Brazzaville celebrates Congolese authors
Brazzaville’s French Institute buzzed in late October as the inaugural Phratrie Congolaise gathered writers, performers and readers around the memory of Sylvain Bemba and Sony Labou Tansi. Among the guests, Emmanuel Boundzeki Dongala, smiling behind wire-rim glasses, drew packed rooms eager to hear his steady, humorous voice.
He insists the four-day encounter “really worked”, crediting organisers for linking generations: elders like Tchicaya U Tam’si to mid-career voices Henri Lopès and Maxime Ndebeka. “I felt honoured to be invited,” he says, his measured cadence turning the conference hall into an intimate living-room.
Life after years of teaching abroad
Dongala spent decades teaching chemistry and literature in the United States before retiring “three or four years ago”. Now split between Tours and Paris, he waves away the word rest. “I keep working even if I’m old,” he grins, adjusting a scarf against the Brazzaville heat.
The writer will turn eighty-five next July, a fact he shares with theatrical suspense. Age, he jokes, only means “following the young generation with benevolence”. Physically he feels the years, yet his brown notebook is thick with drafts and sleepless scribbles.
Writing at 85 and the next manuscript
“Literarily, I’ll continue until I physically cannot,” Dongala vows. His immediate goal is to finish a manuscript before December, hoping for publication next year. He declines spoilers, yet assures the plot “demands research, craft, patience”—three nouns he repeats like a professor drilling verbs.
Behind La Sonate à Bridgetower
His most recent novel, La Sonate à Bridgetower, reimagines the friendship between Beethoven and the mixed-race violin prodigy George Bridgetower. The book appeared after five patient years of composition, proving again that Dongala favours depth over speed in an industry chasing constant headlines.
Readers lined up after his panel, first editions in hand. “I don’t publish every two years,” he reminds them, “sometimes four, five.” The comment draws laughter but also respect: each release arrives as an event, discussed on radio morning shows and literature WhatsApp groups.
Congolese literature’s global momentum
Asked about the current Congolese scene, Dongala’s eyes brighten. “Nothing more to add—it’s recognised, celebrated.” Indeed, translations circulate in English, Spanish, even Japanese, extending voices like Henri Djombo or Fann Attiki beyond regional fairs. “Our literature stands beside the universal canon,” he states.
Statistics from the International Organisation of Francophonie confirm the trend: Congolese titles represented almost ten percent of African works translated into French markets last year (OIF 2024). Independent booksellers in Pointe-Noire report growing demand, especially among students preparing for competitive exams.
Hard-earned advice for newcomers
Yet talent alone, Dongala warns, is not enough. “Everyone feels inspired,” he says, folding his hands. “The difference is work.” He urges novices to read widely, rewrite relentlessly, share drafts with trusted friends. Inspiration, he laughs, “is a spark; labour is the generator”.
His personal routine begins with dawn walks, followed by four disciplined hours at the desk. Afternoons are for reading African classics or listening to jazz that “keeps rhythm in the sentences”. Evenings, he revisits pages with red pen, “because fresh eyes arrive after sunset”.
Funding, festivals and the future
In spite of the celebration’s success, Dongala regrets that few official cultural representatives attended. “It was a missed opportunity,” he remarks, stressing that private and international partners, notably the French Institute, funded most logistics. He hopes future editions draw broader support from municipal and national bodies.
Cultural economist Thérèse Mavouenzela notes that public spending on books remains under one percent of Congo-Brazzaville’s culture budget, a gap that “limits festivals outside capital cities”. She believes partnerships with telecom firms could ease transport and marketing costs for provincial events.
For Dongala, the conversation returns to youth. He envisions a rotating festival mixing theatre, poetry and song, traveling from Brazzaville to Ouesso and Dolisie. “The will exists,” he insists. “What’s missing are the means—and confidence that our stories matter everywhere.”
He dismisses pessimism about technology. “Phones don’t kill reading; they spread excerpts,” he argues, citing viral screenshots of Congolese verses on X. The challenge, he adds, is ensuring writers earn royalties from digital platforms while keeping print books available in rural kiosks.
The work goes on
As twilight settles over the Congo River, Dongala autographs a final programme sheet. The line ends, but a toddler in her mother’s arms hands him a notebook. He writes carefully: “Read and dream.” The mother smiles; the writer’s next chapter already feels underway.
For a man approaching eighty-five, that promise sounds like routine. “I will keep at it,” he says, closing the notebook. The flow of people disperses, but Brazzaville’s night air carries a certainty: Emmanuel Dongala is working.
Back at his hotel, he checks messages from former students in Boston who still call him ‘Prof’. Their encouragement, he admits, fuels dawn walks. “Teaching ends in classrooms,” he says, “but stories keep teaching after lights go off.”
