Xala (2 page)

‘El Hadji, this is my daughter N'Gone. Take a good look at her. Could she not be a kind of measure? A measure of length or a measure of capacity?'

‘She is gentle. A drop of dew. She is ephemeral too. A pleasant harbour for the eyes,' replied El Hadji, who had been accustomed to using this kind of language since attaining manhood.

‘You say “for the eyes”. You speak in the plural. I am talking in the singular. One owner only.'

‘One-eyed then!' the man laughed, relaxed.

‘You don't tell a person with one eye to close it.'

‘No more than you need to show the hand how to find the mouth.'

‘You have to prepare something for the hand to take to the mouth.'

This was a game in which Yay Bineta was well versed. She did battle with the man in the ancient, allegorical language preserved by custom. N'Gone, the child of national flags and hymns, understood nothing of what they were saying. The contest was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. The Badyen pretended she was looking for a job for her daughter. The man promised to see what he could do. Careful of his reputation for generosity he gave them a thousand francs to pay for a taxi home.

Other visits followed. Conversations that were all the same, with nothing special about them. The Badyen would bait the man: ‘You're afraid of women! Your wives make the decisions, wear the trousers in your house, don't they? Why don't you come and see us? Hey? Why don't you?' El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was wounded in his pride. His honour as an African in the old tradition was being called in question. He was at last stung into taking up the challenge. ‘No woman is going to tell me what to do,' he said to himself. And so, to
prove that he was master in his own house, he accompanied them to the home of the girl's parents.

And then what happened? N‘Gone began to visit him by herself, especially in the afternoon. She said she had come to see if El Hadji had found her a job, an excuse thought up by the Badyen. The man slowly succumbed. A change in his feelings began to take place. He became used to her. He felt a growing desire for her. As her visits continued and settled into regularity, El Hadji took her out to tea shops, occasionally to a restaurant. Once or twice they attended ‘businessmen's' cocktail parties.

He had to admit it, N'Gone had the savour of fresh fruit, which was something his wives had long since lost. He was drawn by her firm, supple body, her fresh breath. With his two wives on the one hand and the daily demands of his business life, N'Gone seemed to him like a restful oasis in the middle of the desert. She was good for his pride too – he was attractive to a young woman!

Yay Bineta, the Badyen, kept discreetly out of sight, all the better to direct events. El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was received in princely style at the girl's home. The food was exquisite and the scent of incense filled N‘Gone's small wooden room. Nothing was omitted in the careful process of conditioning the man. The Badyen spun her web as painstakingly as a spider. All the neighbours knew – chiefly from gossip round the public tap – that El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was courting N'Gone with the most honourable intentions. Skilfully the Badyen got rid of the young men in her daughter's circle. Then the engagement was officially announced.

The fruit was ripe. The Badyen was going to pluck it.

On the day in question El Hadji was to take N‘Gone with him to an important reception. The day before he had fitted her out from head to foot in new clothes. Her father, her mother and the Badyen greeted him when he arrived. While they waited for N'Gone to get ready Yay Bineta opened the discussion:

‘El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye, you have been to Mecca, the home of the prophet Mohammed – peace be on him and on the whole world. You are a respectable man and we all know your honourable intentions towards N'Gone. We can tell you with certainty that our daughter sees only with your eyes, hears only with your ears. But you know how young she is. The neighbours are gossiping. We are not
rich in money, that we cannot deny; but we are decent people, rich in our pride. No one in our family has ever acted dishonourably. We want you to know today that it depends on you alone for N‘Gone to be yours for the rest of her life.'

El Hadji was trapped. The thought of marriage had until now never crossed his mind. He had been caught off his guard by the Badyen and could only splutter a reply in the vaguest terms. He must talk to his wives. Yay Bineta realized she had the upper hand. She goaded him. Was he not a Muslim? The son of a Muslim? Why did he try to evade Yalla's obvious wishes? Was he a whiteman that he must consult his wives? Had the country lost its men of yesterday? Those brave men whose blood flowed in his veins?

As always in this kind of exchange, the less aggressive of the two contestants eventually gave in. El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye surrendered out of weakness. There was no way he could use the law of the Koran for his own justification. As for his wives, why should he explain himself to them? All he had to do was tell them.

In the weeks that followed, Yay Bineta speeded up the preparations. Mam Fatou, the girl's mother, seeing the way things were going and the urgency that seemed to possess the Badyen, had certain misgivings. She was deeply opposed to polygamy and wanted El Hadji to repudiate his two wives.

The Badyen was angry with her sister-in-law for her attitude. ‘Mam Fatou, get this clear,' she told her, ‘El Hadji is a polygamist, but each of his wives has her own house in the best part of town. Each of these houses is worth fifty or sixty times this hovel. And he is such a good match from your point of view! N'Gone's future and the future of her own children are assured.'

‘I admit I hadn't thought of that,' agreed the mother, giving in.

So, from that day until this the wedding day, all the arrangements had been in the Badyen's hands.

 

 

There was an outburst of cries, mingled with applause. A group of female griots was clustered around a woman who was handing out money.

‘It's the best marriage of the year,' said one female griot. Bank-notes were pinned to her fulsome chest like decorations.

Her companion was enviously calculating her haul.

‘I'm out of luck today. Everyone I meet seems to be broke,' she said.

‘The day is not yet over,' the first said encouragingly, as she moved off towards another victim.

