It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of January Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Fann Attiki was born in 1992 in Pointe-Noire, Congo-Brazzaville. In 2011, he fell in love with poetry while taking part in a slam workshop. In 2016, he moved to Brazzaville and devoted himself to writing and acting. Cave 72, his first novel, was awarded the Prix Voix d'Afriques in 2021.

I am nothing but ash in an urn; I am now counted among the cremated. I owe my condition neither to tradition nor to a last wish. My body, after my death, was in such a state that it would have been cruel to bury me like that. I would have liked to be in the front row when I was laid to rest. I would have liked to see how the earth turned without me. I would have liked to hear my beloved weep for her betrayal of me, and my mother grant me her forgiveness. I would have liked to quench my loneliness with every tear that fell for me, to see them flow endlessly from the eyes of my loved ones. I would have liked to see those same loved ones requesting masses so that my soul might pass through the gates of heaven. I would have liked to hear them beg for my blessing, implore my protection, invoke me with incomprehensible incantations and, in the process, turn me into a spirit that would solve all their problems. I would have laughed at the naivety of their faith, at the ease with which they believed that death would transform me into an omnipotent spirit, me who was divine in breath and blood only. In all honesty, I wouldn't have wanted any of that, because I'd still have wanted to enjoy life. But I feel the force of gravity pulling me down, against my will, at a speed of almost three floors per second. I see my whole being succumbing to a continuous stream of panic and dread. I am the puppet of despair. It flails my arms in all directions, strains my vocal cords in a pitiful scream, and awakens my Christian faith from its hibernation. I believe in miracles again. Fate stares me in the face but I look away, denying this reality that is plummeting me to my doom. Paradoxical as it may seem, so far so good. The hardest part is not the fall but the landing.

I'm in the second second of falling. I make an effort to muster a surge of courage within me, despite the tragedy that is shimmering from the distant ground. I win the tug-of-war against the fear of an imminent end, reassuring myself that this death is as good as a bullet to the head, a decapitation by guillotine, a draught of hemlock, a lightning strike -  in short, I convince myself that I won't suffer. I try to die with honour. My screams cease, and a series of questions begins: how can I reach the ground without a single part of my anatomy ending up in shreds?

"So far, so good. The hardest part is not the fall, but the landing."

As I enter the third second of the fall, I'm still in the least difficult phase. I enjoy the wind whipping against my skin, and I can make out more and more of the spectators who have stopped walking and talking to gaze helplessly up at my Olympic performance. As the view of the ground becomes clearer, I suddenly see the film of my whole life. "So it's true," I say to myself. "When you look death in the eye, you see your whole life flash by." My past rushes through my head, faster than the speed of light. I'm caught up in a flood of reminiscence, recalling my mistakes and failures. My conscience is tormented by regret. Things don't get improve when I remember my first kiss. It feels like my chest is being crushed. Calmly, I endure this indelible memory of my heart, remembering that I was only seven years old. It was surely just an innocent kiss, devoid of that solemnity proper to romance. It was surely just two lips barely touching two others, and yet those two lips were Sarah's, the girl with whom I had taken my first class at the School of Love. Sarah and I were neighbours back then. Our houses, like our feelings, faced each other. We enjoyed a friendship that took romantic detours through tenderness. Our story was still in the early days of its springtime; we were tumbling through the carefree days of our youth, neither of us suspecting the sudden storm ahead. My father had been given staff accommodation. We would have to leave the neighbourhood, move away from Sarah. The news hit me like a dagger. I was learning the hard way how the fortunes of some can bleed the hearts of others. My joy had faded, I'd lost my appetite for life, discovering how insipid it could feel. Shamefully, my parents blamed themselves for my first heartbreak. Out of compassion, they had decided in collusion with Cécile, Sarah's mother, to give us free rein on the day of my departure. It was up to Sarah and me to seize the day without worrying about the future, to make it a day we would remember for ever. Sarah and I spent that day in simple activities, worthy of the angels we still were: holding hands, running mindlessly down the street, rubbing noses, feeding each other with the gentleness of a mother feeding her newborn... I had regained happiness, I had learned to seize the moment because each expression of joy could be our last. Sarah's presence distracted me from the move that was taking place at the same time. She had so detached me from reality that I didn't notice the furniture being moved out of our house and into the back of a truck. When night finally arrived, we settled down - still hand in hand - on Cécile's leather sofa, in a secluded corner of the living room. We were in a state where the slightest thing would set us off giggling. We were overflowing with joy, until the imminence of my departure dissipated the magic of the illusion. My mother had knocked on Cécile's door. Sarah and I, still holding hands, ran to open it. Without waiting to be invited in, my mother crossed the threshold. We were face to face.

