... "Men ran in all directions, cut up stones , pushing trucks, rose roots ... Everything under the watchful gaze of the white foreman. And Mankuku was fascinated by this man, these men: Where did his power? Do your ancestors? Look at that man alone, without arms, his face reddened by the heat, protecting its white hull. It would only take two of us, one, me for example, to put out of action, kill, and yet no one dares, something stops us. There is, alone, giving orders, dictating their will to ten, hundred, thousand, thousands of us. And to me, Mankuku Mandala, whose ancestor was knocking back the powerful. Moreover, nothing could resist his will. If a rocky annoyed they did away with the noise that would ten times one hundred guns. If a montabña bother him, cut it in half and dug a tunnel to pass underneath. If a river bridged bothered him over and went his way. Where were the case, chasing a horizon that constantly running away? Mankuku tensed his muscles, taking the burning cross, the deposited, returned to his companion to look for another. Yes, what could stop them? Naturally, at times, our ancestors took revenge: some mornings, the workers were yet carrying its rail sleepers hanging in the air over the gap as a result of a landslide that had drawn thousands of cubic meters of earth; as well, not that discouraged foreign, began again, made them work double hard, consolidated the edges of fill and continued. The death of dozens of workers was indifferent: traveler, if you ever take the train that carries the great river to the ocean, listen carefully for the click wheel on the rails, as each of them, each tac-tac, account the dead, then think a little of all the men buried in these mountains as you pass and remember that here is a dead man for each cross. Maybe that will help your soul to sleep in peace . "
" The fire's origins. "Emmanuel Dongala. The Copper-House Africa.
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