Decolonization, the magic word of my generation, the “open sesame” of a continent scarred by history and which felt its time coming! Africa was going through the very first years of its independence and we were about 11 years old, our heads full of stars, eager for renewal and freedom, imbued with our negritude and even – why hide it? – a bit revengeful.
“The new Africa was us”
We grew up on the yardstick of national emancipation, fed at the breast of Pan-Africanism. The schoolmaster had taken us to town (50 km from the village) to see a film about the Algerian heroine Djamila Bouhired. He announced to us, shaken with tears, the death of Patrice Lumumba. On a classroom wall…
