Allah Is Not Obliged

“The full, final and completely complete title of my bullshit story is: Allah is not obliged to be fair about all the things he does here on earth.” Birahima, a child-soldier, narrates this book, winner of Prix Renaudot. I understand Kourouma’s decision to use a child-soldier as a narrator. His approach is unsentimental and unmanipulative and, in more nuanced prose, could have been devastating. But Kourouma is too enamored of his decision and spends too much time highlighting his own cleverness at the expense of a damning indictment.
Birahima has three exclamations/curses (in what I presume is the Malinke language) and he uses them frequently. Far too frequently. And while that may be how a child Birahima’s age really talks, it show more quickly becomes intrusive and distracting. Likewise, Kourouma has Birahima regularly define certain words for the reader in parentheses. Ordinary words as well as unusual Malinke (or other African languages) words. I can find no rhyme or reason for which words are defined. But again, Kourouma uses this device so frequently (often multiple times on a page) that it is annoying and distracts from the story. The subject of the book is important and needs to be told. But I found Kourouma’s stylistic tics so off-putting that they undercut his message. Appalling incidents of torture, dismemberment, rape, and murder lost their power because so much of Birahima’s narration is rendered in overstated, over-the-top prose. Kourouma is telling a gruesome, almost unspeakable story but the impact was so attenuated by his style of narration that the book became a effort instead of a riveting read.
The first half of the book clings to the story of Birahima searching for his aunt. Then, midway through the book, Birahima begins a tiresomely cynical narration of the political history of the civil wars in Sierra Leone and Liberia in the 1990s and early 2000s. Here especially, Birahima displays a wisdom and perceptiveness far beyond that of most children his age; it is jarring to have him narrate events around him as a child and then only a sentence later display a prescient, nuanced understanding of the larger circumstances and context. Either Birahima is a child with all the advantages (and limitations) that that choice entails or he is not. He can’t be both child and adult whenever shifting his insights suits Kourouma’s purposes. I liked Kourouma’s Suns of Independence and looked forward to this book. I wish I could recommend it.
P.S. Having written all of this, I must now add this addendum. In poking around the internet, I found “Childhoods Dis-ordered: Non-Realist Narrative Modes in Selected Post-2000 West African War Novels,” a Ph.D. dissertation by Cecilia Addei from the Department of English, University of the Western Cape in South Africa. I was pleased to find this work well-written and with an interesting and thought-provoking thesis. The author examined four different books, including Kourouma’s novel. Ms. Addei’s interpretation of the use of the various dictionaries is completely different from my take and I think it is well worth considering because she offers a cogent and (almost) convincing explanation for the style I disliked.
”In a world turned upside down, Birahima still wants to prove the truthfulness of his story…. Birahima’s commitment is to make his absurd story believable so he explains words which will validate his experience…. Even though Birahima seeks different ways to validate the absurdity of his war story, by appealing to God as guarantor of truth and the wisdom in folklore, the dictionaries are the final evidentiary support of the truth he wants to establish…his most authoritative form of validation…. Thus we see Birahima using more words to explain single words yet not achieving the reality he wants to achieve. This is due to the fact that language cannot let the actual reality reveal itself so we see at the end of the novel that the reader is taken back to the beginning with Birahima, unable to validate his absurd story and the reader not making any progress. Birahima will tell us his story again to prove its truthfulness and when we reach the end we will again go back to the beginning in an infinite and eternal circle that imitates the fact that there is no escape from language into truth. Birahima’s inability to prove the truthfulness of his story using dictionaries is in consonance with Jacques Derrida’s idea that language produces meaning only with reference to other meanings against which it takes on its own significance….”​
Although she hasn’t quite convinced me, I think she makes a good case for her interpretation. My reading about the book showed that opinions about the book vary quite widely. Notwithstanding my dissatisfaction, I would recommend considering the book. I’ve read Kourouma before (The Suns of Independence) and been impressed; perhaps I’m dismissing this work too easily. show less

On its face, this sounds like a great novel: an orphan-turned-child soldier accompanies a smuggler-turned-shaman on a years-long odyssey across Ivory Coast, Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone to find a perpetually fleeing aunt. In practise, the thing is a mess.

Allah is Not Obliged is framed as the recollections of Birahima, a Malinké boy who leaves home after his mother dies to live with his aunt in Liberia. Along the way, he gets swept up in the tribal wars and political unrest of West Africa in the early 90s, becoming a child soldier in the service of various warlords. His companion is Yacouba, a grigriman—someone who makes protective amulets and talismans and advises on spiritual matters like sacrifices and omens. Birahima is crass show more and crude, cynical about the state of the world and furious at having to live in it. He looks down on the indigenous animist tribes (who he calls "Black N*gger African Natives") and the Christian afro-American Liberians alike. No one is free from his scorn.

