So Long a Letter

by Mariama Bâ

  People talked of bewitchment. With determination, friends begged me to react: 'You are letting someone else pluck the fruits of your labour.'

  Vehemently, they recommended marabouts , sure in their science, who had proved themselves by bringing husbands back to the fold, by separating them from evil women. These charlatans lived far away. Casamance was mentioned, where the Diola and Madjago excel in magic philtres. They suggested

  Linguere, the country of the Fulba, quick in vengeance through charms as through arms. They also talked of Mali, the country of the Bambara, with faces deeply scarred with tribal marks.

  To act as I was urged would have been to call myself into question. I was already reproaching myself for a weakness that had not prevented the degradation of my home. Was I to deny myself because Modou had chosen another path? No, I would not give in to the pressure. My mind and my faith rejected supernatural power. They rejected this easy attraction, which kills any will to fight. I looked reality in the face.

  Reality had the face of Lady Mother-in-Law, swallowing up double mouthfuls from the trough offered her. Her hunch about a gilded way of life was being proved right. Her unsteady hut, with zinc walls covered with magazine pages where pin-ups and advertisements were placed side by side, had grown dim in her memory. One motion of her hand in her bathroom and delicious jets of hot water would massage her back. Another in the kitchen and ice cubes would cool the water in her glass. One more and a flame would spring from the gas cooker and she would prepare herself a delicious omelette.

  The senior wife hitherto neglected, Lady Mother-in-Law emerged from the shadows and took her unfaithful husband back in tow. She held valuable trump cards: grilled meats, roasted chicken and (why not?) banknotes slipped into the pockets of

  the boubou hanging in the bedroom. She no longer counted the cost of water bought from the Tukulor hawker of the vital liquid drawn from public springs. Having known poverty, she rejoiced in her new-found happiness. Modou fulfilled her expectations.

  He would thoughtfully send her wads of notes to spend and would offer her, after his trips abroad, jewellery and rich boubous . From then on, she joined the category of women 'with heavy bracelets' lauded by the griots . Thrilled, she would listen to the radio transmitting songs dedicated to her.

  Her family reserved the best place for her during ceremonies and listened to her advice. When Modou's large car dropped her and she emerged, there would be a rush of outstretched hands into which she placed banknotes.

  Reality was also Binetou, who went from night club to night club. She would arrive draped in a long, costly garment, a gold belt, a present from Modou on the birth of their first child, shining round her waist. Her shoes tapped on the ground, announcing her presence. The waiters would move aside and bow respectfully in the hope of a royal tip. With a contemptuous look, she would eye those already seated. With a pout like that of a spoilt child, she would indicate to Modou the table she had chosen. With a wave of her hand, like a magician, she would have various bottles lined up. She was showing off to the young people and wanted to impress them with her form of success. Binetou, incontestably beautiful and desirable! 'Bewitching,' people admitted. But when the moment of admiration passed, she was the one who lowered her head at the sight of couples graced with nothing but their youth and rich in their happiness alone.

  The couples held each other or danced apart depending on the music, sometimes slow and coaxing, sometimes vigorous and wild. When the trumpet blared out, backed by the frenzy of the drums, the young dancers, excited and untiring, would stamp, jump and caper about, shouting their joy. Modou would try to follow suit. The harsh lights betrayed him to the unpitying sarcasm of some of them, who called him a 'cradle- snatcher'. What did it matter! He had Binetou in his arms. He was happy.

  Worn out, Binetou would watch with a disillusioned eye the progress of her friends. The image of her life, which she had murdered, broke her heart.

  Sometimes also, despite my disapproval, Daba would go to the night clubs. Dressed simply, she would appear on her fiancé's arm; she would arrive late on purpose so as to sit in full view of her father. It was a grotesque confrontation: on one side, an ill- assorted couple, on the other two well-matched people.

  And the evening created an extreme tension that opposed two former friends, a father and his daughter, a son-in-law and his father-in-law.

  16

  I was surviving. In addition to my former duties, I took over Modou's as well.

  The purchase of basic foodstuffs kept me occupied at the end of every month; I made sure that I was never short of tomatoes or of oil, potatoes or onions during those periods when they became rare in the markets; I stored bags of 'Siam' rice, much loved by the Senegalese. My brain was taxed by new financial gymnastics.

  The last date for payment of electricity bills and of water rates demanded my attention. I was often the only woman in the queue.

  Replacing the locks and latches of broken doors, replacing broken windows was a bother, as well as looking for a plumber to deal with blocked sinks. My son Mawdo Fall complained about burnt-out bulbs that needed replacement.

  I survived. I overcame my shyness at going alone to cinemas; I would take a seat with less and less embarrassment as the months went by. People stared at the middle-aged lady without a partner. I would feign indifference, while anger hammered against my nerves and the tears I held back welled up behind my eyes.

