People recognized me as I walked through the prison. Everyone thought I had been pardoned when they heard my name being chanted. Some of the provosts even stopped to congratulate me. Others who had never spoken to me before approached me and said:
“So? This is a special day for you!”

They wanted to touch me, shake my hand… The superstitious Hindus wanted some of my luck. I was the first one to find out about getting my “māphī”; the naikes gave me preferential treatment, putting me in the picture before everyone else; probably because I was a foreigner, and by the way, the only foreigner who was pardoned there.

At around 9:00 a.m., the other prisoners who had applied for a pardon gathered in front of Block 8. The names were called out; there were probably about a hundred of them. Others came to attend this biannual event to have something to do or take a break from the prison routine. After a few minutes, the chowkidar arrived with a list in his hand. With much suspense in the air, he announced in a sanctimonious tone the names of the happily elected; myself and 64 others.

I spent most of the morning shopping. At the Mudha Company store in Block 5, I bought a mudha (a small, round, backless bamboo chair) as a souvenir.
Then it was off to the clothing store, where I went on a little shopping spree, buying two undergarments and a polo shirt.

The idea was to spend all the money I had so that my pockets would be empty when I arrived at the administrative centre. Based on my prison experience, I wanted to avoid the risk of extortion by the police and/or prisoners.

When it was over, I still had 300 rupees, so I went to the washroom and put them in my boxers. I knew that the guards never searched that area. Lastly, I had time to go to the prison hairdresser and barber before my release.

My name was being called out again throughout the building: 65 of us needed to be ready to leave. I showed up but wasn’t very hopeful. At least I knew I wouldn’t be turfed out onto the street like the locals. Because I was a foreigner, they would transfer me to the Department of Immigration. I watched the Nepalese leave in the rain with a smug smile on their faces and a rolled-up mattress on their shoulders. Others stared at them with envy. Just some masochistic spectators looking for a bit of excitement in seeing the lucky guys leave.

But I had to continue waiting. I went to eat in the kitchen where Nik, an inmate friend of mine, had prepared some curried chicken to celebrate my release. I had barely finished my meal when I heard my name on the microphone again. I wolfed down the rest. His curry was amazing. My name got called out a second and third time. But I took a moment to say what I thought was a final goodbye to Nik. Then, in the rain, I raced back to my block. The Bikash sahanaike who was on duty at the entrance reprimanded me:
“Do you want to leave or what?”
A few minutes prior, he told me he would be bringing my bags to the door so I went there directly. There, I asked the service naike:
“Are my things there?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered evasively.
“Okay, I’ll check.”
“No, no, get back here, you have to leave! Go!”
“Go! Go!” hollered the provosts behind me as I ran inside to get away from them and hurry. It must have been quite something to see a prisoner being begged to leave while running in the opposite direction. In the block, my bags were still on the bed; Bikash hadn’t touched them, despite what he had said…
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he said as he helped me take my stuff outside.

This time, they made sure I would leave. I was now facing the door, with only the security cordon between my knees and the outside world. For the first time since I had entered the prison, I saw another world; women in colourful saris, no man’s land, administration buildings, the boulevard to my left… I was filled with a sense of freedom; the outside was calling me.
“Go,” ordered a naike. I was about to cross over the cordon, when another naike reached for me and held me there. Because of their legendary coordination, I had to repeat that again in the afternoon. So I remained with my bags in front of the door until there were new orders. A provost arrived shortly after in his tiny shoes:
“Hmm. So, it’s the immigration police who are transferring you…”
“Yes…”
“And today being Saturday, they’re not at work. We’ll try to reach them anyway, but you may have to go back in…”.

Why was I not surprised? It was cruel and unjust punishment to have me stay another night in that awful place that I hated so much. Especially after having let me get a whiff of freedom. So I crossed my arms and waited without much hope. Was there really no service personnel at immigration that day or was this just another trick to bribe me?

