So Long a Letter

by Mariama Bâ

  You, Aissatou, you forsook your family-in-law, tightly shut in with their hurt dignity. You would lament to me: 'Your family-in-law respects you. You must treat them well. As for me, they look down on me from the height of their lost nobility. What can I do?'

  While Mawdo's mother planned her revenge, we lived: Christmas Eve parties organized by several couples, with the costs shared equally, and held in turns in the different homes. Without self-consciousness, we would revive the dances of yester- year: the lively beguine, frenzied rumbas, languid tangos. We rediscovered the old beatings of the heart that strengthened our feelings.

  We would also leave the stifling city to breathe in the healthy air of seaside suburbs.

  We would walk along the Dakar Corniche, one of the most beautiful in West Africa, a sheer work of art wrought by nature. Rounded or pointed rocks, black or ochre- coloured, overlooking the ocean. Greenery, sometimes a veritable hanging garden spread out under the clear sky. We would go on to the road to Ouakam, which also leads to Ngor and further on to Yoff airport. We would recognize on the way the narrow road leading farther on to Almadies beach.

  Our favourite spot was Ngor beach, situated near the village of the same name, where old bearded fishermen repaired their nets under the silk-cotton trees. Naked and snotty children played in complete freedom when they were not frolicking about in the sea.

  On the fine sand, washed by the waves and swollen with water, naively painted canoes awaited their turn to be launched into the waters. In their hollows small pools of blue water would glisten, full of light from the sky and sun.

  What a crowd on public holidays! Numerous families would stroll about, thirsty for space and fresh air. People would undress, without embarrassment, tempted by the benevolent caress of the iodized breeze and the warmth from the sun's rays. The idle would sleep under spread parasols. A few children, spade and bucket in hand, would build and demolish the castles of their imagination.

  In the evening the fishermen would return from their laborious outings. Once more, they had escaped the moving snare of the sea. At first simple points on the horizon, the boats would become more distinct from one another as they drew nearer. They would dance in the hollows of the waves, then would lazily let themselves be dragged along. Fishermen would gaily furl their sails and draw in their tackle. While some of them would gather together the wriggling catch, others would wring out their soaked clothes and mop their faces.

  Under the wondering gaze of the kids, the live fish would flip up as the long sea snakes would curve themselves inwards. There is nothing more beautiful than a fish

  just out of water, its eye clear and fresh, with golden or silvery scales and beautiful blueish glints!

  Hands would sort out, group, divide. We would buy a good selection at bargain prices for the house.

  The sea air would put us in good humour. The pleasure we indulged in and in which all our senses rejoiced would intoxicate both rich and poor with health. Our communion with deep, bottomless and unlimited nature refreshed our souls.

  Depression and sadness would disappear, suddenly to be replaced by feelings of plenitude and expansiveness.

  Reinvigorated, we would set out for home. How jealously we guarded the secret of simple pleasures, health-giving remedy for the daily tensions of life.

  Do you remember the picnics we organized at Sangalkam, in the farm Mawdo Bâ inherited from his father? Sangalkam remains the refuge of people from Dakar, those who want a break from the frenzy of the city. The younger set, in particular, has bought land there and built country residences: these green, open spaces are conducive to rest, meditation and the letting off of steam by children. This oasis lies on the road to Rufisque.

  Mawdo's mother had looked after the farm before her son's marriage. The memory of her husband had made her attached to this plot of land, where their joint and patient hands had disciplined the vegetation that filled our eyes with admiration.

  Yourself, you added the small building at the far end: three small, simple bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen. You grew many flowers in a few corners. You had a hen run built, then a closed pen for sheep.

  Coconut trees, with their interlacing leaves, gave protection from the sun. Succulent sapodilla stood next to sweet-smelling pomegranates. Heavy mangoes weighed down the branches. Pawpaws resembling breasts of different shapes hung tempting and inaccessible from the tops of elongated trunks.

  Green leaves and browned leaves, new grass and withered grass were strewn all over the ground. Under our feet the ants untiringly built and rebuilt their homes.

  How warm the shades over the camp beds! Teams for games were formed one after the other amid cries of victory or lamentations of defeat.

  And we stuffed ourselves with fruits within easy reach. And we drank the milk from coconuts. And we told 'juicy stories'! And we danced about, roused by the strident notes of a gramophone. And the lamb, seasoned with white pepper, garlic, butter, hot pepper, would be roasting over the wood fire.

  And we lived. When we stood in front of our over-crowded classes, we represented a force in the enormous effort to be accomplished in order to overcome ignorance.

  Each profession, intellectual or manual, deserves consideration, whether it requires painful physical effort or manual dexterity, wide knowledge or the patience of an ant. Ours, like that of the doctor, does not allow for any mistake. You don't joke with life, and life is both body and mind. To warp a soul is as much a sacrilege as murder.

  Teachers---at kindergarten level, as at university level---form a noble army accomplishing daily feats, never praised, never decorated. An army forever on the move, forever vigilant. An army without drums, without gleaming uniforms. This army, thwarting traps and snares, everywhere plants the flag of knowledge and morality.

