So Long a Letter

by Mariama Bâ

  Courageous grandmother, I drew from your teaching and example the courage that galvanizes one at the times when difficult choices have to be made.

  The other night I surprised the trio (as they are popularly known), Arame, Yacine and Dieynaba, smoking in their bedroom. Everything about their manner showed that they were used to it: their way of holding the cigarette between their fingers or raising it gracefully to their lips, of inhaling like connoisseurs. Their nostrils quivered and let out the smoke. And these young ladies inhaled and exhaled while doing their lessons and their homework. They savoured their pleasure greedily, behind the closed door, for I try, as much as possible, to respect their privacy.

  People say that Dieynaba, Arame and Yacine take after me. They are bound by their friendship and willingness to help, as well as by a multitude of similarities; they form a block, with the same defensive or distrustful reactions, before my other children; they swop dresses, trousers, tops, being nearly the same size. I have never had to intervene in their conflicts. The trio has a reputation for hard work at school.

  But to grant themselves the right to smoke! They were dumbfounded before my anger. The unexpectedness of it gave me a shock. A woman's mouth exhaling the acrid smell of tobacco instead of being fragrant. A woman's teeth blackened with tobacco instead of sparkling with whiteness! Yet their teeth were white. How did they manage the feat?

  I considered the wearing of trousers dreadful in view of our build, which is not that of slim Western women. Trousers accentuate the ample figure of the black woman and further emphasize the curve of the small of the back. But I gave in to the rush towards this fashion, which constricted and hampered instead of liberating. Since my daughters wanted to be 'with it', I accepted the addition of trousers to their wardrobes.

  Suddenly I became afraid of the flow of progress. Did they also drink? Who knows, one vice leads to another. Does it mean that one can't have modernism without a lowering of moral standards?

  Was I to blame for having given my daughters a bit of liberty? My grandfather did not allow young people in his house. At ten o'clock at night, with a bell in his hand, he would warn visitors of the closure of the entrance gate. He punctuated the ringing of the bell with the same instruction: 'Whoever does not live here should scram.'

  As for myself, I let my daughters go out from time to time. They went to the cinema without me. They received male and female friends. There were arguments to justify my behaviour. Unquestionably, at a certain age, a boy or girl opens up to love. I wanted my daughters to discover it in a healthy way, without feelings of guilt, secretiveness or degradation. I tried to penetrate their relationships: I created a favourable atmosphere for sensible behaviour and for confidence.

  And the result is that under the influence of their circle they have acquired the habit of smoking. And I was left in the dark, I who wanted to control everything. My grandmother's wise words came to mind: 'You can feed your stomach as well as you please; it will still provide for itself without your knowing.'

  I had to do some thinking. There was a need for some reorganization to stop the rot. My grandmother would perhaps have suggested, 'For a new generation, a new method.'

  I did not mind being a 'stick-in-the-mud'. I was aware of the harmful effects of tobacco, and I could not agree to its use. My conscience rejected it, as it rejected alcohol.

  From then on, relentlessly, I was on the lookout for its odour. It played hide-and-seek with my watchfulness. Sly and ironic, it would tease my nostrils and then disappear. Its favourite hiding place was the toilet, especially at night. But it no longer dared to expose itself openly, with jaunty shamelessness.

  24

  Today I was not able to finish my evening prayer as I wanted to: cries from the street made me jump up from the mat on which I was seated.

  Standing on the veranda, I see my sons Alioune and Malick arriving in tears. They are in a pitiable state: torn clothes, bodies covered in dust from a fall, knees bleeding beneath the shorts. There is a large hole in the right sleeve of Malick's sweater; the arm on the same side hangs down limply. One of the boys supporting him explains to me: 'A motorcyclist knocked down Malick and Alioune. We were playing football.'

