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Growing up on Liv Kòbòy
gmathurin

The combination of the early Haitian sun and the street sounds of Port-au-Prince, a unique blend of voices, cars, and animal noise, would wake me up every Saturday morning. Racing out of bed to quickly brush my teeth and bathe, so I would not be late to accompany my mother to the market, for Saturday was the day to restock the nourishment. As she prepared her grocery list of bread, chicken, rice, bannann,, I would review mine in my head, Akim, Zembla, Rodeo, Tintin, Blek le Roc, Nevada. Or, whatever I was lucky enough to find.

I looked forward to the trip to the market, not only for these liv kòbòy, comic books, but I took pleasure in the superb medley of people, animals sounds, colors, and smells that created the market. My mother was an expert communicator, shopper and negotiator; her skill for picking ripe and delicious fruits and vegetables is something that I still cannot duplicate at my local super market. With a few words, she could tell from what region the vendor was from; with skilled maneuvering, she could glide through the over crowdedness and complete her list quickly; with a keen eye, she would negotiate prices and watch for faulty mamit, the aluminum can by which rice, peas, or beans were measured.

As my mother shopped, my eyes would hunt for the book vendors, the local “librarians,” usually positioned on the outer edge of the market. Armed with whatever money I was able to collect from my father’s bed after his afternoon naps, I would search for the comic book vendors.

On the tables, liv kòbòys were carefully laid out, mensuel and bimensuel, monthly and bi-monthly, most of them in French, but a few in Spanish. There were all sorts of titles in all sorts of conditions, many were wrinkled and used, and often had missing pages. My favorites were Akim and Blek le Roc. Akim was a take on Tarzan, and Blek le Roc, unknown to me at the time, was about pre independence America. Very often, I would have a specific title and series number in mind, but seldom did I find the right number and series. Walking away with any liv kòbòy made the whole morning worthwhile.

My mother didn’t mind adding additional funds to help me buy more books, for she knew my afternoon would be spent out of her hair. I would find a corner of the front porch to sit and read. The world of Akim and Zembla took me to the jungles of Africa, though, now, I realize how unrealistic and sometimes racists that world was. Rodeo and Nevada would take me to the American Wild West. Tintin would take me all over the world, from Tibet to Africa, from the Caribbean to Russia.

On the front porch of a house in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, I traveled the world through the pages of a variety of liv kòbòys. These French comic books, though used, sometimes missing pages, or read out of order, became animated in my hands as a child, on a Saturday afternoon.