Une si longue lettre / So Long a Letter (1979)
Mariama Bâ
Summary: Friends Aïssatou and Ramatoulaye discover that their husbands secretly have taken second wives. Their paths diverge as Ramatoulaye decides to remain in Senegal, in Dakar, and stays married to her husband—though he later abandons her and her children for his new wife—while Aïssatou divorces hers and begins a new life in America working for the Senegalese embassy. As the novel begins, years later, Ramatoulaye’s husband has just died, and she composes a long missive to her friend Aïssatou while she grapples with his death and considers her new life. The following passage is drawn from the second chapter of the novel, in which Ramatoulaye describes preparations for her husband’s burial.
Chapitre 2
Modou Fall est bien mort, Aïssatou. En attestent le défilé ininterrompu d’hommes et de femmes qui « ont appris », les cris et pleurs qui m’entourent. Cette situation d’extrême tension aiguise ma souffrance et persiste jusqu’au lendemain, jour de l’enterrement.
Quel fleuve grouillant d’êtres humains accourus de toutes les régions du pays où la radio a porté la nouvelle.
Des femmes s’affairent, proches parentes. Elles doivent emporter à l’hôpital pour la toilette mortuaire encens, eau de cologne, coton. Sont soigneusement mis dans un panier neuf, les sept mètres de percale blanche, seul vêtement autorisé à un mort musulman.1 Le « Zem-Zem »,2 eau miraculeuse venue des Lieux Saints de l’Islam, pieusement conservée dans chaque famille, n’est pas oublié. On choisit des pagnes riches et sombres pour recouvrir Modou.
Le dos calé par des coussins, les jambes tendues, je suis les allées et venues, la tête recouverte d’un pagne noir. En face de moi, un van neuf, acheté pour la circonstance, reçoit les premières aumônes. La présence à mes côtés de ma coépouse m’énerve. On l’a installée chez moi, selon la coutume, pour les funérailles. Chaque heure qui passe creuse ses joues plus profondément, cerne davantage ses yeux, des yeux immenses et beaux qui se ferment et s’ouvrent sur leurs secrets, des regrets peut-être. Au temps du rire et de l’insouciance, au temps de l’amour, la tristesse ploie cette enfant.
Pendant que les hommes dans une longue file hétéroclite de voitures officielles ou particulières, de cars rapides,3 de camionnettes et vélo-solex, conduisent Modou à sa dernière demeure, (on parlera longtemps du monde qui suivit le cortège funèbre) nos belles-sœurs nous décoiffent. Nous sommes installées, ma coépouse et moi, sous une tente occasionnelle faite d’un pagne tendu au-dessus de nos têtes. Pendant que nos belles-sœurs œuvrent, les femmes présentes, prévenues de l’opération, se lèvent et jettent sur la toiture mouvante des piécettes pour conjurer le mauvais sort.
C’est le moment redouté de toute Sénégalaise, celui en vue duquel elle sacrifie ses biens en cadeaux à sa belle-famille, et où, pis encore, outre les biens, elle s’ampute de sa personnalité, de sa dignité, devenant une chose au service de l’homme qui l’épouse, du grand-père, de la grand-mère, du père, de la mère, du frère, de la sœur, de l’oncle, de la tante, des cousins, des cousines, des amis de cet homme. Sa conduite est conditionnée : une belle-sœur ne touche pas la tête d’une épouse qui a été avare, infidèle ou inhospitalière.
Nous, nous avons été méritantes et c’est le chœur de nos louanges chantées à tue-tête. Notre patience à toute épreuve, la largesse de notre cœur, la fréquence de nos cadeaux trouvent leur justification et leur récompense en ce jour. Nos belles-sœurs traitent avec la même égalité trente et cinq ans de vie conjugale. Elles célèbrent, avec la même aisance et les mêmes mots, douze et trois maternités. J’enregistre, courroucée, cette volonté de nivellement qui réjouit la nouvelle belle-mère de Modou.
Après s’être lavé les mains dans l’eau d’une bassine placée à l’entrée de la maison, les hommes revenus du cimetière, défilent devant la famille groupée autour de nous, les veuves. Ils présentent leurs condoléances ponctuées de louanges à l’adresse du disparu.
— Modou, ami des jeunes et des vieux…
— Modou, cœur de lion, défenseur de l’opprimé…
— Modou, aussi à l’aise dans un costume que dans un caftan…
— Modou, bon frère, bon mari, bon musulman…
— Que Dieu lui pardonne…
— Qu’il regrette son séjour terrestre face à sa félicité céleste…
— Que la terre lui soit légère !
Ils sont là, compagnons de jeux de son enfance, autour du ballon rond ou à la chasse aux oiseaux, avec les lance-pierres. Ils sont là, compagnons d’études. Ils sont là, compagnons des luttes syndicales.
