THE BEGGARS’

STRIKE
AMINATA SOW FALL

LON GM AN--AF RICAN W- RIT _ER-S

 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2021 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/beggarsstrikeord000Ofall
THE BEGGARS’

STRIKE
eae
ee
 THE BEGGARS’
SPRIKE
OR THE DREGS OF SOCIETY

Aminata Sow Fall

translated by
Dorothy S. Blair

Longman
 under the boubou, sometimes draped around the
waist, but incorrectly translated by ‘loin-cloth’.
Literally, a length of cloth.
BEECO a little pagne, worn under a larger and
longer pagne. This would more closely correspond
to a ‘loin-cloth’.
TURAI like a pagne, a garment worn under the boubou.
CHECHIA a silk or cotton scarf draped around the
head and neck.

The following are culinary terms referring to food

or drink:
COUSCOUS a dish made of ground millet, served
with fish or meat and various tasty sauces.
BAASI SALTE a local dish, as prepared in Cayor and as
prepared in Jolof; 1.e. two kingdoms which played an
important role in the pre-colonial history of Senegal.
KINKILEBA a refreshing infusion made from the dried
leaves of a local bush.

The author offers the following explanation and

etymology for the name ‘Kifi Bokoul that she gives to
the mystic marabout introduced in chapter 8 and the
fictional ‘legend’ she tells about his birth:
Ki = the one; fi = here; Bokoul = does not belong;
so Kifi Bokoul is ‘the one who does not belong here’
or ‘is not of this earth’.
A kora is a musical instrument with between sixteen
and thirty-two strings, akin to a European harp.

DS. BLAIR

V1
Hark! Hark! no dogs do bark!
No beggars are coming to town ...
(With apologies to the English nursery
rhyme. Translator)
 Chapter One

This morning there has been another article about it in

the newspaper: about how the streets are congested with
these beggars, these talibés, these lepers and cripples, all
these derelicts. The Capital must be cleared of these
people — parodies of human beings rather — these dregs of
society who beset you everywhere and attack you without
provocation at all times. You hope that the trafhc-lights
will never turn red as you approach an intersection in
your car! And once you’ve overcome the obstacle of the
traffic-lights, you have to get past another hurdle to reach
the hospital, force your way through a bombardment to
get to work in your own office, struggle to emerge from
the bank, make a thousand detours to avoid them at the
markets, and finally pay a ransom to enter the House of
God! Oh! these men, these parodies of human beings, as
persistent as they are ubiquitous! The Capital is crying out
to be cleared of them. If Keba Dabo had had any doubts
about this before, he is now quite convinced, as once
again he has found himself in a completely inadmissable
situation. On Friday he had the misfortune to be in a
Lebanese merchant’s shop. Now, everyone knows that on
Fridays the streets are clogged up with beggars. Just as a
young man was coming out of the shop, a beggar was
feeling his way in and hit him with his stick. The young
man swore at the beggar; the latter came back at him
with some choice obscenities, to everyone’s s stupefaction,
‘How dare you use such language to me?’
‘Oh! just because we’re beggars, people think we’re
dogs! We’re beginning to get fed up with the way we’re
treated!’
This just beats everyone. And it certainly beats Keba
Dabo, when it is in fact his job to free the streets of this
conglomeration of humanity. Keba Dabo is Assistant to
Mour Ndiaye, the Director of the Department of Public
Health and Hygiene. Mour Ndiaye had been absolutely
categorical when he called his assistant into his office last
week. In his right hand he held the memorandum from
the Minister reiterating the order for the public highways
to be cleaned up; with his left hand he motioned to Keba
to take a seat in front of him.
‘Keba, the situation is getting more and more
worrying. These beggars, they ... well, they’re making life
a bit difficult for us, really. Didn’t I tell you to do
something about them ?’
‘Yes, sir. I carried out your instructions. I must say I
can’t understand it myself ... I don’t know how they
manage to get back on the streets. We organise raids every
week; sometimes they’re dropped more than a hundred
miles away, but the next day they’re back at their strategic
points. It’s really getting quite beyond me, sir.’
Keba did not tell Mour Ndiaye his feelings every time a
beggar held out his hand to him. He did not tell him how
he nearly choked when filthy hands were poked right into
his car, as soon as he was imprudent enough to lower the
windows, nor the remorse he felt when he conformed to
the principle he had laid down never to give alms to
beggars, a principle that was not inspired by meanness or
churlishness, but simply because he was shocked to see
human beings — however poor they might be —-
diminishing their own dignity by sponging on others in
such a disgraceful, shameless fashion. He forgot that
hunger and poverty compelled some of them to beg, and
so remind those who were better off that paupers too
existed.
‘Keba, it’s not a question of understanding, it’s a
question of finding some way of getting rid of these
people. Our Department’s reputation is at stake. Must we
let ourselves be thought ineffectual, incompetent ?’
Keba’s eyes rested on the large silver signet ring, on
which were engraved some cabalistic signs, and which
adorned the fourth finger of Mour Ndiaye’s left hand.
‘You realise, the latter went on, ‘their presence is
harmful to the prestige of our country ; they are a running
sore which should be kept hidden, at any rate in the
Capital. This year the number of tourists has fallen
considerably, in comparison with last year’s figures, and
it’s almost certain that these beggars are to some extent
responsible. We really can’t let them invade our cities and
form a threat to public hygiene and the national
economy.’
‘Right sir, we'll set up an effective plan of campaign.
You can rely on me.’
Mour Ndiaye knew he could count on Keba. In the six
years that the latter had worked under him, he had had
the opportunity of appreciating his good qualities:
conscientious, honest, a veritable glutton for work, in six
years Keba had never taken a day off without good reason,
never asked to borrow a single penny on the pretext that
he couldn’t make ends meet in these difficult times or that
he couldn’t see his way through to the end of the month.
For all these reasons Mour thought highly of Keba, who
was in fact the brains of the service. Mour had been
appointed to this post for political reasons, a form of
recognition from the government for his past un-
conditional activity as a militant in the Party. He was
well aware of this, but nevertheless made it a point of
honour to deserve the reward he had received; so he
shifted all responsibility on to Keba, whom he knew to be
competent; the main thing for him was that things should
be done properly, so that he could get the credit for them.
He was only interested in more titles, more honours, and
for this end he systematically made use of Keba’s
capacities, being a methodical man with a clear idea of his
goal. And besides, who knows if this business of the
beggars successfully handled, might not be a good
opportunity for promotion ?

