Xala

by Ousmane Sembène

  ‘Thank the doctor for being so kind as to go with you to attend to your sick mother. If it weren’t for him I’d take away your driving licence. You may go,’ said the policeman to Rama in Wolof.

  The policeman was a good sort really. He halted a mini which was coming from the opposite direction and signalled Rama to pass. Once they were out of sight they roared with laughter.

  They went to the Sumbejin.

  The sun, pale as twilight at this time of the year, sent its ochre rays obliquely onto the sea. On the bar terrace a few customers were enjoying the occasional breeze.

  ‘Why did you tell him all those lies?’ asked Rama as she sat down.

  ‘I thought you didn’t understand French.’

  ‘Touché, lovely man!’

  They roared with laughter again.

  The waiter, well trained at the hotel school, stood by them, erect and impassive. Rama ordered a coca-cola, Pathé a beer.

  ‘Foreign, sir?’

  ‘Local,’ Pathé replied.

  ‘Do you think we will get married one of these days?’

  Caught off his guard by the question but aware of its connection with the incident, Pathé was too intrigued to say anything. Then:

  ‘What’s against it?’

  ‘That’s not an answer. I want to know, yes or no, whether you still intend marrying me.’

  The waiter brought their order.

  ‘My reply is yes.’

  ‘You know I’m against polygamy.’

  ‘What’s eating you?’

  ‘You know about my father’s third marriage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Apart from the enormous expense, do you know the rest?’

  ‘No,’ replied the doctor, remembering what the registrar had told him less than two hours previously.

  ‘My father spent a fortune on this wedding, not to mention the car he bought his Dulcinea on condition she was a virgin. A virgin! I’m sure she’s as much a virgin as I am.’

  She paused, drank her coca-cola.

  Pathé, wary of the young girl’s unpredictability, waited for what was to follow. With his right hand he chased away a bee buzzing around his glass. Rama leaned over to him and with her index finger signalled him to draw nearer. Her elbow was resting on the table, her forearm vertical and her hand dangling free.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pathé.

  She looked the doctor straight in the eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter? My father’s xala is the matter,’ she replied straightening herself.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  Hadn’t she seen her father leaving the hospital? This confirmed what she had heard. Without taking her eyes off him, a narrow smile wrinkling the corners of her mouth into a look of mockery, she leaned over to him as before.

  ‘Father came to see me and as I am a facc-katt he said to me: “Rama, my dear child, I am impotent”.’

  ‘How, did you find out?’

  ‘So you know about it toot?’

  Taken by surprise, Pathé could only splutter.

  ‘I saw father leaving the hospital,’ she said. ‘The. whole of Dakar knows about the wedding and they also know about this other business now.’

  ‘It’s true your father came to consult the registrar. But what does your mother say about it?’

  ‘Lovely man, do you really have any intelligence? My mother? She’s just an “antique”. Didn’t she accept the second wife?’

  ‘And your father?’

  She showed him the cheek he had struck.

  ‘The last time I saw my father I received his hand here. Here. And it was on his wedding day.’

  ‘A well deserved present!’

  ‘You’re intelligent, lovely man. For your punishment I want another coca-cola.’

  Pathé called the waiter and ordered a second drink.

  ‘It’s on my mother’s account that I feel so angry about it. She’s eaten up with guilt. When we’re married I’ll do everything I can to see she gets a divorce and comes to live with us.’

  A cool breeze laden with iodine blew in from the sea.

  The xala was all they could talk about and Rama could only think of her mother

  ‘What should I do?’ The mother’s question shook like a bell in her head. Rama thought about her conversation with Pathé. Perhaps there was a medical solution for her father’s condition. It seemed doubtful though. But she did not know the reason for her doubt. She would have liked to answer her mother encouragingly, for her sake, to give her a little hope. But what if it turned out not to be true? If an excess of kindness born of affection were to raise her hopes too high, like the yeast the dough, her disappointment would be all the greater and her sense of having been let down all the more painful.

