It is summer in the global North and winter in the global South. Reason enough to bring summer and winter together in August's Literatur.Review and publish previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the North and South of our world.

Melara Mvogdobo was born in Lucerne in 1972. After studying education and giving birth to three sons, she lived in the Dominican Republic, Cameroon and back in Switzerland. In addition to her writing, she taught traumatised young people and led workshops on textile handicrafts and tropical cuisine. In 2022, she moved to Andalusia with her family. In 2023, her first novel "Von den fünf Schwestern, die auszogen, ihren Vater zu ermorden" (Edition 8, Zurich) was published. Her second novel, "Grandmothers", was published in German in 2025 by Transit Verlag.

It's two years to the day since I came to Switzerland from Cameroon.
Maybe that's why I'm a little pensive today?
I watch Malcolm through the half open balcony door.
The pale winter sun shines on his face. He's on the phone. Gesticulating loudly and violently. Sweat runs down his face. This man always sweats, no matter the time of year.
A few snatches of Lingala reach my ear. I can understand some of it after two years with him.
Although to say that I'm watching him isn't quite accurate. It would be more honest to say that I observe him, scrutinise him, assess him and try to take stock.
I am indebted to him.
In a way.
Malcolm is not a benefactor.
Certainly not.
Congolese men rarely are. Not that Cameroonians are better.
Different, perhaps. But not better.
But one thing is for sure, I could have done worse. Much worse.
I can hear the baby on the sofa behind me. He's making those little noises that babies often make when they sleep.
He's three months old and he's mine.
Mine and his.
He wanted the baby to be called Gilbert, like his father. I had nothing against it. But in the hospital, shortly after I had squeezed the boy out (what a miserable ordeal!), I wrote another name on the form.
Dieu Merci!
Now he's called Gilbert Dieu Merci.
And I mean exactly that.
Dieu Merci. Thank God!
Thank God this child was born!
My son. How foreign these words still feel.
In my mouth. In my heart.
It would have been even more fitting if I had called him "tu m'as sauvé" (1).
But I didn't want to rub his father's nose in it so obviously.

(1) you saved me

Malcolm and I are still more or less keeping up appearances. Pretending it was all a coincidence, an unforeseen, surprising turn of events.
But we both know it. A heavy weight rests on the small, slender shoulders of this child, on whose forehead the soft down of the newborn can still be seen.
A boy, born to hold together what threatens to break apart.
Brittle and fragile is the structure that brought his parents together and now holds them in suspension by the infamous, silken thread.
Brittle and fragile because, it seems to me, happiness, like a whore, only smiles on those who can pay for it.

(2) for the papers

It's the same old story. An African in Europe. First the white wife pour les papiers (2).
Then, when the long-awaited papers finally arrive, the African immediately moves into a different league.
He is now an African WITH papers!
No longer dependent on the often fickle goodwill of a woman.
He has arrived in Europe.
When he then flies back to his country for a holiday, proud and in high spirits, he is treated like a star. The women are after him like mosquitoes after sweet blood.
Not just the women.
Friends, family, street vendors, cab drivers, the local children .
Everyone wants a piece of the European sugar pie.
They all want his money.
The fake smiles of childhood friends expose far too many teeth as they flock to pat his shoulders with exaggerated bonhomie.
They now call him le roi des Mbenguistes (3).

(3) King of the emigrants, Mbenguiste, someone who lives in a rich (white) foreign country

Mon frère, you are my best friend. You always have been. Do you remember how we used to...
I believed in you, mon frère. Never doubted that you would make it. Do you remember when we...
And then...
J'ai une petite situation. I have a small situation. Hardly worth mentioning. Nothing but a small thing for you, mon ami.
Now that you have made it.
Now that you live in Europe.
Now that you are a Mbenguiste with the money of the blancs in your bank account.
Don't forget where you come from, mon frère. Don't forget those you left behind,
those who prayed for you,
help your best friend, grand frère.

But now, things are getting tight for the temporary returnee. He counts the money left in his pockets in his mind and already knows that it won't be enough to keep them all happy.
In his mind's eye, the image of his gloating Swiss letterbox flashes up, unpaid bills spilling out of the slot.
He almost feels sick,
but there's not enough time for that.
Other hands are already tapping reverentially on his shoulders, begging for attention.
So the returning African with papers, le roi des Mbenguistes, empties his glass, laughs and calls out loudly: Quick, quick! Another bottle of whisky for my brothers!"

