Diop’s novel adopts the voice of a Senegalese soldier fighting for the French in the trenches of the first world war. Alfa Ndiaye is no ordinary soldier: he’s a cold-blooded killer who curates a collection of hands of the enemy soldiers he’s killed, a collection which succeeds in freaking out his fellow soldiers, both black and white. The reason he adopts this habit is because he’s seeking revenge for the death of his great childhood friend, Mademba Diop, whose lingering death he witnessed and has appeared to tip him over the edge. After being sent away from the front line, Ndiaye reminisces about his time in Senegal. One of the most interesting chapters is one where he recounts how his father refused to accept the chief’s order to convert to a monoculture of peanuts. The chapter is fascinating but tangential. Other chapters describe the loss of his virginity in detail. I had a female friend who would say with some vehemence how much she hated the word “moist” and she would have taken some umbrage with this book where there’s a surfeit of moistness. Indeed, there’s much about this slight novel which feels awkward. Ndiaye feels a like a conveniently literary creation. Perhaps there are layers of subtlety which passed this reader by, but the depiction of the psychotic Senegalese seems to lack any real sense of conviction. Horrific events are glossed over and feel like they are included for effect as much as any desire to truly investigate the soldier’s plight. It feels as though Alfa Ndiaye’s narrative, as told by the author, is in danger of selling him short.
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