  She looked at her mother. The woman’s eyes reflected her complete confusion. She passed the book from one hand to the other. Her palms were damp with sweat.

  ‘There is nothing you can do, mother.’

  Rama had chosen her words very carefully. She wanted to help her recover her calm.

  ‘I can’t even go out. People stare at me like...’

  The rest of her words were drowned in a smothered sob.

  ‘Did you cause this xala, mother?’

  Was it that her heart had become cold and dry? Or was it an expression of sterile tenderness? Rama could not decide which it was. She kept her eyes on her mother. Adja Awa Astou’s thin face lengthened towards her chin. The oblique slits of her eyes narrowed, silvery specks the size of pinheads shone in her left eye. Her lower lip trembled slackly for a moment. Then she said:

  ‘I swear by Yalla that it is not me.’

  ‘Why then? Do you feel you are to blame?’

  ‘Simply because I am his wife, the awa. In such cases the first wife is always blamed.’

  ‘You should have spoken to father about it during your aye.’

  ‘I can’t talk to him about such things.’

  ‘Would you like me to talk to him?’

  ‘You have no modesty!’ exclaimed Adja Awa Astou, getting to her feet.

  The book fell to the floor. She went on furiously:

  ‘How can you talk. about such things to your father?’

  She left the room, banging the door behind her.

  Rama stared at the closed door in astonishment.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye followed the marabouts’ instructions: he drank their concoctions, rubbed himself with their ointments and wore their xatim round his waist. In spite of all this – or perhaps because of it – there was no sign of improvement. He went back to the psychiatric hospital. Without restraint he opened his heart to the registrar, his voice full of emotion. He wanted ‘to go to bed’ but his nerves betrayed him. Yet he carried out the treatment prescribed. The registrar made some notes and asked him to come again later. Day after day, night after night, his torment ate into his professional life. Like a waterlogged silk-cotton tree on the river bank he sank deeper into the mud. Because of his condition he avoided the company of his fellow businessmen, among whom transactions were made and sealed. He was weighed down by worry and lost his skill and his ability to do business. Imperceptibly his affairs began to go to pieces.

  He had to maintain his high standard of living: three villas, several cars, his . wives, children, servants and employees. Accustomed to settling everything by cheque, he continued to pay his accounts and his household expenses in this way. He went on spending. Soon his liabilities outstripped his credit.

  Old Babacar, his father-in-law, knew a seet-katt – a seer – who lived in an outlying district.

  They went there.

  The Mercedes could not reach the seer’s house. Nothing but sandy alleys. They clambered across the sand on foot. The houses were part wood, part brick, with roofs made of corrugated iron, canvas. or cardboard, held in place by stones, steel bars, car axles and the rims of all kinds of wheels. Small children were playing barefoot with a football of their own concoction. On the slope opposite the
wasteland a long line of women carrying basins and plastic buckets on their heads were returning from the communal tap on the other side of the shanty town, where the real town lay.

  The seet-katt was a big fellow with an awkward manner. His skin was rough and wrinkled. He had brown eyes and unkempt hair and wore only a pair of shorts cut in the Turkish style. He led them to the enclosure where he held his consultations. A sack served as the door. On the inside of the enclosure the ‘door’ had been dyed red and animal teeth, cats’ paws, birds’ beaks, shrivelled skins and amulets had been sewn onto it. An assortment of bizarre-shaped animal horns lay in a circle around the sides of the enclosure. The ground was covered with fine, clean sand.

  The seet-katt enjoyed a certain renown as a hermit mystic. His serious activities extended beyond the limits of his own neighbourhood. With a wave of a skinny arm he invited them to sit on a goatskin. Because of his European clothes El Hadji hesitated for a moment, then seated himself as best he could on the ground. Old Babacar sat cross-legged. The seet-katt spread a piece of bright red cloth between them and took some cowrie shells from a small bag. First he said some incantations, then with a sharp gesture threw the cowries. He quickly collected them up again with one hand. Holding himself stiffly erect he looked his clients up and down. Abruptly he held out his clenched fist. Slowly the ball of fingers at the end of his skinny arm opened, like a sea anemone.