What makes the book so unbearable is the repetition and the definitions. Phrases, paragraphs, even whole sections are repeated for seemingly no reason. If a character is introduced once, they will be reintroduced at least three times more—Birahima even introduces himself to us more than once, never with any changes, as though we will have forgotten who is narrating the story. All of this, without a narrative purpose, comes across as useless flab. And speaking of flab, the fucking definitions. There is at least a pretence for these; in the beginning, Birahima explains that he has several dictionaries in front of him to help him tell his tale, as he, being Malinké, likely speaks Maninka, and has to translate his thoughts into French. Therefore, when he uses some words, he'll define them in simpler terms.

But this happens constantly. It's so, so unnecessary. I appreciated the definitions for culturally specific terms that I wasn't familiar with (excision, grigri, griot, etc.) but I don't need everyday words like "denial" or "havoc" or "swift" to be defined for me, and taking time to do so interrupts the flow of the narrative and, especially when it happens twice a page, wears on one's patience.

You could probably guess that a lot of heinous shit happens in this book. And it does. Rape, dismemberment, child murder, genital mutilation, political oppression, slavery, torture. I understand that these are facts of life during horrific times, and I could deal with them, but the way they're told is infuriating. Even the narrative feels sanded down, like all the interesting parts are breezed over in favour of history lessons or pages of repeated passages. Characters are rarely if ever developed.

Allah is Not Obliged is a good story told in a terrible way. There are interesting insights here about West African political dealings, tribal tensions, and the adoption of Abrahamic religions versus traditional animist practises. Still, I can't help but feel like the pain of the reading experience isn't worth it.

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Global Challenge: Côte d'Ivoire show less

Oliver Twist crossed with Holden Caulfield? Kids crossed with Lord of the Flies? Bouncing back and forth between two civil wars, hopped up on hash and witchcraft? Birahima, our damaged li'l protagonist, weaves in and out of the West African hellscape, dancing between the tragedies like they turn to water as soon as they hit him. You root for him, the homicidal monster. You have to, because who else is availabe? Anyone who's not a killer is gonna get their arms and legs cut off by Foday Sankoh's RUF, or raped and decapitated by the Kamajors, an "Ivoirian Freemasonry of hunters," or tortured and executed by one of several cruel-beyond-belief "battle nun"–type figures who combine a kind of motherhood with a bloodlust that's cartoonish, show more mangaesque. Probably the kids will kill you fastest and feel worst about it.

This book got a lot of things across from me. What it means for animism to be an immanent part of daily life, as opposed to a shameful indulgence like here in Uganda (it means a lot more killing). How important it is for newspaper atrocities to be attached to stories that tell it like people would tell it--cruicially, with all the hardbitten irony and absurdist delight this child soldier can muster--in order for the bewildering history to stick to your brain, turn into something with bite and dimension. How they guy in charge will never leave well enough alone, because "he doesn't give a fuck, he controls the useful part of Sierra Leone!" and by the time he realizes he can't get away with controlling it any more, it's way, way too late for hum to even control his own life or safety. Not giving a fuck--being too lazy, as well as too afraid, to do anything other than what the crowd is doing, even if that's killing everybody, because at least it's a living and a laugh and better to be doing the hand-chopping than having it done to you--is so fucking human-sounding and leaves me quite sure that if you took us in a vaunted first-world country like Canada and subtracted wealth and subsistence and added a million guns and ethnic hatred, you'd have the exact same thing. It would have been easy for Kourouma to tug the heartstrings, but he doesn't do it directly--only when you stop to reflect are you overwhelmed--because any kid would choose, like Birahima, not to give a fuck, since the ones who don't remove themselves from consideration by dying. Dying, and the threat of death, change everything, and we'd all be something fucked-up like a thugged-out cannibal or a baby with no hands or a bloodthirsty nun, or we'd just be wraiths of a past when there were other choices. show less

Full title--Allah is not obiged to be fair about all the things he does here on this earth--more fully express the nature of Ahmadou Kourouma's fascinating novel that won two major French literary prizes. The novel follows young Birahima a ten year old native of the Ivory Coast and his adventures as a boy soldier through a number of African tribal wars mostly set in Liberia. Accompanied in these adventures by Yacouba--a con man and maker of lucky charms (charms that is to deflect would be bullets away from the wearer) he crosses over between warring clans battling for hegemony in war torn Liberia. Birishima narrates adventures of murder, torture, dismemberment and general all around lunacy. Kalashnikov in hand he plays a part in them show more himself--somehow managing to maintain his sanity. His young age probably helps.

