Читать книгу "Yeah, I am the rich black man from New York in Africa: Johnny Fuck Me Walker" - Dantse Dantse - Страница 4

“What are you doing here, Johnny? Aren’t you supposed to be in Brazil instead of here in Paris, watching the world cup?” teased Roger Johnny.

Like all soccer fans Johnny and Roger were in a finale fever and about to watch the match between Germany and Argentina in a bar with friends and acquaintances.

For a match like this, the bar wasn’t too crowded, but the atmosphere couldn’t have been better.

People were commenting and having heated discussions about who was going to win the final. The opinions were split, and there was no clear majority for either country.

There were fans who were rooting fanatically for one or the other country and didn’t let themselves thrown off by any arguments coming their way, but there were also lots of people who just wanted to see a nice finale.

One trend was apparent, though: The “foreigners” in France were leaning towards Germany, the French towards Argentina.

Johnny supported Germany as well. He had always been a fan of the team.

“The Djaman (Cameroonian for Germans) are going to win” he said into the room, which started a loud and heated discussion, since the Gaucho fans couldn’t agree with that one.

“I’m telling you, the Germans are going to win the finale. I’m sure“, he affirmed and continued loud-mouthed: “I myself, as a soccer expert, predict Germany to win during extra-time by the goal from…”

“Klose, the old man with the iron nerves. A player with experience. It will be a header, his specialty” said Roger.

“Shut up, Roger, a sports-incapable like you. Since when do you know about soccer? Let the men talk about soccer and join Rita and the other women over there, that’s your corner. I’m telling you, Germany is going to win the match without any goals against them, because I can’t see how Messi is going to score against Boateng or Neuer. Not the old Klose is going to score. No, no, you have to have instinct, man. You have to feel this stuff. See things that don’t speak for themselves. A young bull like Müller, Götze or Kroos is going to make the winning goal. That’s the course of the world. This is their moment. Klose has had his time. Only fate has stopped me from standing in the finale with them“, explained Johnny.

„Please close your mouth. If you’re thirsty take one more beer, I will gladly pay for it, better than this nonsense. The fate, the fate, haha”, replied another African who was sitting at the table with them.

“Why not? Why am I talking nonsense? It’s true. Look at Boateng. Is he not as black as you and me? Fate has decided that he should grow up in Germany and win the world cup soon. The first black world champion in and from Germany. If I had grown up in Germany, I would be playing in that team. I’m telling you, I’d be with them! Full stop, finished. This is not a discussion“, answered Johnny.

“You’d desert your own team, the untamable lions from Cameroon, and play for Germany?” the other Cameroonian asked further.

“What, the untamable lions from Cameroon? Ha ha ha, let me laugh. They have become house cats!” joked someone from Senegal, making fun of the team that had been kicked out very early.

“You don’t understand, idiots. I don’t even know if I want to stay here with you and talk. I want to concentrate on the game now. Whether you like or not, I’m appointing myself the expert tonight in this bar” stated Johnny.

“Yeah, he’s right. Actually he’s supposed to be in Brazil with the Cameroonian delegation and not in Paris. What are you doing here, you expert?” teased Roger who was wasted already.

“You’re drunk, Roger” said Johnny and didn’t comment any further, because the match had just started.

After 120 minutes the match had stopped, Germany was the world champion and a young bull named Götze had scored, who wasn’t even 24 years old. Messi hadn’t been successful either.

“Didn’t I say? If you’re good, you’re good. I’m good, no matter what you enviers say. That wasn’t voodoo magic; that was skill” Johnny praised himself, but couldn’t get any reaction from Roger. He had slept the whole match and missed everything.

Johnny woke him up: “Drunkard, get up, we’re leaving. The match is over.”

“Did Cameroon win? Did Roger Milla score?” asked Roger who looked like he was just coming back from another world. He had forgotten that the hero Roger Milla hadn’t played soccer for the last 20 years and that the finale today was Germany versus Argentina.