Les « Siguil ndigalé »4 se succèdent, poignants, tandis que des mains expertes distribuent à l’assistance biscuits, bonbons, colas5 judicieusement mêlés, premières offrandes vers les cieux pour le repos de l’âme du disparu.
Chapter 2
Modou Fall is indeed dead, Aissatou. The uninterrupted procession of men and women who have ‘learned’ of it, the wails and tears all around me, confirm his death. This condition of extreme tension sharpens my suffering and continues till the following day, the day of interment.
What a seething crowd of human beings come from all parts of the country, where the radio has relayed the news.
Women, close relatives, are busy. They must take incense, eau-de-cologne, cottonwool to the hospital for the washing of the dead one. The seven metres of white muslin, the only clothing Islam allows for the dead, are carefully placed in a new basket. The Zem-Zem, the miracle water from the holy places of Islam religiously kept by each family, is not forgotten. Rich, dark wrappers are chosen to cover Modou.
My back propped up by cushions, legs outstretched, my head covered with a black wrapper, I follow the comings and goings of people. Across from me, a new winnowing fan bought for the occasion receives the first alms. The presence of my cowife beside me irritates me. She has been installed in my house for the funeral, in accordance with tradition. With each passing hour her cheeks become more deeply hollowed, acquire ever more rings, those big and beautiful eyes which open and close on their secrets, perhaps their regrets. At the age of love and freedom from care, this child is dogged by sadness.
While the men, in along, irregular file of official and private cars, public buses, lorries and mopeds, accompany Modou to his last rest (people were for a long time to talk of the crowd which followed the funeral procession), our sisters-in-law undo our hair. My co-wife and myself are put inside a rough and ready tent made of a wrapper pulled taut above our heads and set up for the occasion. While our sisters-in-law are constructing it, the women present, informed of the work in hand, get up and throw some coins on to the fluttering canopy so as to ward off evil spirits.
This is the moment dreaded by every Senegalese woman, the moment when she sacrifices her possessions as gifts to her family-in-law; and, worse still, beyond her possessions she gives up her personality, her dignity, becoming a thing in the service of the man who has married her, his grandfather, his grandmother, his father, his mother, his brother, his sister, his uncle, his aunt, his male and female cousins, his friends. Her behaviour is conditioned: no sister-in-law will touch the head of any wife who has been stingy, unfaithful or inhospitable.
As for ourselves, we have been deserving, and our sisters-in- law sing a chorus of praises chanted at the top of their voices. Our patience before all trials, the frequency of our gifts find their justification and reward today. Our sisters-in-law give equal consideration to thirty years and five years of married life. With the same ease and the same words, they celebrate twelve maternities and three. I note with outrage this desire to level out, in which Modou’s new mother-in-law rejoices.
Having washed their hands in a bowl of water placed at the entrance to the house, the men, back from the cemetery, file past the family grouped around us, the widows. They offer their condolences punctuated with praises of the deceased.
‘Modou, friend of the young as of the old. …’
‘Modou, the lion-hearted, champion of the oppressed. …’
‘Modou, at ease as much in a suit as in a caftan. …’
‘Modou, good brother, good husband, good Muslim. …’
‘May God forgive him. …’
‘May he regret his earthly stay in his heavenly bliss. …’
‘May the earth rest lightly on him!’
They are there, his childhood playmates on the football ground, or during bird hunts, when they used catapults. They are there, his classmates. They are there, his companions in the trade union struggles.
The Siguil ndigale come one after the other, poignant, while skilled hands distribute to the crowd biscuits, sweets, cola nuts, judiciously mixed, the first offerings to heaven for the peaceful repose of the deceased’s soul.
Citations
-
Une si longue lettre (Dakar: Nouvelles Éditions Africaines du Sénégal, 1980 [1979]), pp. 10–12
-
So Long a Letter, translated by Modupé Bodé-Thomas (London: Heinemann, 1981), pp. 3–5
- Islam is the predominant religion of Senegal. 94–96% of the current population is estimated to be Muslim, with a small percentage of Christians, namely Catholics. Traditional local religions and beliefs, such as animism, are widely practiced by both Muslims and Catholics. Senegal is known for its religious tolerance. ↩
- Zem-zem is holy water, sometimes brought from Mecca, but in Senegal often drawn from sacred wells, such as those located on the beach near the Seydina Limamou Laye (Limamou Thiaw) mausoleum in Yoff. ↩
- Car rapides or kaar ràppit are a common form of public transportation in Dakar. They are colorfully painted small busses that travel regular routes throughout the city. Aparànti, usually young men or teenagers, hang off the back and collect payment and indicate the route and stops to passengers. ↩
- Siggil Ndigaale “my condolences, my sympathies” in Wolof. The response is usually Siggil sa wall “my thanks.” ↩
- Kola or cola are caffeine-containing nuts from the kola tree. They can be chewed or made into a drink and are used widely throughout Senegal and West Africa in ceremonial settings (proposals, weddings, baptisms, funerals). ↩