- It's time to go, she had said to me before calling out to Cécile, who had taken refuge in her room.

Letting go of Sarah's hand was too much effort. I clung to it, right to the end. The torrent of our silent tears tracing their paths down our cheeks had clouded the mood. No more joy, no more happiness, no more laughter; only hearts soaked with sorrow, eyes flooded with pain inflicted by the prospect of a long separation. I had to obey the inevitability of my departure. I released the pressure of my hand on Sarah's, the absence of willpower slowing the gesture. Just my middle finger remained touching her skin when she chose to confess what our parents and neighbours already knew. "I love you," she said, her voice heavy with sadness, as if she knew she'd never touch or see me again in her life. "I love you too," I replied. After which, I followed my mother, leaving Sarah to close the door behind me. Before leaving, I turned to look at her face one last time. Deep down, I'd also guessed that I'd never see her again.

"So far so good. The hardest part is not the fall, but the landing."

In the second quarter of the third second of my fall, my time on earth flashes by again. I relive my misfortunes and failures from my past one after the other, this experience anesthetizing me from the thrill. I defy all levels of indifference, so much so that I remain unmoved by the memory of the day my father passed away. I was ten years and five months old. I remember that the weather was fine, Dad was in robust health (or so it seemed), and no ravens (birds of ill omen, heralds of macabre events) had flown over our roof. There was no sign of misfortune knocking at our door. Nothing prepared us for my father's departure.

That day, Alassane, my older brother, had been summoned to Uncle Sam's house.

- Alassane would be back before 6 p.m., my uncle had promised our mother, his sister.

But by nightfall, Alassane still hadn't returned. My parents and I had waited up for him in the living room, in front of our cathode-ray tube TV set (it has to be said that the story goes back a long way, to the days when we still spread our bread with Nestlé sweetened condensed milk). Dad often reminded us that in his house, anyone under the age of consent was not allowed to wander around his living room past nine pm. But that day, driven by a generosity whose motive I still don't know, Dad had allowed me to stay in front of the screen much later than was reasonable.

- It's eleven o'clock, my mother had whispered in her husband's ear.

At that age, I was gifted with the minimum maturity required to understand that she was discreetly inviting him to join her in the sanctuary of their intimacy. As taboos fade, so goes the sense of subtlety. Dad, being a good husband, had accepted his wife's invitation. He let himself be drawn into the bedroom; there are some conjugal duties you just can't shirk. An hour later, I stopped fighting sleep, threw myself into bed and began my descent into dreamland. Since Alassane still hadn't returned, I concluded that he would be spending the night at Uncle Sam's.

I was exploring the depths of sleep when suddenly there was a raucous chorus of voices I didn't recognise. I could hear prayers mixing, merging, building into a cacophony. This din spread from the veranda to the living room, from the living room to my ears, and gradually drew me out of my dream. When my eyes finally opened, I felt as if I'd just gone to bed. It was at this moment that Alassane had burst into my room.

- What's that noise outside? I had asked him.

He had left a brief silence between us, during which I had read the worry on his face.

- Dad had an epileptic seizure.

Alassane had told me in a sombre voice, the one used by people overwhelmed by a sad event. His announcement had left me stunned. I had looked into his eyes for any trace of a joke.

- When did you get home?

- Dad's eyes suddenly rolled back, Alassane had continued, evading my question in the process. You could only see the whites of his eyes before he convulsed and collapsed to the floor. His right hand was clutching at his heart, as if trying to contain the immense pain. He was dribbling. His left hand reached for the ceiling, pointing at something only he could see. He couldn't make a sound. Mum and Uncle Sam drove him to the hospital...

As he described more details, I could see the horrific scene unfolding in my head. Dad had never been epileptic, nor had any member of his family for that matter. How to explain this sudden seizure at forty-five? The hubbub on the veranda now made sense,  the voices outside were praying for his salvation. Sleep had definitely left me. I wanted to save him, but I was powerless. I couldn't bear the feeling. Like the voices outside, I had surrendered myself to God. Kneeling down, forehead to the ground, eyes closed, I had made a thousand and one supplications to Him, I had begged His mercy a thousand and one times. Time passed, I don't know how much, but when my mother came back from the hospital, she brought tears and the dawn of sad days. She took me in her arms, without a word, and we cried and cried and cried. At that age, I had the basic maturity to understand that God had not heard my prayers. That day Dad was gone, and so was my faith.

"So far so good. The hardest part is not the fall, but the landing."

My life continues to slip away, inexhaustibly, before my eyes; my soul amputates itself more deeply from the satisfaction of having lived it. I observe my existence, telling myself that its brevity has the merit of enrolling me in the thirty-three year old club, thus placing me at the right hand of Jesus, Bruce Lee, Sam Cooke, Dj Arafat, Daniel Balavoine.... In the third quarter of the third second of my fall, I see a flood of memories as absurd as they are hilarious.