  From the surprised looks, I gauged the slender liberty granted to women.

  The early shows at the cinema filled me with delight. They gave me the courage to meet the curious gaze of various people. They did not keep me away for long from my children.

  What a great distraction from distress is the cinema!

  Intellectual films, those with a message, sentimental films, detective films, comedies, thrillers, all these were my companions. I learned from them lessons of greatness, courage and perseverance. They deepened and widened my vision of the world, thanks to their cultural value. The cinema, an inexpensive means of recreation, can thus give healthy pleasure.

  I survived. The more I thought about it, the more grateful I became to Modou for having cut off all contact. I had the solution my children wanted---the break without having taken the initiative. The lie had not taken root. Modou was excising me from his life and was proving it by his unequivocal attitude.

  What do other husbands do? They wallow in indecision; they force themselves to be present where neither their feelings nor their interests continue to reside. Nothing impresses them in their home: the wife all dressed up, the son full of tenderness, the meal tastefully served. They remain stolid, like marble. They wish only that the hours may pass rapidly. At night, feigning fatigue or illness, they snore deeply. How quick they are to greet the liberating daybreak, which puts an end to their torment!

  I was not deceived, therefore. I no longer interested Modou, and I knew it. I was abandoned: a fluttering leaf that no hand dares to pick up, as my grandmother would have said.

  I faced up to the situation bravely. I carried out my duties; they filled the time and channelled my thoughts. But my loneliness would emerge at night, burdensome. One does not easily undo the tenuous ties that bind two people together during a journey fraught with hardship. I lived the proof of it, bringing back to life past scenes, past conversations. Our common habits sprang up at their usual times. I missed dreadfully our nightly conversation; I missed our bursts of refreshing or understanding laughter. Like opium, I missed our daily consultations. I pitted myself against shadows. The wanderings of my thoughts chased away all sleep. I side-stepped my pain in a refusal to fight it.

  The continuity of radio broadcasts was a great relief. I gave the radio the role of comforter. At night the music lulled my anxiety. I heard the message of old and new songs, which awakened hope. My sadness dissolved.

  With all the force I had, I called eagerly to 'another man' to replace Modou.

  Distressing awakenings succeeded the nights. My
love for my children sustained me. They were a pillar; I owed them help and affection.

  Did Modou appreciate, in its full measure, the void created by his absence in this house? Did Modou attribute to me more energy than I had to shoulder the responsibility of my children?

  I adopted a sprightly tone to rouse my battalion. The coffee warmed the atmosphere, exuding its sweet fragrance. Foaming baths, mutual teasing and laughter. A new day and increased efforts! A new day, and waiting. ...

  Waiting for what? It would not be easy to get my children to accept a new masculine presence. Having condemned their father, could they be tolerant towards another man? Besides, what man would have the courage to face twelve pairs of hostile eyes, which openly tear you apart?

  Waiting! But waiting for what? I was not divorced....................... I was abandoned: a fluttering

  leaf that no hand dares to pick up, as my grandmother would have said.

  I survived. I experienced the inadequacy of public transport. My children laughed at themselves in making this harsh discovery. One day, I heard Daba advise them: 'Above all, don't let mum know that it is stifling in those buses during the rush hours.'

  I shed tears of joy and sadness together: joy in being loved by my children, the sadness of a mother who does not have the means to change the course of events.

  I told you then, without any ulterior motive, of this painful aspect of our life, while Modou's car drove Lady Mother-in- Law to the four corners of town and while Binetou streaked along the roads in an Alfa Romeo, sometimes white, sometimes red.

  I shall never forget your response, you, my sister, nor my joy and my surprise when I was called to the Fiat agency and was told to choose a car which you had paid for, in full. My children gave cries of joy when they learned of the approaching end of their tribulations, which remain the daily lot of a good many other students.

  Friendship has splendours that love knows not. It grows stronger when crossed, whereas obstacles kill love. Friendship resists time, which wearies and severs couples. It has heights unknown to love.

  You, the goldsmith's daughter, gave me your help while depriving yourself.

  And I learned to drive, stifling my fear. The narrow space between the wheel and the seat was mine. The flattened clutch glided in the gears. The brake reduced the forward thrust and, to speed along, I had to step on the accelerator. I did not trust the accelerator. At the slightest pressure from my feet, the car lurched forward. My feet learned to dance over the pedals. Whenever I was discouraged, I would say: Why should Binetou sit behind a wheel and not I? I would tell myself: Don't disappoint Aissatou. I won this battle of nerves and sang-froid . I obtained my driving licence and told you about it.