  A young man with long hair, white glasses, amulets round the neck, moves forward. The grey dust from the road covers his denim outfit. Mauled by the children for whom he has became the target, a red wound on his leg, he is visibly taken aback by so much hostility. In a polite tone and manner, which contrast with his slovenly appearance, he offers his excuses: 'I saw the children too late while making a left turn. I thought I would have a clear road, since it is a one-way street. I did not imagine that the children had set up a playing field. In vain, I tried to brake. I hit the stones marking the goal post. When I fell, your two sons also fell, along with three other small boys. I am sorry.'

  I am pleasantly surprised by the young motorcyclist. I railed, but not against him. I know from experience the difficulty of driving in town, especially in the Medina. The tarred surface is a favourite area for children. Once they have taken possession, nothing else counts. They will dance around the ball like devils. Sometimes the object of their passion is a thick rag ball, all tied up. It doesn't matter! The driver's only recourse is his brakes, his horn, his composure; a small, disorderly opening is made for him, quickly closed up again in the hustle. Behind him the shouts begin again, even louder.

  'It's not your fault, young man. My sons are to blame. They slipped away as I was praying. Off you go, young man---or rather, wait a moment while I get you some spirit and cotton-wool for your wound.'

  Aissatou, your namesake, brings methylated iodine and cotton. She takes care of the stranger and then of Alioune. The little boys of the area disapprove of my reaction. They want the man 'at fault' to be punished; I give them a ticking-off. Ah, children! They cause an accident and, in addition, they want to punish.

  Malick's hanging arm looks to me as if it is broken. It droops unnaturally. 'Quick, Aissatou! Take him to hospital. If you can't find Mawdo, go to Casualty. Quick, go, child.' Aissatou dresses quickly and speedily helps Malick to clean up and change.

  The dried blood from the wounds leaves dark and repulsive stains on the ground. Cleaning them up, I think of the identical nature of men: the same red blood irrigating the same organs. These organs, situated in the same places, carry out the same functions. The same remedies cure the same illnesses everywhere under the sun, whether the individual be white or black. Everything unites men. Why, then, do they kill each other in ignoble wars for causes that are futile when compared with the massacre of human lives? So many devastating wars! And yet man takes himself to be a superior being. In what way is his intelligence useful to him? His intelligence begets both good and ill, more often ill than good.

  I go back to my place on the mat decorated with a picture of a mosque in green, reserved for my use only, just as is the kettle for my ablutions. Alioune, still sniffing, pushes Ousmane aside so as to take his place beside me, looking for consolation, which I refuse him. On the contrary, I seize the opportunity to tell him off: 'The road is not a playing field. You got off lightly today. But tomorrow, watch out! You will have some bone broken, like your brother.'

  Alioune complains: 'But there is no playing field in the area. Mothers won't let us play football in the compounds. So what do we do?'

  His comment is valid. Officers in charge of town planning must make provision for playing fields when they are developing open spaces.

  Some hours later Aissatou and Malick return from the hospital where, once again, Mawdo has taken good care of them. Malick's plastered arm tells me that the drooping arm had indeed been broken. Ah, how dearly children make one pay for the joy of bringing them into the world!

  Just as I thought, my friend: it never rains but it pours. This is my luck: once misfortune has me in its grip, it never lets go of me again.

  Aissatou, your namesake, is three months pregnant. Farmata, the griot woman of the cowries, very cleverl
y led me to this discovery. Public rumour had spurred her on perhaps, or her keen powers of observation had simply served her well.

  Each time she cast her cowries to cut short our discussions (we had diverging points of view on everything), she would breathe a 'Hm' of discontent. With heavy sighs, she would point out in the jumble of cowries a young pregnant girl.

  I had certainly noticed your namesake's sudden loss of weight, her lack of appetite, the swelling of her breasts: all indications of the child she was carrying. But puberty also transforms adolescents; they grow fatter or thinner, taller. And then, shortly after her father's death, Aissatou had had a violent attack of malaria, checked by Mawdo Bâ.