Without opening his eyes he asked again: “What are you doing in Paris, Johnny? Aren’t you supposed to be in Brazil? Did you call Anzehma? Man, man, the poor girl. What have we done? This is not good. This is cruel, Johnny.”

Johnny kept silent at first, picked up his friend and together with two other carried him to his car. On the way the drunken Roger told them everything that had happened since September 2013 in Cameroon and didn’t let Johnny interrupt him.

“Why didn’t the old Amina help us, the witch? It wouldn’t have been a problem for her. Her husband is rich. She is rich and you two had some nice flings, didn’t you? I hate her. I hate her, brother. Because of her Anzehma had to suffer. We wouldn’t have gotten this idea. Now this girl and her parents have to carry a giant heap of debt on their shoulders. Isn’t that mean, what we did? Isn’t that bad? We’re sitting here in Paris and act like we are fine. But we are con artists, and you are a marriage swindler. Fuck me, Johnny Fuck Me Walker? Haha, that’s your name?”

He made a break and fell asleep. Yes, he even snored and Johnny was a little relieved, because there were five people in the car, his wife Rita, a friend of hers, a friend of Johnny’s, Roger and himself, behind the wheel.

None of his fellow passengers know his story. They still thought he was on the run, because of his various attacks on the president of Cameroon.

Roger stopped snoring and, like a machine, continued his monologue just where he had left off.

“Hey guys, he called himself Johnny fuck me Walker, the Afro-American! The rich man who knows Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston, who’s played basketball with Obama, Lebron James and Joran, who’s met 50 Cent, Beyonce, Dr. Dre, Kanye West, Snoop and Stevie Wonder. Hahaha, you’re a marriage swindler, man. We have robbed a whole village. We have scammed an already very poor 18-year old girl and led her to poverty forever, barely without a chance of becoming happy in this world. The rich prince from New York. Johnny, we have sinned.

We have to take from the poor and not from the rich. I wouldn’t care if we’d stolen Amina 10.000.000 €. I’d be happy and consider myself a hero. For this girl, her family and the whole village even 100.000 € was too much. They sold their belongings, hoping that there’ll be real streets, an airport, hotels, a university and supermarkets in their village soon. She was looking forward to Obama coming to your wedding. But how could she be so naïve? It would’ve been so easy to lift the secret. The hope for wealth brings people to believe in impossible things. Even when all the lights are red, they see green. Money has magic. Money is magic. Because of money people lose their mind and senses. Because of money, people become criminals.

I should be accusing the money and not you, Johnny fuck me Walker. The money shows itself and hides again, like a woman who shows herself to you openly and then runs into a maze. Your horny and your man is up, like a bar, and you’re running after her and see her turning around the next corner, and you’re getting hornier, more motivated to finally get to her. She drives you mad and you forget everything around you. You will do anything to get her. It’s the same way with money, Johnny. In the end, we all just want the money. We didn’t want to harm anyone. We just wanted the damn money. Yes, the damn money to get out of our country, to get even more money. We just wanted to go somewhere we could get a little bit off the really rich. Where all of our money lies. Here in Paris. Shouldn’t be reprehensible, it’s just that a poor girl had to fall for that.

Johnny, tell me, how do you think she is? Is she still alive? Are her poor and sick parents still alive? Could they handle the shock? What kind of men are we? No, I’m going to write down my memories in a diary. Do you want to know what the title’s going to be? ‘The marriage swindler, the African woman and the illusion of the American dream.’ Yes, it’s all an illusion. We’re here in Paris and the money we saw on the TV in Cameroon is nowhere to be found. Did you find a single Euro on the street? Hahaha, I’m cracking up. We betray, kill, take on dangers and drown in the sea or in the desert, just to get to Europa. Yes, while we’re in Africa, Europe shows us all of its money. Just like the woman in the maze. They tease us and get us to admire them. Europe is happy, yes, Europe is proud when it sees us fight to get to it. Europe enjoys it to hear that hundreds of Africans have drowned in the ocean, just to reach Europe. It makes it feel special. It plays you, just like the woman who shows herself to you openly and then runs away. Just like that, Europe feels precious and can give its children a feeling of superiority. You see, children? You see how well off you are? Be happy and glad about what you have. Other people would be happy to just get the scraps you leave behind. Europe tells things like this to its children to numb their own pain, their own sadness. It is all an illusion. We all, the African woman, and the children of Europe: we all live an illusion.