  Deferentially old Babacar pointed to El Hadji.

  ‘Take these and breathe over them,’ ordered the seet-katt, addressing them for the first time.

  El Hadji held the cowries in the palm of his hand and murmured a few words. He breathed over the cowries and gave them back to the seet-katt. The latter closed his eyes, muttering to himself in concentration. Then with a gutteral roar he flung the cowries onto the piece of cloth.

  Like a shower of sparks in the dark the buried, ghostly universe of his early childhood rose to the surface of El Hadji’s memory and held him in its grip. A host of spirits, gnomes and jinns paraded through his subconscious.

  The seet-katt counted the cowries. Once. Twice. A third time. What? He raised his tobacco-coloured eyes up to his client. He scrutinized him. El Hadji was suddenly afraid. Why did he stare at him like that? The diviner gathered up the cowries and threw them down once more.

  ‘Strange,’ he muttered.

  No one spoke

  Before throwing the cowries again the seet-katt took a cock’s spur from a red cloth in which it was wrapped and put it with the other objects. His face clouded over: His gaze became more penetrating. Stiffness? Desire to impress? Ritual gesture? He changed his posture. He leaned forward then. straightened himself again. A smile of satisfaction spread over his face.

  ‘This xala is strange,’ he announced.

  A feeling of immense joy came over El Hadji. His whole being was filled with a warm, comforting euphoria. He looked happily at his father-in-law. Why had he never heard of this seet-katt before?

  ‘Who caused this xala?’ asked old Babacar.

  The seer was lost in contemplation..

  From the distance came the noise of children, from nearby the sound of music – someone was walking past the compound with a transistor radio.

  ‘I can’t see who it is. Is it a man? A woman? Very hard to say. But I see you very clearly. There you are, as clear as anything.’

  ‘I want to be cured,’ said El Hadji spontaneously.

  He waited anxiously for the reply.

  ‘I am not a facc-katt – a healer – but a seet-katt. My job is to “see”.’

  ‘Who has done this to me?’ asked El Hadji.

  His face had aged so much it had taken on the expression of a Baule mask.

  ‘Who?’ echoed the seet-katt.

  The fingers held over the fan of cowries seemed to be plucking the strings of a guitar. The seet-katt’s eyes, like his fingers, followed an invisible line. ‘Who?’ he repeated. ‘The shape is indistinct: But I can definitely say it is someone close to you. This xala was carried out during the night.’

  ‘Tell me who it is and I will give you anything you ask. I want to be cured! Become a man again! Tell me how much you want,’ shouted El Hadji in anguish.

  Suiting the action to the word, he took out his wallet.

  ‘I only take what is my due,’ replied the seet-katt self-righteously.

  His eyes encountered El Hadji’s and he added: ‘Do you only want to know the name of the person who has made you impotent?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I blew onto the cowries,’ admitted El Hadji regretfully. ‘But you can treat me, cure me! Cure me!’ implored El Hadji, waving the bank-notes.

  The seet-katt carefully collected his instruments together and folded the cloth, without paying them any attention. He was completely lacking in deference now.

  ‘How much do we owe you?’ asked old Babacar.

  ‘Five hundred francs.’

  El Hadji handed him a thousand-franc note. Since he had no change he made him a gift of the rest.

  Outside the house El Hadji turned over in his mind the sentence: ‘It is someone close to you.’ Just as nature re-imposes its life on ruins with small tufts of grass, the ancestral atavism of fetishism was being re-awakened in El Hadji. Like a torrent, his suspicions carried along names, imprecise silhouettes, faces without shape. He felt himself surrounded by treachery and ill-will. After his visit to the seet-katt he became more reserved, more touchy. Fatigue added its weight to his depression. He was haunted by what the diviner had told him.

  It was Oumi N’Doye’s moomé. He put off the moment when he would have to go to her. He was certain in advance that he would not be able to accomplish his conjugal duty with her. He finally arrived as late as he could in the evening.