  How we loved this priesthood, humble teachers in humble local schools. How faithfully we served our profession, and how we spent ourselves in order to do it honour. Like all apprentices, we had learned how to practise it well at the demonstration school, a few steps away from our own, where experienced teachers taught the novices that we were how to apply, in the lessons we gave, our knowledge of psychology and method In those children we set in motion waves that, breaking, carried away in their furl a bit of ourselves.

  10

  Modou rose steadily to the top rank in the trade union organizations. His understanding of people and things endeared him to both employers and workers. He focused his efforts on points that were easily satisfied, that made work lighter and life more pleasant. He sought practical improvements in the workers' conditions. His slogan was: what's the use of taunting with the impossible? Obtaining the 'possible' is already a victory.

  His point of view was not unanimously accepted, but people relied on his practical realism.

  Mawdo could take part in neither trade unionism nor politics, for he hadn't the time. His reputation as a good doctor was growing; he remained the prisoner of his mission in a hospital filled to capacity with the sick, for people were going less and less to the native doctor who specialized in brewing the same concoctions of leaves for different illnesses.

  Everybody was reading newspapers and magazines. There was unrest in North Africa.

  Did these interminable discussions, during which points of view concurred or clashed, complemented each other or were vanquished, determine the aspect of the New Africa?

  The assimilationist dream of the colonist drew into its crucible our mode of thought and way of life. The sun helmet worn over the natural protection of our kinky hair, smoke-filled pipe in the mouth, white shorts just above the calves, very short dresses displaying shapely legs: a whole generation suddenly became aware of the ridiculous situation festering in our midst.

  History marched on, inexorably. The debate over the right path to take shook West Africa. Brave men went to prison; others, following in their footsteps, continued the work begun.

  It was the privilege of our generation to be the link between two periods in our history,
one of domination, the other of independence. We remained young and efficient, for we were the messengers of a new design. With independence achieved, we witnessed the birth of a republic, the birth of an anthem and the implantation of a flag.

  I heard people repeat that all the active forces in the country should be mobilized. And we said that over and above the unavoidable opting for such-and-such a party, such- and-such a model of society, what was needed was national unity. Many of us rallied around the dominant party, infusing it with new blood. To be productive in the crowd was better than crossing one's arms and hiding behind imported ideologies.

  Modou, a practical man, led his unions into collaboration with the government, demanding for his troops only what was possible. But he cursed the hasty establishment of too many embassies, which he judged to be too costly for our under- developed country. This bleeding of the country for reasons of pure vanity, among other things, such as the frequent invitation of foreigners, was just a waste of money. And, with his wage-earners in mind, he would repeatedly growl, 'So many schools, or so much hospital equipment lost! So many monthly wage increases! So many tarred roads!'

  You and Mawdo would listen to him. We were scaling the heights, but your mother- in-law, who saw you resplendent beside her son, who saw her son going more and more frequently to your father's workshop, who saw your mother fill out and dress better, your mother-in-law thought more and more of her revenge.

  11

  I know that I am shaking you, that I am twisting a knife in a wound hardly healed; but what can I do? I cannot help remembering in my forced solitude and reclusion.

  Mawdo's mother is Aunty Nabou to us and Seynabou to others. She bore a glorious name in the Sine: Diouf. She is a descendant of Bour-Sine. She lived in the past, unaware of the changing world. She clung to old beliefs. Being strongly attached to her privileged origins, she believed firmly that blood carried with it virtues, and, nodding her head, she would repeat that humble birth would always show in a person's bearing. And life had not been kind to Mawdo's mother. Very early, she lost her dear husband; bravely, she brought up her eldest son Mawdo and two other daughters, now married ... and well married. She devoted herself with the affection of a tigress to her 'one and only man', Mawdo Bâ. When she swore by her only son's nose, the symbol of life, she had said everything. Now, her 'only man' was moving away from her, through the fault of this cursed daughter of a goldsmith, worse than

  a griot woman. The griot brings happiness. But a goldsmith's daughter! ... she burns everything in her path, like the fire in a forge.

  So while we lived without concern, considering your marriage a problem of the past, Mawdo's mother thought day and night of a way to get her revenge on you, the goldsmith's daughter.

  One fine day she decided to pay a visit to her younger brother, Farba Diouf, a customary chief in Diakhao. She packed a few well chosen clothes into a suitcase that she borrowed from me, stuffed a basket full of various purchases: provisions and foodstuffs that are dear or rare in the Sine (fruits from France, cheese, preserves), toys for nephews, lengths of material for her brother and his four wives.

  She asked Modou for some money, which she carefully folded and put away in her purse. She had her hair done, painted her feet and hands with henna. Thus dressed, adorned, she left.

