Bamako, 2013. I met him on the stairs at Institut Français du Mali. He had the kindness to greet first. We were going for the same Mondoblog training in Dakar. It was the memory that came back to my mind at the announcement of his death. Boukary died with arms in hand like a fighter. What he was, he who for several months resisted the roller of a disease that was eating him. He who, faced with the virulence of the tone of the young brothers that we were, always took the serene mask of the wise to bring us to add a little water to our frustrations, to our anger. He was never suspected of following but was constantly animated by the desire to make a difference. “I’m afraid for you when I read your articles”. He told me one day in his office. He was repeating the same thing to me on the radio sets we shared. He who wanted to be a passive blogger.
Passive? That is, he did not want to talk about politics. On his Fasokan blog, Boukary wrote in the Bambara language, which he wanted to value, to take out borrowings and amalgams. Then came his cultural project When the village wakes up for which “Fasokan”, as he was called, traveled through the villages to collect traditions, culture and disseminate them. Traditions he loved to talk about as Christ loves the Church. It was thanks to him that one could discover why a frog has no tail. It was thanks to him that one could discover what was hidden behind the Dogon mask.
Boukary is a baobab that has fallen. A full well that was suffering from seeing next to other dry wells. A full-fledged one, from which many things have been learned. A library that did not burn, for what he knew, he shared it with us under the conditions we all knew. What else can be told? What else can be done, if not nods, smiles of incredulity, which mutate into disgust, disgust with life and everything that composes it. Disgust of being a man, a son of Adam who will one day be eaten by death, and who will be buried. Boukary, you can finally rest and you deserve it.