  The disappearance of her plumpness dates from this period.

  Aissatou refused to regain weight, in order to keep her slender figure. I naturally ascribed her light intake of food and her distaste for certain foodstuffs to this new mania. Now thin, she swam in her trousers and, to my great joy, wore only dresses.

  Little Oumar did tell me one day that Aissatou used to vomit in their bathroom every morning while bathing him. But Aissatou, when questioned, denied it, said it was the water mixed with toothpaste that she spat out. Oumar no longer spoke of vomiting.

  My mind focused on something else.

  How could I guess that my daughter, who had calmed my anger during the cigarette affair, was now indulging in an even more dangerous game? Merciless fate had surprised me again ---as usual, without any weapons with which to defend myself.

  Every day Farmata would insist a bit more on the 'young pregnant girl' of her cowries. She would show her to me. The girl's condition was making the woman suffer. She was eloquent: 'Look, I say, look! This separate cowry, hollow side turned upwards.

  Look at this one, adjusting itself to the other, white side up, like a cooking pot and its cover lid. The child is in the belly. It forms one body with its mother. The two groups of cowries are separated: This indicates an unattached woman. But as the cowries are small, they indicate a young girl.'

  And her hand threw down, again and again, the gossipy cowries. They fell away from each other, collided, overlapped. Their tell-tale chink filled the winnowing fan, and the same group of two cowries always remained separate, to reveal distress. I followed their language dispassionately.

  And then, one evening, annoyed by my naiveté, Farmata said boldly: 'Question your daughters, Ramatoulaye. A mother must be pessimistic.'

  Worried by the relentless repetition, anxious, I accepted the proposition. Moving like a gazelle with delicate limbs, she swept into Aissatou's bedroom, afraid that I would change my mind. She came out, a triumphant gleam in her eye. Aissatou followed her, in tears. Farmata sent away Ousmane, who was nestled within myboubou , locked the door and declared: 'The cowries cannot always be wrong. If they have insisted for so long, it means there is something there. Water and sand have been mixed; they have become mud. Gather up your mud. Aissatou does not deny her condition. I have saved her by exposing the matter. You guessed nothing. She did not dare confide in you.

  You would never have got out of this situation.'

  I was dumbfounded. I, so prone to chide, was silent. I was flushed and breathless. I closed my eyes, opened them again. I gnawed at my tongue.

  The first question that comes to mind on discovering such a condition is: who? Who is behind this theft, for there has been a theft? Who is behind this injury, for injury it is. Who has dared? Who? Who? Aissatou mentioned a certain Ibrahima Sall who, as she talked, very soon became simply Iba.

  Bewildered, I look at my daughter, so well brought up, so tender with me, so ready to help in the house, so efficient in every way, so many fine qualities allied with such behaviour!

  Iba is a law student at the university. They met at a friend's birthday celebration. Iba sometimes went to meet her at school when she did not 'come down' at lunch time. He had invited her on two occasions to his room in the university halls of residence. She confessed her liking for him! No, Iba had not demanded anything, had not forced her. Everything had happened naturally between them. Iba knew of her condition. He had refused the services of one of his mates who wanted to 'help' him. He loved her.

  Though he was on a scholarship, he had decided to deprive himself for the maintenance of his child.

  I learned everything at one go, from a broken voice accompanied by much sniffing but without any regret! Aissatou bent her head. I recognized the unvarnished truth of her story. I recognized her in her whole-hearted gift of herself to this lover who had succeeded in uniting in this heart my image and his own. Aissatou lowered her eyes, conscious of the pain crushing me; I remained silent. My hand supported my tired head. Aissatou lowered her eyes. She heard my inner self give way. She was fully aware of the seriousness of her action, considering my recent widow-hood, following upon my abandonment. After Daba, she was the oldest of the succession of daughters. The oldest should set an example. ... My teeth gnashed in anger. ...