The track which leads to Keur Gallo, a village hidden in

the depths of the bush, is rough and tortuous, but Kouli
knows all the unexpected twists and turns. He shows not
the slightest anxiety, not the smallest sign of nerves, in
spite of the violent sandstorm which covers the
windscreen of the Mercedes with a veil of ochre dust. One
of Kouli’s jobs is to drive his employer’s wife once a
month to Keur Gallo. Lolli, a devoted spouse, concerned

3
about her husband’s future, goes there to consult Serigne
Birama. Mour Ndiaye knows many marabouts, but in his
eyes none can compare with Serigne Birama, the man
whose disinterest, knowledge and wisdom have earned
him Mour Ndiaye’s unfailing respect, his immeasurable
gratitude.
The population of Keur Gallo scarcely exceeds fifty
souls. Anything which breaks the silence and monotony
of existence is a great event there. So everyone who has
not gone off to the fields rushes up at the sound of the car.
The children who, a few minutes before, were performing
a Koranic symphony around Serigne Birama, drop their
tablets at the foot of the majestic baobab tree, which is the
umbilicus of the whole village.
Lolli is already seated on one ofthe chairs which furnish
Serigne Birama’s hut when the latter arrives.
‘Sokhna Lolli, Badiane, Badiane. How are the people of
the City ?’
‘Sidibe, Sidibe, everyone is at peace, Sidibe.’
Kouli gets two lads to help him carry the bag of rice, the
box of dried milk, the bars of soap, the sugar and tea
which Mour Ndiaye presents regularly to Serigne Birama
at the end of every month.
‘Jerejef. Thank you. God who perceives your actions will
reward you. And Mour ? How is he ?’
‘He is very well, thanks be to God. He is much taken up
with his work. They have really no time at all in his
Department. He asks me to let you know that even if he
does not come, he nevertheless thinks of you all the time.
Do not forget him in your prayers.’
Serigne Birama is clearly pleased. Pleased with all the
gifts from Mour Ndiaye, pleased also with the loyalty of a
talibé, who has not forgotten him now that he has made
good.
‘How could I forget him in my prayers, when he always
thinks of me? The word I spoke yesterday is still my word
today. This is my message to him: let him have no fear;
Insh’ Allah, he can only go forward. He is made to be a
leader, it is written in his star. Jnsh’ Allah, he will be one of
the small number of men who hold the destiny of the