Above all what makes this seemingly grim story a winner is its humor--reminiscent of Celine's Journey to the end of the night. The voice of Birishima is always sardonic--even more sardonic when he seems more confused about what the adults around him are up to. The book is often laugh out loud hilarious. Kourouma makes his points about his native West Africa--giving us much food for thought between comedic turns. It is racy and raunchy and there is no holds barred in terms of language use or blood and gore. It moves quickly and smoothly and at least to my mind borders on greatness. The first thing I did on finishing this was order another book by him. Unfortunately he died in 2003 and there are only 4 novels I know of but if they are anything like this one--I'll be reading all of them. Anyway I definitely recommend this. show less

This is a 'young rockers' trip through the hells and atrocities of child warfare in West Africa. In the first person, Barahima, a boy/young teen gets paired up with his erstwhile companion Yacouba, who indirectly saves the boy's life a few times. The two bounce from one faction to another as tribal wars rage, sides and politics change, and leaders die. As the book winds down, the author shifts gears to describe a series of leaderships changes and some historical events of the 1990's.

The real power in the book isn't the storyline, although that has twists and turns and there's never a dull moment. The real amazing thing about the novel is the voice. The child comes off not as precocious--he's rarely telling of any amazing feats he show more accomplished with his AK-47--but more as a hardened, slightly desultory, ready-for-anything, mature (giving funeral oratories privately for his young colleagues in sidebars to the reader), expletive-slinging soldier with more amazement than criticism for the crazy greed and lies all around him. This character stands the test of time and this voice would be amazing in any era or setting--although clearly a watermark of the unique politico-social environment of the time. show less

This is like Pere Ubu traipsing through the jungles of West Africa seeking riches: the ribald and absurdist journey of a ten year old hired gun and his bullshit-talking, witch doctor guardian, both surviving their way through Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast and Liberia during their most violent years. Unlikely captures and escapes propel the narrator and his cohort from one camp of fighters to another and from one key moment of the wars to the next. Their movements give Kourouma the opportunity to tell the history of the wars that ravaged West Africa at the end of the twentieth century, though this strains the believability of his ten year old narrator--whose own needs and concerns disappear for many pages at a time, giving way to Kourouma's show more caustic history:

"The Black Nigger Natives worked as hard as wild beasts. The creoles got all the jobs as civil servants in the government and managers of the commercial businesses. And the colonial English colonists and the thieving double-crossing Lebanese pocketed all the money.";

"Foday Sankoh isn't duped by the democracy game. No sir. He doesn't want anything to do with any of it. He doesn't want a National Conference, he doesn't want free and fair elections. He doesn't want anything. He controls the part of the country with diamonds; he controls the useful part of Sierra Leone. He doesn't give a fuck."

"Allah is Not Obliged" moves quickly and unfolds like an oral history with numerous refrains and repetitions which are, in this case, largely profane. Kourouma seeks to explain the precociousness of his narrator as the result of a gift of numerous dictionaries from a deceased translator and these produce a much overused trope:

"Nobody can be obliged to do anything because no one's got the time to go round putting rebel fighters on trial for perjury in the fucked-up four-star chaos of tribal wars in Liberia ('perjury', according to my Larousse, means 'the deliberate, willful giving of false testimony under oath')."

These parenthetical definitions (which accompany the initial arrival of nearly 50% of larger words) are rather annoying and while Kourouma set himself up to underscore the inherent political bias of different dictionaries (since Birahima possesses at least four), he doesn't actually succeed on this mission. The choice of dictionary always seems random and unrevealing; so the one potentially interesting aspect of reminding his readers what words mean is lost.

I've avoided reading some of the denser histories of the conflict that serves as the context of this book, so I'm actually grateful to Kourouma's history and I enjoyed the pure ridiculousness of the narrator and his friends. The book's dark humor gives it a certain charm as do the funeral orations delivered by Birahima for his tiny dead friends.

It's hard for me not to like a book that treats the subject of child soldiers with *none* of the sentimentality and manipulation that the subject has received from other quarters. A small passage that seems to contain a bit of Kourouma's contempt for the plaintive (and I would argue, totally insincere) hand-wringing about young killers:

"The dead child-soldier was called Kid, Captain Kid. Now and again in his beautiful song, Colonel Papa le Bon chanted 'Captain Kid' and the whole cortege howled after him 'Kid, Kid'. You should have heard it. They sounded like a bunch of retards." show less

Un petit bijou terrifiant. Le ton, l'ecriture, le langage, tout concorde pour nous plonger dans l'univers deroutant de ces enfants-soldats du Liberia.
Kourouma depeint avec une veracite feroce la deshumanisation d'un enfant.