Mukamuswi has unearthed the story of Anonciata and her cursed name from the serpent’s pit where the entire hillside had buried it, there is no longer any point in keeping it quiet.
“There is what everyone knows and what must not be mentioned. Mariza, Kamanzi’s wife, was pregnant. They say she went to see the midwives and the soothsayers, especially the soothsayers. The latter had assured her that her womb bore a boy child. It was a boy that Kamanzi, like all fathers, was expecting. And then, they say, the pregnancy went astray, it traveled a long, long time, many, many moons, people whispered that it had gone astray forever; but, uncounted months later, it returned, and a joyful Kamanzi prepared to receive in his arms the boy he’d been promised. But when they presented him with the newborn so that he could give it a name, they couldn’t hide the fact that it was a girl. Then, from what they say, it was stronger than him, he could not hold back the name that was bursting through his lips: Nyirabyago, She-of-misfortune. It was too late, he had spoken this name in front of witnesses. Quickly they went to baptize the baby to try to erase the cursed name. The missionary assigned her the name Anonciata. The family and the entire hillside swore never to utter the baleful name her father had unintentionally given her. We buried it and pretended to forget it. But you can’t erase the name your father has given you: your name is your destiny.”
“Alas,” Mukagisabo moaned, “woe is us: Mukamuswi has rekindled our memory and regrettably spoken the name that an evil spirit whispered to Kamanzi. We had agreed to forget it, but it was forever there: your destiny is in your name. There’s nothing we can do for Anonciata: Misfortune is in her name, and the best we can do is preserve ourselves from it for the sake of our children.”
_
And so the council of matrons upheld the quarantine that had been imposed on Anonciata. Anonciata no longer went to her field. She made do with cultivating a tiny plot of garden behind her house, to keep from dying of hunger. She fetched her own water before dawn, and the children who went to the river sometimes ran into her and averted their eyes.
It was the children who alerted us one day that it had been several weeks since they’d last seen Anonciata. We also noticed that her garden looked neglected. Had she died? Mukagisabo, feeling vaguely ashamed, decided to investigate. She called on the matrons, who, after some hesitation, agreed to go with her. Anonciata’s house appeared deserted. The padlock on the door was rusted. “Let’s go in,” said Mukagisabo. She had no trouble breaking down the rickety door. The matrons noted with a certain relief that the house’s single room was empty. Anonciata had vanished. How? Where had she gone? No one had seen her leave. Mukamuswi shed a few tears. “What’s the use in crying?” said Mukakigega. “She has taken Misfortune with her.”
It was assumed that her paternal aunt had come quietly to collect her, had taken her down the path that leads to the river, and had told her, as one tells unwed mothers: “Cross the river, on the other side is Burundi, no one knows you there, and here they’ll forget you.” It was even imagined that she had tried to join her husband in the Katanga mines and had gotten lost in the vast Congolese forest. That story found the most favor and was the version offered to those who still asked indiscreet questions.
Life on the hillside went on and the usual misfortunes continued to befall us. Children still died at a young age, and even the heartiest ones coughed up blood; drought caused food shortages; heavy rains carried away entire slabs of the hillside; the agronomist cut down more and more banana trees to plant his coffee; the missionaries, the sub-chief, and the administrator continued to demand still more work to build their chapels, offices, and prisons. We had forgotten the cursed name of Anonciata. But one day, a rumor, started who knows where, grew until it invaded the entire hillside: someone had seen Anonciata in Usumbura. Her name was no longer Anonciata Nyirabyago. She had remarried. She had four beautiful children, all boys. She would have others. Misfortune hadn’t wished to follow her to Burundi. It had remained on our side of the river, in Rwanda. It was the Misfortune of our hillside. We had to live with our Misfortune.
author pic here
Scholastique Mukasonga was born in Rwanda in 1956. She settled in France in 1992, only two years before the brutal genocide of the Tutsi swept through Rwanda. Archipelago Books has brought out her debut novel Our Lady of the Nile, Cockroaches (chosen by the New York Times as one of the fifty best memoirs of the last fifty years), Igifu, Sister Deborah, and National Book Award-nominated The Barefoot Woman. In 2012 Mukasonga received the Prix Renaudot for Notre-Dame du Nil and in 2021, she won the Simone de Beauvoir Prize for Women’s Freedom.
Mark Polizzotti is the author of thirteen books and has translated more than sixty books from the French, including works by Gustave Flaubert, Arthur Rimbaud, Scholastique Mukasonga, Patrick Modiano, Marguerite Duras, and André Breton. His translations have won or been shortlisted for the Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize, the Scott Moncrieff Prize, the National Book Award, and the International Booker Prize, among other honors. He lives in New York, where he directs the publications program at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
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