  I told you: and now---my children on the backseat of the cream-coloured Fiat 125; thanks to you, my children can look the affluent mother-in-law and the fragile child in the eye in the streets of the town.

  Modou surprised, unbelieving, inquired into the source of the car. He never accepted the true story. Like Mawdo's mother, he too believed that a goldsmith's daughter had no heart.

  17

  I take a deep breath.

  I've related at one go your story as well as mine. I've said the essential, for pain, even when it's past, leaves the same marks on the individual when recalled. Your disappointment was mine, as my rejection was yours. Forgive me once again if I have re-opened your wound. Mine continues to bleed.

  You may tell me: the path of life is not smooth; one is bruised by its sharp edges. I also know that marriage is never smooth. It reflects differences in character and capacity for feeling. In one couple the man may be the victim of a fickle woman or of a woman shut up in her own preoccupations who rejects all dialogue and quashes all moves towards tenderness. In another couple alcoholism is the leprosy that gnaws away at health, wealth and peace. It shows up an individual's disordered state through grotesque spectacles by which his dignity is undermined, in situations where physical blows become solid arguments and the menacing blade of a knife an irresistible call for silence.

  With others it is the lure of easy gain that dominates: incorrigible players at the gaming table or seated in the shade of a tree. The heated atmosphere of rooms full of fiendish odours, the distorted faces of tense players. The giddy whirl of playing cards swallows up time, wealth, conscience, and stops only with the last breath of the person accustomed to shuffling them.

  I try to spot my faults in the failure of my marriage. I gave freely, gave more than I received. I am one of those who can realize themselves fully and bloom only when they form part of a couple. Even though I understand your stand, even though I respect the choice of liberated women, I have never conceived of happiness outside marriage.

  I loved my house. You can testify to the fact that I made it a haven of peace where everything had its place, that I created a harmonious symphony of colours. You know how soft- hearted I am, how much I loved Modou. You can testify to the fact that, mobilized day and night in his service, I anticipated his slightest desire.

  I made peace with his family. Despite his desertion of our home, his father and mother and Tamsir, his brother, still continued to visit me often, as did his sisters. My children too grew up without much ado. Their success at school was my pride, just like laurels thrown at the feet of my lord and master.

  And Modou was no prisoner. He spent his time as he wished. I well understood his desire to let off steam. He fulfilled himself outside as he wished in his trade union activities.

  I am trying to pinpoint any weakness in the way I conducted myself. My social life may have been stormy and perhaps injured Modou's trade union career. Can a man, deceived and flouted by his family, impose himself on others? Can a man whose wife does not do her job well honestly demand a fair reward for labour? Aggression and condescension in a woman arouse contempt and hatred for her husband. If she is gracious, even without appealing to any ideology, she can summon support for any action. In a word, a man's success depends on feminine support.

  And I ask myself. I ask myself, why? Why did Modou detach himself? Why did he put Binetou between us?

  You, very logically, may reply: 'Affections spring from nothing; sometimes a grimace, the carriage of a head can seduce a heart and keep it.'

  I ask myself questions. The truth is that, despite everything, I remain faithful to the love of my youth. Aissatou, I cry for Modou, and I can do nothing about it.

  18

  Yesterday I celebrated, as is the custom, the fortieth day of Modou's death. I have forgiven him. May God hear the prayer I say for him every day. I celebrated the fortieth day in meditation. The initiated read the Koran. Their fervent voices rose towards heaven. Modou Fall, may God accept you among his chosen few.

  After going through the motions of piety, Tamsir came and sat in my bedroom in the blue armchair that used to be your favourite. Sticking his head outside, he signalled to Mawdo; he also signalled to the Imam from the mosque in his area. The Imam and Mawdo joined him. This time, Tamsir speaks. There is a striking resemblance between Modou and Tamsir, the same tics donated by the inexplicable law of heredity. Tamsir speaks with great assurance; he touches, once again, on my years of marriage, then he concludes: 'When you have "come out" (that is to say, of mourning), I shall marry you. You suit me as a wife, and further, you will continue to live here, just as if Modou were not dead. Usually it is the younger brother who inherits his elder brother's wife. In this case, it is the opposite. You are my good luck. I shall marry you. I prefer you to the other one, too frivolous, too young. I advised Modou against that marriage.'

  What a declaration of love, full of conceit, in a house still in mourning. What assurance and calm aplomb! I look Tamsir straight in the eye. I look at Mawdo. I look at the Imam . I draw my black shawl closer. I tell my beads. This time I shall speak out.

  My voice has known thirty years of silence, thirty years of harassment. It bursts out, violent, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes contemptuous.

  'Did you ever hav
e any affection for your brother? Already you want to build a new home for yourself, over a body that is still warm. While we are praying for Modou, you are thinking of future wedding festivities.