  Remembering, like a lifebuoy, the tender and consoling attitude of my daughter during my distress, my long years of loneliness, I overcame my emotion. I sought refuge in God, as at every moment of crisis in my life. Who decides death and life? God, the Almighty!

  And also, one is a mother in order to understand the inexplicable. One is a mother to lighten the darkness. One is a mother to shield when lightning streaks the night, when thunder shakes the earth, when mud bogs one down. One is a mother in order to love without beginning or end.

  To make my being a defensive barrier between my daughter and any obstacle. At this moment of confrontation, I realized how close I was to my child. The umbilical cord took on new life, the indestructible bond beneath the avalanche of storms and the duration of time. I saw her once more, newly sprung from me, kicking about, her tongue pink, her tiny face creased under her silky hair. I could not abandon her, as pride would have me do. Her life and her future were at stake, and these were powerful considerations, overriding all taboos and assuming greater importance in my heart and in my mind. The life that fluttered in her was questioning me. It was eager to blossom. It vibrated, demanding protection.

  I was the one who had not been equal to the situation. Glutted with optimism, I had not suspected the crisis of her conscience, the passion of her being, the torment of her thoughts, the miracle she was carrying.

  One is a mother so as to face the flood. Was I to threaten, in the face of my daughter's shame, her sincere repentance, her pain, her anguish? Was I?

  I took my daughter in my arms. Painfully, I held her tightly, with a force multiplied tenfold by pagan revolt and primitive tenderness. She cried. She choked on sobs.

  How could she have lived alone with her secret? I was traumatized by the effort and skill employed by this child to escape my anger whenever she felt faint or whenever she took over from me beside my troublesome youngsters. I felt sick. I felt terribly sick.

  I took myself in hand with superhuman effort. The shadows faded away. Courage! The rays of light united to form an appeasing brightness. My decision to help and protect emerged from the tumult. It gained strength as I wiped the tears, as I caressed the burning brow.

  Young Aissatou shall have an appointment with the doctor, not later than tomorrow.

  Farmata was astonished. She expected wailing: I smiled. She wanted strong reprimands: I consoled. She wished for threats: I forgave.

  No doubt about it: she will never know what to expect from me. To give a sinner so much attention was beyond her. She had dreams of sumptuous marriage celebrations for Aissatou, which would compensate her for my own meagre nuptials when she was a young girl, already tied to my steps like a shadow. She used to sing your praises, Aissatou, you who would give her a lot of money at the future wedding of your namesake. The story of the Fiat whetted her appetite and credited you with fabulous wealth. She dreamed of festivities, and here was this girl who had given herself to a penniless student, who would never be grateful to her. She reproached me for my calm: 'You have mainly dau
ghters. Adopt an attitude that you can keep up. You will see. If Aissatou can do "this", I wonder what your trio of smokers will do. Smother your daughter with caresses, Ramatoulaye. You will see.'

  I will indeed see when I ask to meet Ibrahima Sall tomorrow. ...

  25

  Ibrahima Sall entered my room at the appointed time. His punctuality pleased me.

  Tall, simply dressed. Pleasant features, on the whole. But with remarkably beautiful eyes, velvety, tender in the casement of his long eyelashes. One would like to see them in a woman's face the smile as well. I let my gaze rest on the set of his teeth.

  No treacherous gaps. Without being self-conscious about it, Ibrahima Sall was indeed the embodiment of the romantic young lover. He pleased me, and I noticed his cleanliness with relief: short hair combed, nails cut, shoes polished. He must be an orderly man and therefore without deceit.

  It was I who had summoned him, but it was he who started the conversation: 'How many times I have wanted to arrange this discussion, to let you know. I know what a daughter means to her mother, and Aissatou has told me so much about you, your closeness to her, that I think I know you already. I am not just looking for excitement. Your daughter is my first love. I want her to be the only one. I regret what has happened. If you agree, I will marry Aissatou. My mother will look after her child. We will continue with our studies.'