Above the heads and the head-dresses, in and out among the chanting griots, roamed the dishes of food: bowls of fritters, pails and plastic dishes full of ginger, flavoured with various kinds of herbs. In groups of six, seven, eight, or even as many as ten or twelve, people were regaling themselves with meat and rice.

The men who had united the couple at the mosque in their absence – the ‘marriers' – now made their entrance. There were ten or more of them, all notables, in ceremonial dress. The Badyen welcomed them and made sure they were given comfortable seats. Then they were served liberally with refreshments – kola nuts, dishes of food and for each of them a large packet of fritters.

‘
Alhamdoulillah
!' exclaimed one of their number, who seemed to be the spiritual leader of the community. ‘Yalla's will has been done. These two people have been united before Yalla.'

‘Which is something we don't often see these days in this country,' pronounced his neighbour sententiously.

Isolated from the other guests the elders discussed the present times. The young people, who had attended the ceremony dressed in European clothes, were in another, smaller room, anxious to escape.

‘The marriage is over. What are we waiting for now?' complained a bridesmaid seated near the door.

‘It's stifling in here! It's time we went,' grumbled a young man adjusting his black bow-tie,

‘What about some records?'

‘I told you before, there's to be a band.'

‘And what about the bride? Where has she got to?'

‘She's at her mother's house with the marabouts, for the gree-grees.'

All together they began drumming on the walls, whistling and shouting.

At last when there was no more advice to be given and there were no more prayers to be said for a happy married life, N'Gone, in her white crepe de Chine wedding dress, with its crown and white veil, was handed over by her parents, the Badyen and the elders to her escort of
young people. As if from a single pair of lungs there rose a great cry. The Badyen's joy knew no bounds. She intoned the praises of the family lineage, backed by the female griots, who took up the chorus. Expensive cloths were laid in a carpet of honour from the bedroom to the front door. The bride and her large escort made their way along it.

In the street fifteen or so cars were waiting. At the rear, on a trailer, a two-seater car with a white ribbon tied in a bow like an Easter egg symbolized the ‘wedding gift'. The horns sounding a mechanical serenade, the cortege set off through the streets of Dakar. People clapped and called out their good wishes to the bride as the cars passed by, with the trailer and its two-seater car following on behind like a trophy.

The villas were named after the wives. The first wife's villa, ‘Adja Awa Astou', was situated on the eastern periphery of the residential suburb. Flame trees lined its tarred roads. A calm reminiscent of the first morning of creation pervaded this part of the town, where the officers of the peace patrolled in pairs without any sense of urgency. A well kept bougainvillæa hedge surrounded the house, and the wrought-iron front door bore an, enamel plaque inscribed with the words ‘Villa Adja Awa Astou'. The doorbell had the muffled tones of an oriental gong.

The first wife and her two eldest children were waiting in the over-furnished sitting-room. In spite of her age – she was between thirty-six and forty – and in spite of having borne six children, Adja Awa Astou had kept her slim figure. Her colouring was a soft black; she had a prominent forehead above the delicate line of her nose which flattened very slightly at the sides; her face was alive with subdued smiles and there was frankness in her almond-shaped eyes. There emanated from this deceptively fragile woman great strength of will and determination. Since her return from the Holy Place she dressed only in white. She had been born on the island of Gorée and had given up her Christian faith so as to enjoy more fully the pleasures of married life. At the time of their marriage, El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was still a primary-school teacher.

Speaking in a restrained voice, with an intense gleam in her eyes, Adja Awa Astou repeated what she had said a few moments before:

‘My co-wife and I should attend the ceremony. It's your father's wish. So ... '

‘Mother you can't expect Mactar and me to believe that you are happy about this third marriage and that it is taking place with your agreement.'

Rama, her eldest daughter, with her face thrust forward and her short hair plaited, was consumed with anger and reproach.

‘You are young still. Your day will come if it pleases Yalla. Then you will understand.'

‘Mother, I am not a child. I'm twenty. I will never share my husband with another woman. I'd rather divorce him.'

There was a long silence.

Mactar, who admired his elder sister, looked away out of the window into the distance beyond the flowers. He avoided his mother's eyes. The sharp pangs he felt in his heart grew worse. In spite of her directness, Rama was anxious to be tactful. She had grown up during the upheavals of the struggle for Independence, when her father and others like him had fought for freedom for everyone. She had taken part in street battles and pasted up posters at night. With the evolution of African society she had joined political associations, been a university student and a member of the Wolof language group. This third marriage of her father's had taken her by surprise and deeply disappointed her.

‘It's easy to talk about divorce, Rama,' her mother began slowly. What she was about to say was the product of much careful reflection. ‘You think I should get a divorce. Where would I go at my age? Where would I find another husband? A man of my own age and still a bachelor? If I left your father and with luck and Yalla's help found a husband, I would be his third or his fourth wife. And what would become of you?'

As she finished speaking, she smiled, just a little, to soften the impact of her words. Had she convinced Rama? She did not ask herself this question. Adja Awa Astou kept no secrets from her children.

Angry with impotence, Rama rounded on her mother:

‘Don't you realize, mother, that this villa belongs to you? Everything in it is yours. Father owns nothing here.'

‘Rama, I know that too. But it was your father who gave it to me. I cannot turn him out.'

‘I won't go to this wedding.'

‘I will. I must put in an appearance. If I don't it will be said that I am jealous.'

‘Mother, that wife of my father's, that N'Gone, is my age. She's just a whore. You are only going because you're afraid of what people will say.'