So Long a Letter

by Mariama Bâ

  'Ah, yes! Your strategy is to get in before any other suitor, to get in before Mawdo, the faithful friend, who has more qualities than you and who also, according to custom, can inherit the wife. You forget that I have a heart, a mind, that I am not an object to be passed from hand to hand. You don't know what marriage means to me: it is an act of faith and of love, the total surrender of oneself to the person one has chosen and who has chosen you.' (I emphasized the word 'chosen'.)

  'What of your wives, Tamsir? Your income can meet neither their needs nor those of your numerous children. To help you out with your financial obligations, one of your wives dyes, another sells fruit, the third untiringly turns the handle of her sewing machine. You, the revered lord, you take it easy, obeyed at the crook of a finger. I shall never be the one to complete your collection. My house shall never be for you the coveted oasis: no extra burden; my "turn" every day; 16 cleanliness and luxury, abundance and calm! No, Tamsir!

  'And then there are Daba and her husband, who have demonstrated their financial acumen by buying up all your brother's properties. What promotion for you! Your friends are going to look at you with envy in their eyes.'

  Mawdo signalled with his hand for me to stop. 'Shut up! Shut up! Stop! Stop!'

  But you can't stop once you've let your anger loose. I concluded, more violent than ever: 'Tamsir, purge yourself of your dreams of conquest. They have lasted forty days. I shall never be your wife.'

  The Imam prayed God to be his witness.

  'Such profane words and still in mourning!' Tamsir got up without a word. He understood fully that he'd been defeated.

  Thus I took my revenge for that other day when all three of them had airily informed me of the marriage of Modou Fall and Binetou.

  19

  Aissatou, even in my mourning clothes I have no peace of mind.

  After Tamsir, Daouda Dieng................. You remember Daouda Dieng, my former suitor. To

  his maturity I had preferred inexperience, to his generosity, poverty, to his gravity, spontaneity, to his stability, adventure.

  He came to Modou's funeral. In the envelope that he gave Fatim there was a large sum of money. And his look was insistent, saying a great deal---of course.

  Where he is concerned, I believe to be true what he used to tell us jokingly, whenever by chance we met again: one never forgets a first love.

  After Tamsir, eliminated that memorable day when I quelled his lust for conquest; after Tamsir, then, Daouda Dieng, a candidate for my hand! Daouda Dieng was my mother's favourite. I can still hear her persuasive voice advise me: a woman must marry the man who loves her but never the one she loves; that is the secret of lasting happiness.

  Daouda Dieng had kept himself well, compared with Mawdo and Modou. Just on the threshold of old age, he had resisted the repeated attacks of time and exertion. He was elegantly dressed in a suit of embroidered brocade; he remained the same well- groomed man, meticulous and close- shaved. He wore his social success boldly but without condescension.

  Although a deputy at the National Assembly, he remained accessible, with gestures that lent weight to his opinions. His lightly silvered hair gave him unquestionable charm.

  For the last three years he had commanded attention in the political race through the sobriety of his actions and the precision of his words. His car, with its distinctive cockade in the national colours, was parked on the opposite pavement.

  How much I preferred his emotion to Tamsir's confident arrogance! His trembling lips betrayed him. His look swept over my face. I took refuge in banalities: 'How is Aminata (his wife)? And the children? And your clinic? What's it like at the National Assembly?'

  My questions came uninterrupted, as much to put him at ease as to renew the dialogue that had for so long been cut off. He replied briefly. But my last question provoked a shrug of the shoulders, to signify 'It's all right,' said challengingly.

  I went on: 'It must be all right, that male Assembly!'

  I said it teasingly, rolling my eyes round. Eternal woman: even in mourning, you want to make a strike, you want to seduce, you want to arouse interest!

  Daouda was no fool. He knew very well that I wanted to relieve him of his embarrassment and to draw back the curtain of silence and constraint that separated us, created by the long years and my former refusal to marry him.

  'Still very critical, Ramatoulaye! Why this ironical statement and this provocative epithet when there are women in the Assembly?'

  'Four women, Daouda, four out of a hundred deputies. What a ridiculous ratio! Not even one for each province.'

  Daouda laughed, an open, communicative laugh, which I found stimulating.

  We laughed noisily together. I saw again his beautiful set of teeth, capped with the circumflex accent of a black moustache, combed and very sleek. Ah! those teeth, set close together, had won my mother's confidence!

  'But you women, you are like mortar shells. You demolish. You destroy. Imagine a large number of women in the Assembly. Why, everything would explode, go up in flames.'

  And we laughed again.

  Wrinkling my brow, I commented: 'But we are not incendiaries; rather, we are stimulants!' And I pressed on: 'In many fields, and without skirmishes, we have taken advantage of the notable achievements that have reached us from elsewhere, the gains wrested from the lessons of history. We have a right, just as you have, to education, which we ought to be able to pursue to the furthest limits of our intellectual capacities. We have a right to equal well-paid employment, to equal opportunities. The right to vote is an important weapon. And now the Family Code has been passed, restoring to the most humble of women the dignity that has so often been trampled upon.