  Oumi N‘Doye had prepared her aye in a spirit of rivalry. A reunion meal. The menu culled from a French fashion magazine. She wanted to make him forget the last meal he had had with his first wife. The table was laid in the French way. There were various hors d’œuvres and veal cutlets. The Côtes de Provence rose kept the bottle of French mineral water company in the ice-bucket; at the other end of the table a pyramid of apples and pears. Next to the soup tureen cheeses in their wrappings. The planning of the meal was part of the second wife’s campaign to reconquer lost ground. To regain her husband’s affections. One of her women friends, prodigal with advice, had that very day whispered in her ear:

  ‘If she is to have her man’s favour, a wife who is obliged to compete with others must aim at the male’s two most vulnerable parts: his stomach and his genitals. She must make herself desirable by being feminine, with just a touch of modesty. In bed she must not hold back. If she does she will only find disappointment.’

  Oumi N’Doye had plaited her hair over her forehead in the Khassonke style. She had twisted a gold ring into the middle plait, which hung down to her neck. On each side of her head, starting above her ears, five branches opened out into a heart-shaped fan, each topped with a flat mother-of-pearl. A thin layer of antimony accentuated her black eyelashes and eyebrows.

  She sat opposite her husband and chatted away, doing most of the talking. Now and again she rang the bell for the maid.

  ‘I had given you up,’ she said, laughing. ‘Yet I am your wife too, aren’t I? A little older than your N’Gone, I know. Still, side by side, we look like sisters,’ she concluded happily, her eyelashes fluttering like apair of butterflies about to take off. On the side of her face in the light, her eye had the polish of china clay.

  El Hadji forced a smile. He was scarcely eating anything. He was not hungry. He felt as if the room was closing in on him.

  ‘You’re playing hard to get with me now, aren’t you? You could have phoned me. Oh, it’s not for me. I know my place. It’s for the children. What if one of them fell ill? Touch wood! But you never know. Me? I know when it’s my aye. I make no demands. A thought costs nothing. A thought gives pleasure.’

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was wrapped in his obsession. ‘Why
not her?’

  Oumi N‘Doye talked on. She had been lucky to get the meat. Veal cutlets from France. Native butchers don’t know how to cut meat. Don’t you agree? The greengrocer’s avocado pears weren’t ripe. Only good for the toubabs (whites). Aren’t there a lot of toubabs around now?’

  El Hadji got up from the table. He sat down in the armchair and stretched out his legs. Tilting his head backwards he undid his tie. The harsh light of the lamp in the corner exaggerated the signs of age on his face. His short hair glistened white, like linen.

  ‘Of course, when you eat at two tables you have your preferences,’ she flung out acidly, still at the table.

  After a brief silence she resumed, her voice very gentle: ‘You must realize that when I speak to you it’s also for the children. You must treat us all fairly as the Koran says. Each household has a car except this one. Why?’

  El Hadji was not listening. He was completely absorbed in his xala. His thoughts turned to Adja Awa Astou, and at this moment he felt grateful for his first wife’s reticence. As if he were about to be caught red-handed performing some shameful act he dreaded the moment when he would have to go to bed with his second. His heart was beating fast. He would have liked to miss out Oumi N’Doye’s moomé. He could then have spent the night somewhere else, far away from her. He knew in advance that the woman would move heaven and earth to bring him back to her house.

  ‘Answer me!’

  ‘I didn’t hear. What were you saying?’

  Hands on her hips, she looked down at her husband.

  ‘No one is more deaf than he who doesn’t want to hear. I repeat, my children must also have a car. Adja has one, your third has one. I don’t mind being on the tandem but I won’t be the spare wheel. You’re giving my children a complex about it.’

  ‘No need to shout. You’ll wake them.’

  ‘Admit that I am right. Everything for the others. Nothing for me or my children.’

  ‘Pass me the mineral water.’

  Her anger was only a flash in the pan. She brought him the bottle and a glass.

  ‘Shall I run you a bath?’ she asked.

  She had just read this in one of her magazines. El Hadji could hardly believe his ears. He looked at her, agreeably surprised.