Chapter One

Razaf

1982

"Aleo mandà tsy handeha toy izay manaiky tsy ho lasa."
"It's better to refuse to go, than to accept not to go."

This is it. This moment is why I've been counting down the days until I'm eighteen.

Mid-August's usual airport crowds are here. It's when people go abroad to begin their school year in September. They're either really good students — and all these valuable brains leaving the country is why it will stay poor — or they're well-off, like the offspring of politicians and tycoons. I'm the latter, unfortunately. I'm one of those kids who rely entirely on their family's wealth rather than any intellectual prowess. Without a shred of shame as well.

I've trodden these same corridors for five consecutive years, bidding farewell to each of my five brothers embarking on their journeys to France. But today, I'm not here as an escort. I'm the sixth child, and it's finally my turn to go. My little brother, Dazo, is up next year. I don't know how my parents did it, but they orchestrated this perfectly: their sons jetting off one after the other at eighteen to study abroad.

I know the procedure by heart now: arrive two hours early, line up, check in with passport and plane ticket, blah, blah, blah.

It's boring, really. The two-hour early part was always confusing. The entire population of Madagascar is notorious for its tardiness. Really, we're late for everything. When a meeting is scheduled for 10 am, it's understood by all involved that nobody will actually arrive until 11 am. It's like an unspoken agreement. We even have a word for it: the fotoan-gasy, meaning the Malagasy time. But at the airport, everybody is early, which is kind of pathetic. We're all just itching to get out of this dump. Some get to escape; others aren't that lucky.

I thought I was one of the lucky ones. My father is a powerful man. Works in Finance (i.e. access to money, i.e. rich), always wears a suit and tie, holds a leather briefcase containing top secret files, as all briefcases do, has seven children, all boys — which appears to be an important detail to some people. Grey hair, dark skin, but — he insisted on pointing out to his children and anyone asking (not that anyone ever asked) — a noble. This, in Madagascar, means "black people not descended from slaves but from royals."

If his power was usually a good thing, this time, it isn't. It's simple maths: important and powerful people equal important and powerful enemies.

I sense trouble when the security guard singles out my father and me in the queue, treating us more like suspects than the esteemed guests we usually were. I mean, back when I accompanied my brothers, it was like a red-carpet treatment whenever they spotted my father and his briefcase. We'd be ushered through the line in no time. There is no red-carpet treatment for me, though.

Criminal, more like.

"The Ministry of Finance has ordered an investigation against your father regarding a suspicion of money laundering."

To say I am confused would be the understatement of the year.

Next thing I know, the security guards take my father away to one of their interrogation rooms, I presume. Before he disappears, he manages to look at me and mouths, "Everything will be okay."

I should say "Yes, don't worry, I'll take care of Mum and Dazo", seeing as I'm the man of the family at this particular moment. Instead, I choose to blurt out from the depth of my frustration and confusion: "What the fuck, dad?"

My mum, Dazo, and I stand outside the airport, looking like three lost puppies. A few minutes pass (I have no idea how many; it might have been hours, actually) before someone comes to talk to us. "I'm sorry," the security guard says, "I have to confiscate your passports. Your family is prohibited from leaving the territory until the end of the investigation."

And I didn't know it yet, but I never left to study abroad. My dad was pronounced guilty. There was no prison time, but he was prohibited from exercising his functions for the foreseeable future. That's all the expensive lawyers could do. A battle against the state is often a losing battle.

It all goes downhill from here.

Little did I realise that our wealth would become the very obstacle to my dreams, crushing them in the process.

Nevertheless, I meticulously followed the steps: patiently waiting to come of age, submitting my application to the Conservatory of Lille, and ultimately securing acceptance. All of that for being rejected at the airport and being issued a prohibition from leaving the country.

Fuck this.