Back somewhere, in one of those rich countries that desperately need people like him but are reluctant to admit it, reality brings him back from the jubilation of the past few weeks in his homeland in a flash. Without mercy or the slightest ounce of patience, he hits the ground hard and unchecked.
The maliciously grinning Swiss mailbox, which had even haunted him in Kinshasa or Yaoundé or in some other never-sleeping city in Africa during a never-ending dance at dawn, has triumphed.
The African with papers is now sitting in front of a pile of letters.
He is hopelessly behind with rent, health insurance and alimony payments for his two Swiss children.
Le roi des Mbenguistes, who now feels anything but royal, wonders what devil could have been driving him these past few weeks.

(4) Damaging spells

May even wonder whether everything was done quite properly.
Or whether one or other relative, one or other bed-mate, may have removed money from his pockets using sorcellerie (4).
But since all this brooding doesn't bring much, least of all money, he soon lets it go.
After all, you only live once! he cheers himself up.
A little joy is essential. After all the dishwashing and toilet cleaning.
He deserved to have a good time for once.
And by God, he did! And how!
Dieu va aider! (5) After all, he had already helped him with the Swiss woman and the papers.
God would send him the money he needed to pay all the bills.
One way or another.

(5) God will help

Malcolm found the help he was longing for near the Western Union counter at Zurich main station, when chance or God's will led him to my mother.
She gestured to him for a pen, talking loudly on a phone pressed between her shoulder and ear.

The name of a distant cousin in Yaoundé, whose ghost was hungry for Mbenguiste's money, had to be written on the back of an old receipt.

My mother always had a knack for business.
This special instinct for people in need and the opportunities that arose from it had often helped her to save her own skin.
And so, in no time, it was a done deal.
Malcolm would fly to Yaoundé and marry the daughter of his newfound friend.
Of course, my mother paid for his trip.
At Zurich airport, just before the security check barrier, an envelope containing four thousand Swiss francs changed hands.
Malcolm received another five thousand francs via Western Union after my mother's family members in Yaoundé confirmed the marriage and the photographed marriage documents, somewhat blurred but perfectly legible, provided official proof via WhatsApp.
My mother and Malcolm had agreed on a total price of twenty-four thousand francs for the marriage and the subsequent procedure of reuniting the spouses in Switzerland.
My mother would pay off the remaining sixteen thousand in monthly installments of six hundred and fifty francs.

(6) the misery of Cameroon, often fatalistically used expression in Cameroon

So it came to pass that Malcolm the Congolese flew from Kinshasa to Yaoundé and became my groom.
My saviour from la misère du Camer (6).
A gift from my mother, delivered straight to the door.
Perhaps as compensation for leaving us children behind in Cameroon and failing to be in touch for many years?

(7) little drop

I am startled out of my thoughts.
My phone vibrates on the glass coffee table. Like an angry bluebottle.
It's my brother, Petite Goutte (7).
His real name is Blaise. But we've always called him Petite Goutte.
He needs money.
As is usually the case when he gets in touch.
He can't manage anything. The only thing he's really good at is failing. Drinking and shagging his way from one problem to the next and then begging me for money.
He's unbeatable at that.
Another woman is pregnant by him.
He's only twenty-three years old.
But apparently the three offspring he has already fathered with three different women are not enough for him.
Petite Goutte loves older women.

For a brief moment, he probably finds the mother he never had in their arms.
But this time he is really in trouble. Grande soeur, you must help me! If our father finds out that I've impregnated another woman, he'll beat me to death and then throw me out of the house. Exactly in that order.
She wants money for the abortion. Otherwise she'll go to Father.
Please, grande soeur, don't let me down. I am your brother.
The tiresome vibration on the glass table sounds again. Today he's persistent.
I'd like to throw the phone out of the window. Or over the balcony, along with my sweating and hand-wringing husband.

They disturb my thoughts,
the bluebottle phone and the noisy husband in distress.

Of course, I know exactly what's going on.
My clever husband has once again made a mess of a deal. Another container full of European goods lost somewhere in the depths of Kinshasa's harbour. Perhaps blocked by corrupt customs officials. Or sold under the table by one of his "trustworthy" friends without his knowledge.
Who knows for sure?
I don't care.
Because once again I'll have to sort out his mistakes.
He hasn't paid the rent on our apartment for months. Diverted it to his containers.
It was a surefire investment. I don't know anything about business.
He should explain that to the property manager, who is sending us registered letters threatening to have us evicted from our apartment.