Suddenly, I saw my father appear out of no man’s land. Being separated by the cordon, we were unable to hug each other. He had been there since the morning; he was the first person to find out. Then he had called my family and others in France who had also heard the news before I did… The prison guards let my father and I sit in the lawyers’ visiting room and offered us coffee. The embassy told my father that I couldn’t be transferred until the following day.

Then it occurred to me that if I wanted to get the manuscript of my writings out that was the time to do so. I gave my father the 12 notebooks about my stay in prison.

The visit in the improvised room lasted a good hour before I was led back into the prison. The prisoners who thought I had left believed they were seeing things. Everyone was staring. I had to repeat my story 15 times before the message got through. I returned to my block with everyone breaking out into incredulous laughter. Naturally, my cell was already occupied. The new guy offered me his mattress for the night. He went back temporarily to Block 7 for newcomers, where he had been the previous day. Nik was still in the kitchen. Amos, another inmate friend, was there with him. The atmosphere was sombre. It was almost as though my now ex-prisoner friends were sadder about seeing me back there, as if I had risen from the dead.

I was called again at noon the next day. The naikes asked me to come quickly. The door opened and I walked up to the security cordon. A brigadier with a perverse smile handcuffed me: “Immigration Police.”
He made me climb into a van with barred windows. There were two policemen sitting down, one whose rifle was taller than him. The van shook as we drove over the potholes in no man’s land. Two other guards opened a gate (which wasn’t there when I had first arrived) and then we were on Kanti Path Boulevard. In the heavy traffic, through the bars of the back door, I could see the temple dome and shopping centre surrounding the prison get smaller and smaller. This miniature point which had taken up such a huge part of my life for months was now fading away.
I could already take a step back and acknowledge what an absurd prison that was. On my departure, I thought of my friends stuck down below on the ground. I could see the city lights disappearing from the window as the plane circled above the central prison.
Katmandu looked as lovely as a prison up in flames.

After clearing the final security checkpoint, I was in the international zone. That’s it, it was over! My father and I were stunned; we couldn’t believe it. We didn’t even hug. I realized he had lost a lot of weight, nearly 13 kilos. He did a lot of walking in Katmandu between his guest house, the embassy and the prison. My situation really upset him. I, on the other hand, had gained 10 kilos since my arrest. Sodas and being inactive made me fat.

Back in France, I had my first warm shower with a shower head in eight months at my brother’s place in Saint-Denis. Every pore on my body was dirty. It took awhile to get rid of the prison filth. After I had finished, I took a pair of scissors and symbolically cut the black bracelet that Rock, the cook, had braided around my wrist when I arrived in Bhairahawa. I threw it in the rubbish bin.

I enjoyed my first night in a big bed, the calm and obscurity. I had no earplugs or sleep mask, and I woke up in the middle of the night. Feeling lost, I tossed around with my blanket, until I realised I was safe and went back to bed.

My first sight when I opened the window in the morning was the canal. For me, it represented a long place to walk alone without barriers. No walls, no locked passages, no red lights… Before even having breakfast, I went out and walked all the way to the France stadium.

After the brief euphoria of being freed, I experienced a bad period. When you’re released, there’s a period of adaptation, exactly like when you enter, except it’s the opposite.

The contrast with people living freely is shocking; a bit like sailors who get seasickness.

I threw myself into writing a book, Pour une poignée de faux dollars (For a few dollars). I started with the notebooks I had kept while in prison. They still had the stench of prison. Once my notes were all finalized, I threw them in the fireplace and lit them up with joy.

Then I did everything I could to get my former co-prisoner released. Amos had been in prison for four and a half years because of an expired visa. I paid for his bail and airplane ticket. After a six-month administrative nightmare, he was deported to his home country of Liberia. I had saved my friend from six years, five months and seven days of being behind bars.

Today, when I think of Nepal, I think of prison. In my everyday activities and even when I meet Nepalese tourists. Given that I’ve never toured it freely, for me this country is synonymous with jail. I think I’ll continue to see it that way until I go back as a free man, once my travel ban is lifted.