  These days, the road to Rufisque forks at the Diamniadio crossroads: the National 1, to the right, leads, after Mbour, to the Sine-Saloum, while the National 2 goes through Thies and Tivaouane, cradle of Tidjanism, towards Saint-Louis, former capital of Senegal. Aunty Nabou did not enjoy the benefit of these pleasant roads. Jostled in the bus on the bumpy road, she sought refuge in her memories. The dizzying speed of the vehicle, carrying her towards the place of her childhood, did not prevent her from recognizing the familiar countryside. Here, Sindia, and to the left, Popenguine, where the Catholics celebrate Whitsun.

  How many generations has this same unchanging countryside seen glide past! Aunty Nabou acknowledged man's vulnerability in the face of the eternity of nature. By its very duration, nature defies time and take its revenge on man.

  The baobab trees held out the giant knots of their branches towards the skies; slowly, the cows moved across the road, their mournful stare defying the vehicles; shepherds in baggy trousers, their sticks on their shoulders or in their hands, guided the animals. Men and animals blended, as in a picture risen from the depths of time.

  Aunty Nabou closed her eyes every time the bus passed another vehicle. She was especially frightened of the big lorries with their huge loads.

  The beautiful Medinatou-Minaouara mosque had not yet been built to the glory of Islam, but in the same pious spirit, men and women prayed by the side of the road. 'You have to come away from Dakar to be convinced of the survival of traditions,' murmured Aunty Nabou.

  On the left, prickly shrubs bordered the Ndiassane forest; monkeys darted out to enjoy the light.

  Thiadiaye, Tataguine, Diouroupe, then Ndioudiouf, and finally Fatick, capital of the Sine. Puffing and steaming, the bus branched off to the left. Jolts and still more jolts. Finally Diakhao, the royal Diakhao, Diakhao, cradle and tomb of the Bour-Sine, Diakhao of her ancestors, beloved Diakhao, with the vast compound of its old palace.

  The same heaviness tortured her heart on each visit paid to the family domain.

  First of all, water for ablutions and a mat on which to pray and to meditate before the tomb of the ancestor. And then she let her gaze, marked with sadness and filled with history, roam over the other tombs. Here, the dead and the living lived together in the family compound: each king, returned from his coronation, planted two trees in the yard that marked out his last resting place. Fervently, Aunty Nabou intoned the religious verses, directing them at the tombs of the dead. Her face wore a tragic mask in this place of grandeur, which sang of the past to the sound of the djou-djoungs , the royal drums.

  She swore that your existence, Aissatou, would never tarnish her noble descent.

  Associating in her thoughts antiquated rites and religion, she remembered the milk to be poured into the Sine [11] to appease the invisible spirits. Tomorrow, in the river, she would make her offerings to protect herself from the evil eye, while at the same time attracting the benevolence of the tours . [12]

  Royally received, she immediately resumed her position as the elder sister of the master of the house. Nobody addressed her without kneeling down. She took her meals alone, having been served with the choicest bits from the pots.

  Visitors came from everywhere to honour her, thus reminding her of the truth of the law of blood. For her, they revived the exploits of the ancestor Bour-Sine, the dust of combats and the ardour of thoroughbred horses And, heady with the heavy scent of

  burnt incense, she drew force and vigour from the ancestral ashes stirred to the eclectic sound of the koras . She summoned her brother.

  'I need a child beside me,' she said, 'to fill my heart. I want this child to be both my legs and my right arm. I am growing old. I will make of this child another me. Since the marriage of my own children, the house has been empty.'

  She was thinking of you, working out her vengeance, but was very careful not to speak of you, of her hatred for you.

  'Let your wish be fulfilled,' replied Farba Diouf. 'I have never asked you to educate any of my daughters, not wanting to tire you. Yet today's children are difficult to keep in check. Take young Nabou, your namesake. She is yours. I ask only for her bones.'

  Satisfied, Aunty Nabou packed her suitcase again, filled her basket with all that could be found in the village and is dear in town: dried couscous, roasted groundnut paste, millet, eggs, milk, chicken. Holding young Nabou's hand firmly in her right hand, she took the road back to town.

  12

  As she handed me back my suitcase, Aunty Nabou introduced young Nabou to me; she also introduced her at the homes of all her friends.

  With my help, young Nabou was admitted into the French school. Maturing in her aunt's protective shade, she lear
ned the secret of making delicious sauces, of using an iron and wielding a pestle. Her aunt never missed an opportunity to remind her of her royal origin, and taught her that the first quality in a woman is docility.

  After obtaining her primary school certificate, and after a few years in secondary school, the older Nabou advised her niece to sit the entrance examination for the State School of Midwifery: 'This school is good. You receive an education there. No garlands for heads. Young, sober girls without earrings, dressed in white, which is the colour of purity. The profession you will learn there is a beautiful one; you will earn your living and you will acquire grace for your entry into paradise by helping at the birth of new followers of Mohammed, the prophet. To tell the truth, a woman does not need too much education. In fact, I wonder how a woman can earn her living by talking from morning to night.'

  Thus, young Nabou became a midwife. One fine day, Aunty Nabou called Mawdo and said to him: 'My brother Farba has given you young Nabou to be your wife, to thank me for the worthy way in which I have brought her up. I will never get over it if you don't take her as your wife. Shame kills faster than disease.'