Sex is not really part of a marriage that has been bought.
It's a business. Money for a secure residence permit. In Switzerland, that means at least a C permit. With the C permit, you are safe. It doesn't have to be renewed every year, like the B permit I currently have.
That can take a few years, my mother warned me when I was finally allowed to enter Switzerland. So behave yourself, ma fille. Don't pick a fight with the Congolese.
He has us in the palm of his hand, never forget that.
If he files for divorce, you lose your right of residence.
Keep your tongue in your mouth and the house clean. Cook good Cameroonian food for him. Learn to prepare his favourite Congolese dishes.
Make yourself indispensable!

And if he wants your body, don't be coy!
Malcolm left me alone for the most part.
We avoided each other as much as possible in the small apartment.
His Congolese friends came over several times a week.
How I hated that.
The living room filled up until there was hardly any space left. They smoked, drank vast quantities of beer and emptied one whisky bottle after another, while one Congolese video clip followed another on the huge flat screen on the wall.
I was repeatedly sent to the supermarket to replenish their supplies of alcohol, while their debates became ever more rowdy.
When they were hungry, I cooked whatever they demanded.
Thankfully, they come over a little less often now the baby is here.
Another thing I'm grateful to the little one for.
In the first few months after coming to Switzerland, everything went as planned. My mother always came by at the end of the month and paid the installment due.
Malcolm pocketed the money.
Not without grumbling every time about what a bargain she'd got.
A money marriage like that usually costs at least twice as much, you can be sure of that!
My mother ignored him, calmly drank the beer I had placed on the glass table in front of her and then went on her way again.
But then, it must have been about six months after I entered the country, I received a WhatsApp message from my mother out of the blue:

Ma fille, things are tough!
Unfortunately, I won't be able to afford the installments for the Congolese from now on.
Debrouille-toi, ma fille! Make do, daughter!
You're a woman. He's a man.
You'll know how to help yourself.
Bonne Chance, ma fille!

Well, what can I say?
The very next night I lay naked in bed with him.
I hardly dared to breathe, worried about what his reaction might be.
When he lay on top of me, wordlessly and panting with excitement, I breathed a sigh of relief.
In the next few weeks, I was determined to get pregnant.
I was aware that sex alone was no guarantee of stopping him from continuing to demand the missing installments and threatening me with divorce.
But with a child bearing his name, he would run out of arguments.

He couldn't demand money from the mother of his child. No one would have understood that.
Not even his Congolese drinking buddies.
A little while later, I was sitting on the toilet in our small, windowless bathroom, watching the second strip of the pregnancy test appear.
I was giddy with relief.
Dieu Merci! Dieu Merci!
I was saved!

Yes, that's how I became a mother.

But that's not all I'm not talking about. There's something else.
A kind of secret.
Although, it's not really a secret.
Because a secret is characterised by the fact that most people around you have no idea about it.
Maybe I should say rather, an open secret. Open secrets are things that everyone actually knows about, but no one has the courage to upset the fragile balance by saying the unspeakable.

(8) Swiss from French-speaking Switzerland (Suisse Romande)

A taboo sees the light of day.
Now that I think about it, I realise that open secrets are nothing more than taboos.
And there are more than enough of them between Malcolm and me, indeed, in my whole family, God knows.
Some time before my mother ran out of money for the monthly payments, I met Pierre in a bar in Zurich's Langstrasse district.
A friend from Douala worked there as a prostitute and introduced me to Romand (8) from Geneva.
He eyed me for a while before he spoke to me. There's something fascinating about you. You're not necessarily beautiful. Not at all. But you have something special.
His voice was soft and gentle. His gaze thoughtful.
I think you would be well suited to work in my establishment, he continued.
I shook my head. Forget it, I don't work as a whore.
He smiled almost paternally. What I'm offering you is not the usual. Not sex. At least not the way you imagine it.
Before Pierre left, he placed a business card on the table. If you change your mind, give me a call. I know a gift when I see one. You could go far. Very far. And above all, make a lot of money.
It wasn't Pierre's words that made the difference.
It was the envy that flashed in my friend's eyes as soon as Pierre left.
What incredible luck you have! She exclaimed in amazement. Any of the women here would give their right hand for an offer from Pierre.