  'But Daouda, the constraints remain; but Daouda, old beliefs are revived; but Daouda, egoism emerges, scepticism rears its head in the political field. You want to make it a closed shop and you huff and puff about it.

  'Nearly twenty years of independence! When will we have the first female minister involved in the decisions concerning the development of our country? And yet the militancy and ability of our women, their disinterested commitment, have already been demonstrated. Women have raised more than one man to power.'

  Daouda listened to me. But I had the impression that more than my ideas, it was my voice that captivated him.

  And I continued: 'When will education be decided for children on the basis not of sex but of talent?'

  Daouda Dieng was savouring the warmth of the inner dream he was spinning around me. As for me, I was bolting like a horse that has long been tethered and is now free and revelling in space. Ah, the joy of having an interlocutor before you, especially an admirer!

  I had remained the same Ramatoulaye ... a bit of a rebel.

  I drew Daouda Dieng along with my ardour. He was an upright man, and each time the situation demanded, he would fight for social justice. It was not love of show or money that had driven him towards politics, but his true love for his fellow man, the urge to redress wrongs and injustice.

  'Whom are you addressing, Ramatoulaye? You are echoing my speeches at the National Assembly, where I have been called a "feminist". I am not, in fact, the only one to insist on changing the rules of the game and injecting new life into it. Women should no longer be decorative accessories, objects to be moved about, companions to be flattered or calmed with promises. Women are the nation's primary, fundamental root, from which all else grows and blossoms. Women must be encouraged to take a keener interest in the destiny of the country. Even you who are protesting; you preferred your husband, your class, your children to public life. If men alone are active in the parties, why should they think of the women? It is only human to give yourself the larger portion of the cake when you are sharing it out.

  'Don't be self-centred in your reaction. Consider the situation of every one of the country's citizens. No one is well-off, not even those of us who are considered to be secure and financially sound, when in fact all our savings go towards the maintenance of an avi
d electoral clientele which believes itself to be our promoters. Developing a

  country is not easy. The more responsibility one has, the more one feels it; poverty breaks your heart, but you have no control over it. I am speaking of the whole range of material and moral poverty. Better living requires roads, decent houses, wells, clinics, medicines, seeds. I am one of those who advocated that independence celebrations should be rotated annually among the regions. Any initiative that enables regional investments and transformations is welcome.

  'We need money, a mountain of money, which we must get from others by winning their confidence. With just one rainy season and our single crop, Senegal will not go far despite all our determination.'

  Night fell quickly from the skies, in a hurry to darken men and things. It came through the venetian blinds in the sitting-room. The muezzin 's invitation to the Timissprayer was persuasive; Ousmane stood on tiptoe and flicked on the switch. There was a sudden flood of light.

  Daouda, well aware of the constraints of my situation, got up. He lifted Ousmane up towards the lamp, and Ousmane chuckled, arms stretched. He let him down. 'Till tomorrow,' he said. 'I came to discuss something else. You led me into a political discussion. Every discussion is profitable. Till tomorrow,' he repeated.

  He smiled: neat rows of good teeth. He smiled and opened the door. I heard his footsteps recede. A moment later the humming of his powerful car carried him homewards.

  What will he say to Aminata, his wife and cousin, to justify his lateness? ...

  Daouda Dieng did indeed come back the next day. But unfortunately for him, and fortunately for me, my maternal aunts were visiting me and he was prevented from expressing himself freely. He did not dare to stay too long.

  20

  Today is Friday. I've taken a refreshing bath. I can feel its revitalizing effect, which, through my open pores, soothes me.

  The smell of soap surrounds me. Clean clothes replace my crumpled ones. The cleanliness of my body pleases me. I think that as she is the object of attraction for so many eyes, cleanliness is one of the essential qualities of a woman. The most humble of huts is pleasing when it is clean; the most luxurious setting offers no attraction if it is covered in dust.

  Those women we call 'house'-wives deserve praise. The domestic work they carry out, and which is not paid in hard cash, is essential to the home. Their compensation remains the pile of well ironed, sweet-smelling washing, the shining tiled floor on which the foot glides, the gay kitchen filled with the smell of stews. Their silent action is felt in the least useful detail: over there, a flower in bloom placed in a vase, elsewhere a painting with appropriate colours, hung up in the right place.

  The management of the home is an art. We have learned the hard way, and it is still not over. Even deciding on the menus is not easy if one thinks of the number of days there are in a year and of the fact that there are three meals in one day.

  Managing the family budget requires flexibility, vigilance and prudence in performing the financial gymnastics that send you from one more or less dangerous leap to another, from the first to the last day of the month.

  To be a woman! To live the life of a woman! Ah, Aissatou!

  Tonight I am restless. The flavour of life is love. The salt of life is also love.