 I remember the time when Zagarino (my uncle), Zitisséno (my aunt), Chaco (my cousin) and I were suffering from the boredom of a day without flavour. To relieve the boredom, we decided to play football. Not the classic game, but rather Tiobo frappe. An extreme variation of football played only on the street, where everyone plays for themselves and nobody else. The aim of the game can be summed up in one simple rule: hit, until you're tired of it, any player who concedes a small bridge. Touching the nearest wall ends the massacre, or allows you to escape.

Uncle Zagarino ruled over his nephews like an iniquitous dictator over his people. The force of his tyranny inspired anger and resentment in us. Not a day went by that we didn't feel his wrath. We secretly harboured a fantasy of beating him, with all due respect for his status as uncle -  the challenge was to beat him without being accused of wrongdoing, because hitting your uncle would be wrong. Tiobo frappe was the answer to our dreams. The fantasy was one small bridge away from being realised.

In a clumsy attempt to tackle me, Uncle Zagarino had let the ball pass between his legs. Zitisséno, Chaco and I immediately surrounded him, before rushing at him, pinning him flat on the ground. Now we could finally get to work on his back. He took our punches, our palm strikes, our flip-flops and even our fingernails, without the slightest tear. He was big and burly, so he had to be strong. He took it silently, crawling with huge trouble to touch the wall of a fence about two meters from us. His stamina and courage left us in awe. He crawled on, slowly reducing the distance to the wall. Nearing the goal, he held out his right hand. His middle finger was almost there, five millimetres from the fence, when Alassane had appeared out of nowhere, kicking Uncle Zagarino's hand like a balloon. He then grabbed him by the legs and dragged him to the centre of the street. Uncle Zagarino, hitherto insensitive and brave, had succumbed to hot tears, seeing his hand so near and yet so far from touching the wall. All his efforts reduced to nothing. Uncle was crying like a toddler. The sight had sent us into a fit of uncontrollable hilarity. With that laughter, our revenge was over. We weren't sadistic, just vengeful.

"So far so good. The hardest part isn't the fall, but the landing."

In the fourth quarter of my third second of falling, a more recent memory pierces my heart. It's from the previous day. I see myself in a heated exchange with my mother. I hear her questioning the moral integrity of my future wife, explicitly accusing her of infidelity. I see myself defending my lover. I hear myself calling my mother a liar and selfish, accusing her in turn of always standing in the way of my happiness, warning her - in a firm tone - to get out of my life forever. The grief gnaws at me now, as I recall all the sacrifices she had made: to allow me to continue my studies; to maintain the same lifestyle we led before Dad died. My memories nail me to the cross of unworthy sons, even more so when I remember that I never said to her: "I love you, Mum". I'm falling towards my end. I no longer have the chance to making my contrition heard. I perish, leaving my mother in eternal sorrow.

"So far so good. The hardest part is not the fall but the landing."

At the fourth second of my fall, my head is no longer far from the ground. Peace betrays me; panic has a life of its own. An open window on the third floor of the building presents itself right in my path. I feel the temptation of one last indiscretion; a guiltless peek wouldn't hurt anyone. I catch sight of a fair-skinned woman in a wedding dress - the same as my lover's supposedly one-of-a-kind - clutching a tall, dark man with dreadlocks. The intertwining of their two bodies suggested a languorous exchange of kisses, with the passion of two libidinous men, weary of long-suppressed impulses. I'm barely intrigued by the detail of the dress when my head hits the floor. My brains spill out onto the pavement. My body bursts like a punctured balloon. Witnesses wonder why I fell. Everyone satisfies their curiosity by allowing their imagination to run wild.

Earlier before the fall

I would use words like anxiety, pressure and excitement to describe my mood an hour before the start of my wedding ceremony. Some of my groomsmen were tying their ties, others were tightening their belts, still others were polishing their shoes. And I was absent, though surrounded by my closest friends. I was thinking. Had I made the right choice? Was I really ready to take on this new life? My groomsmen had suggested that we go out on the terrace and smoke some pot, to relieve the pressure building up in me. I had approved the idea. After a few puffs, I felt suffused with calm. Not just me, either. My groomsmen had stripped off and improvised a juggling competition with an abandoned football. As for me, I'd moved closer to the edge of the terrace. Joint in hand, I contemplated life hundreds of metres below as the ball touched the back of my neck and pushed me forward. I plunged into the void in spite of myself. After a second's fall I said to myself:

"So far so good. The hardest part is not the fall but the landing."