(9) Cameroonian abbreviation for ma copine, my girlfriend

Curious, I asked: What kind of establishment is this anyway?
My girlfriend reached across the table and grabbed my forearm: Maco (9), if you don't seize this opportunity, you're beyond help! Pierre runs one of the largest and most exclusive dominatrix studios in Geneva. His clientele comes from all over Europe! Oh, what am I saying, from all over the world! All very rich people!
From then on, I soaked up everything that had anything remotely to do with sexual domination.
I read reports from people who lived this kind of sexuality, rummaged through historical sources and watched relevant videos.
Eager to learn as much as possible.
My first assignment as a dominatrix came months later.
I had studied economics in Cameroon.
Economic relationships still fascinate me to this day.
But that's nothing compared to the fascination I felt when Pierre introduced me to the world of domination.
To this day, I have nothing that compares to the elation that takes hold of me as soon as I enter one of the lavishly and exquisitely furnished rooms full of stretching benches, pulleys, cages, enemas, riding crops, penis cages, clamps, whips and dildos in all sizes and variations.
It's like a never-ending rush. As if the blood in my veins had been replaced by pure ecstasy.
Sex was never really my thing.
That business - the endless in and out, in and out -  bored me from the start.
But as soon as I feel my leather clothes, encrusted with countless Swarovski crystals, against my skin, I become a different person.
I become the dominatrix Madame Fouet (10).
Strong and unattainable.
I reach for a whip or a paddle or whatever my next client craves and feel this incomparable feeling of power take possession of me.
Enjoy how I shudder.

(10) Whip

Pierre has now become a friend.
Perhaps the best I've ever had.
He didn't promise too much.
I make a lot of money. A lot of money.
In Cameroon, I bought a piece of land in the posh Bastos district without telling my family. I soon started building six luxury apartments around a large pool.

In hindsight, I should have told Pierre about my problems with Malcolm. But we didn't know each other very well back then. I was afraid that he would drop me as soon as he found out that my residence permit was on shaky ground.
When I confessed to Pierre that I was pregnant and that I didn't know what to do, he looked at me in his typical thoughtful way.
Then he sighed and said: "No problem. You'll have the baby and just get on with it afterwards.
But if you get into trouble again, come to me first.
I won't let you fall. You're the most sought-after dominatrix who has ever worked in my club.
Then he added a little uncertainly: "You're not planning to become a good housewife, are you?"
I laughed, shaking my head: Me, a good little housewife! Can you really imagine that, Pierre?

Malcolm officially knows nothing about my double life. He pretends to believe me when I say I'm going to visit my sister in Geneva.
But we both know that I have no relatives in Geneva. It's easier this way. A harmless lie often commands more respect than the most honest truth.
No reproaches. No spying.
At most, a: How is your sister? Is her husband better now?
Thank you for asking, Malcolm. They're all fine, par la grâce de dieu!
He never asked me where I got the money to iron out the consequences of his bad investments.
Of course, I could have paid him off long ago. But I don't do that. He doesn't need to know how much money I actually earn. He'd probably use it against me sooner or later.
When he's made a mess of things again, I pay the bills without any fuss and put the receipts in plain sight on his pillow.
That's all.
But since we had the baby, I've noticed that Malcolm has been feeling a certain reluctance.
I breastfed little Gilbert Dieu Merci for exactly four weeks. Then I'd had enough. The ceiling crashed down on me and I just wanted to get out of this prison full of baby cries, milk-bursting breasts and smelly nappies.
Three weeks later, I left the baby in his father's arms and said goodbye with the words: I need a break. I'm going to visit my sister in Geneva. I'll be back in four days.
With his son in his arms and bewilderment on his face, Malcolm sat on the sofa.
As the door slammed shut behind me, I thought I heard something like: What sort of a mother are you?!"
Then the day before yesterday, I was peeling some plantains to prepare a Poulet D.G. when I heard his footsteps behind me.
I didn't turn around.
I just waited.

Don't think I don't know. About what you're doing in Geneva. You're a...
I didn't let him finish his sentence.
With the same verve and feeling of absolute superiority that always served me well as Madame Fouet, I turned to face him.
With the same elegance and ease with which I swished the riding crop at reddened buttocks in Geneva, the spotty plantain glided through the air like a hawk on the prowl and stopped just in front of Malcom's nose.
Do you really want to have this conversation? I hissed quietly.
Although admittedly, I didn't look very impressive in my worn-out jogging suit, and the stained plantain in my hand couldn't compete with the lacquered riding crop from Geneva, we didn't fail to have an effect.
Malcolm stared at me for a moment, transfixed.
He then hesitantly took two steps back, turned around and left the kitchen without a word.
The encounter with Madame Fouet had deeply disturbed him. I could see that.

The phone on the glass table gives no peace. The baby has also started to stir.
Nothing helps.
It's time to stop thinking.
Little Dieu Merci needs a new nappy.
After that, I put him in the car and we set off for Western Union.
My brother will get his money today.
If I let our father throw him out the door, I'm sure the bluebottle phone would never shut up again.
And let's see if I can appease our property manager with a partial payment for now.