I asked you Johnny, you wanted to come to Paris to get the money you’d seen on TV. True, isn’t it? You thought, just like me, that you could come here and see Mercedes lined up at the airport and you could just take your pick? You thought, you get here, go into any shop and pick up your own Boss-suit? Tell the truth, Rita, you were sure the Chanel perfume would be handed out on the streets, weren’t you? Johnny, you thought, you’d get to Paris and every flat would look like the hotel rooms from the Meridien in Douala, didn’t you? You never knew, Johnny. You didn’t know. Tell me I’m wrong.”

They had arrived in a Banlieue north west from Paris and got out of the car. They had to walk another 100 meter to get to their block.

Johnny and a friend carried Roger up to the seventh floor, without an escalator, while he kept talking like an assembly line.

“We’re here in Paris, Johnny. You get it, Rita; we’re in Paris and not in Douala. Haha, haha… Johnny, didn’t you know the walls are moldy here as well? Didn’t you know, the stairs are just as stinky and dirty here? Didn’t you know there are holes in the streets here too? Didn’t you know that’ll meet children and people here with holes in their clothes? You didn’t know that people steal and fight to get a piece of bread around here, did you? You didn’t know that the people here can say they are hungry, did you? Didn’t you know that they sell spoons of oil here because people can’t afford a full bottle?”

They had managed to get up to their run-down flat. They hadn’t had power in two days because no one had paid the bills. They lit up the room with the phone’s flashlight and brought Roger to the bed in which three of them slept.

“Did you know, Johnny, that people in Europe also get the power turned off when they don’t pay their bills? Just like in Cameroon? Yes, Brother. This ugly part of Europe hid itself from us. No, that would’ve scared and discouraged us from taken the journey to paradise. I am sure I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known all of this before. If I had seen all of this on TV, if all the Europeans I’ve met in Cameroon wouldn’t have acted as if poverty didn’t exist here.

Europe didn’t show us its whole truth about itself. It didn’t and doesn’t want to. It is scared to lose its value. Yes, what would it be bragging with? How can it give its children any pride, when no one shows any interest and leaves Europe to itself?

They use billions to fight against immigration, but it would be so much easier to just show these images to the world. Look here, look at the stairs of this house, have a look at where we sleep. This is what we had to become criminal for? This is why we had to be so unjust to this girl? We have to commit more crimes now and make the unjust just again. But here it’s not that bad. Europe has enough money, doesn’t it? Stealing a little bit more from Paris and bringing it back to Cameroon isn’t going to make Paris poor now, is it? Now you have to show you are really Johnny fuck me Walker, the rich man from New York – but this time in Europe.

Now we begin to give the illusion a taste of reality. From the illusion of money to real money. Now you are going to confront that woman. She won’t be able to run away any more. But now you are not going to sleep with her to punish her for letting you suffer before. Europe has lured us here with its money. This money we have to take now and help the girl in Africa and her village. We have to repair the injustice. 500.000 € Europe is going to pay for giving us an illusion. Now I’m happy again, Johnny. Now I’m good and I know you’re feeling good as well. Good night, brother. Sleep well. We have arrived in the place where we will take our money.”

Johnny put a blanket over his friend and said: “Thank you brother, yes, I’m good again too. Really good: For the first time since we’re here in France. Yes, we’ve arrived. We will make up for everything. I am Johnny fuck me Walker. You sleep well too.”