  Daouda came back. An outfit of blue brocade had replaced the grey outfit of the first visit and the chocolate-coloured one of the second.

  He began right at the doorway, in the same tone of voice as I had used at our first meeting, without stopping for breath: 'How are you? And the children, and your Assembly? And what about Ousmane?' Hearing his name, Ousmane appeared, his mouth and cheeks covered with the chocolate he munched all day long.

  Daouda grabbed hold of this little slip of a man, who struggled and kicked his legs about. He let him go with a friendly tap on his buttocks and a picture book in his

  hands. Ousmane, shouting with joy, ran to show his present to the household. 'No visitors? I shall lead the discussion today ... I from the male Assembly.' He laughed maliciously. 'Don't think that I criticize just for the fun of it. Our incipient democracy, which is changing the situation of the citizen and for which your party may take much credit, appeals to me. Socialism, which is the heart of your action, is the expression of my deepest aspirations if it is adapted to the realities of our life, as your political secretary claims. The openings it has created are considerable, and Senegal offers a new prospect of liberty regained. I appreciate all that, especially when all around us, to our right and to our left, one-party systems have been imposed. A single party never expresses the unanimous view of the citizens. If all individuals were made in the same mould, it would lead to an appalling collectivism. Differences produce conflicts, which may be beneficial to the development of a country if they occur among true patriots, whose only ambition is the happiness of the citizen.

  'But enough of politics, Ramatoulaye. I refuse to go along with you, like the other day. I have had my fill of "democracy", "struggle", "freedom" and what have you, all those expressions that float about me daily. Enough, Ramatoulaye. Listen to me, rather. The bush radio has informed me of your refusal to marry Tamsir. Is it true?'

  'Yes.'

  'I, in turn, and for the second time in my life, have come to ask for your hand ... after you are out of mourning, of course. I have the same feeling for you as I had before. Separation, your marriage, my own, none of these has been able to sap my love for you. Indeed, separation has made it keener; time has consolidated it; my advance in years has purified it. I love you dearly, but with my head. You are a widow with young children. I am head of a family. Each of us has the weight of the "past" to help us in understanding each other. I open my arms to you for new-found happiness; will you accept?'

  I opened my eyes wide, not in astonishment---a woman can always predict a declaration of this kind---but in a kind of stupor. Ah yes, Aissatou, those well-worn words, which have for long been used and are still being used, had taken root in me. Their sweetness, of which I had been deprived for years, intoxicated me: I feel no shame in admitting it to you.

  Very reasonably, the deputy concluded: 'Don't give me an answer immediately. Think about my proposal. I shall come back tomorrow at the same time.'

  And, as if embarrassed by his own revelations, Daouda went away, after flashing a smile at me.

  My neighbour, Farmata, the griot woman, dashed in after him, excited. She was always trying to see into the future with her cowries, and the least agreement of her predictions with reality thrilled her.

  'I met the strong, rich man with the "double trousers" seen in the cowries. He gave me five thousand francs.'

  She blinked her deep, piercing eyes that were always trying to probe into mysteries.

  'I have given the recommended alms of two white and red cola nuts,' she confessed to me. 'Our destinies are linked. Your shade protects me. You don't fell the tree whose shade protects you. You water it. You watch over it.'

  Dear Farmata, how far from my thoughts you were! The restlessness with which I was struggling and which you had foreseen did not in the least signify the anguish of love.

  21

  Tomorrow? What a short time for reflection, for the decisive commitment of a life, especially when that life has known, in the recent past, the bitter tears of disappointment! I still have a vision of the intelligent eye of Daouda Dieng, the pout of the stubborn lips, which contrasted with the gentleness emanating from his profoundly charitable person, who saw only the best in people and ignored the rest. I could read him like an open book in which each sign was a symbol, but an easily interpreted symbol.

  My heart no longer beats wildly in the whirl of the spoken words. I am touched by the sincerity of words, but I am not carried away by it; my euphoria, born of the hunger and thirst for tenderness, fades away as the hours dance past.

  I cannot put out any flags. The proposed celebration does not tempt me. My heart does not love Daouda Dieng. My mind appreciates the man. But heart and
mind often disagree.

  How I should have liked to be galvanized in favour of this man, to be able to say yes! It is not that the memory of the deceased lies heavy within me. The dead have only the weight conceded to them or the weight of the good they have done. It is not that the presence of my young children poses a problem; he could have filled the role of the father who had abandoned them. Thirty years later, my own personal refusal is the only thing that conditions me. I have no definable reason. Our currents are opposed.

  Daouda Dieng's reputation for seriousness has already been established.

  A good husband? Yes. Public rumour, so wicked and thirsty for gossip where personalities are concerned, has never mentioned any goings-on of his. His wife and cousin, whom he married five years after my marriage out of his duty as a citizen and not out of love (another male expression to explain a natural action), has borne his children. Wife and children, placed by this dutiful man on a pedestal of respectability, offered him an enviable refuge, the outcome of his own effort.