4
country in their hands. Here, take hold of one of the beads
of this rosary.’
Serigne Birama takes the bead from Lolli’s two fingers,
spatters it with his saliva, mutters inaudible words, telling
the beads of the rosary over and over again as he does so.
Finally, with a confident air, he places the rosary down on
the sheepskin which does office as a prayer-rug and says to
Lolli, “It is quite clear; what I see is very clear. A star
which shines, which shines ... Prosperity, happiness.
Mour could have a very great surprise. Tell him to
sacrifice a ram. All will be well, Insh’ Allah,’
‘We owe everything to you, Serigne. Rest assured that
our good fortune will be yours too.’
In pronouncing these words before taking her leave of
Serigne Birama, Lolli is simply echoing what Mour Ndiaye
was in the habit of saying: “I owe my present position to
Serigne Birama. That man is remarkable. I was nothing,
nothing at all when I got to know him. I owe him
everything, I shall never be able to repay him.’
‘Nothing at all.’ Mour often thought of those difficult
years when he had been given the sack from his job as
clerk in the Civil Service, for having had words with his
boss. He could not stand the bullying and the occasional
gross insults he received from this European who, because
he was aware ofliving in a conquered country, treated the
inhabitants worse than dogs. ‘No sir! I’d rather die than
let a little twerp like this walk all over me! I’ll bet he
doesn’t rate two beans in his own country. So he gets his
own back on us blacks, to give himself the idea he’s Mr
Big. No, sir! ’'m not having any. I’ll show him I’m a
man!’
And one day, Mour had answered back, he’d told his
boss what he could do with his insults, and when his boss
had simply sneered at him and when his fellow-blacks had
sniggered — what sort of brothers did they think they
were ? — he had seen red and before he knew what he was
doing he had raised his arm and inflicted a stinging blow
on his poor boss’s pink cheek.
Two weeks in prison. Years of unemployment. Sent to
Coventry by his own family. A long period of lean kine,

5
during which he spent his me lying around in the shade
of the mango trees, or chasing the sun when the season
turned cold.
And now all that is nothing but a memory, or rather,
no longer counts for anything. His real memory is of the
day he met Serigne Birama, that distant day ofsultry heat.
Serigne Birama had come to the City to obtain an identity
card, for the law obliged all citizens to possess one from
that time. Not knowing how to read or write in the official
language, he was unable to find his way about the maze of
streets of the Capital. Overcome by thirst and exhaustion,
he was quite lost on his way to the police station, where he
had only been once in his life, when, like all the
inhabitants of his village, he had gone to give moral
support to one of his cousins who lived in the city, and
who had got involved in a matter of receiving stolen
property. Chance had guided his steps to the courtyard of
a house and to the foot of amango tree where Mour was
enjoying the benefit of the shade. After the customary
exchange of greetings, the latter had, at the request ofthis
unknown visitor to the city, immediately hurried over to a
container which stood in a corner at the other end of the
courtyard and come back with a pitcher full of water.
Nothing very elegant in this rusty tin-can that had once
held canned tomatoes, now converted into a makeshift
water-jug with a jagged rim. Such matters held no
importance for Serigne Birama. As he put his parched lips
to the refreshing liquid, he felt the ineffable sweetness of
existence flow once more through his veins. He thanked
Mour Ndiaye from the bottom of his heart, and then
Mour Ndiaye accompanied him to the police station, to
stretch his legs a bit and to exchange a few friendly words
with a companion who did not make him feel ashamed of
being out of work.
‘What is your name?’
‘Mour Ndiaye.’
Mour studied Serigne Birama as the latter walked beside
him with his eyes on the ground: tall, spare, light-
skinned, wearing a straw hat and a white, loose-sleeved
caftan, under which an indigo-dyed turki could be

6
glimpsed. From him there emanated an air of purity, of
sanctity even, which made him seem older than his thirty
years, for this is not normally perceived in men before
they have unrolled a long reel of existence devoted to
prayer and charitable deeds. Such men, with the inner
strength that derives from their moral plenitude, seem to
belong to another world. This air of gravity inspired awe
rather than fear; the gaze in those sharp little eyes was
almost hypnotic; those close-cut finger-nails at the end of
the bony hands had taken on the appearance of a delicate
whitish film from having been kept from the slightest
contact with any impurity; in a word, the whole of this
man’s being aroused in Mour’s mind a host of questions
that he suppressed only out of decency and discretion.
Where could this man have come from? Who was he?
What is he thinking about? ...
‘It’s extraordinary, the City ... You spend your ume
running. Your life is spent going from one complication
to another.’
‘That is certain, replied Mour Ndiaye. ‘Things get
more and more difficult.’
‘Everybody’s running, running. People have no time to
stop a moment and help villagers find their way about.
Chei yalla! Goodness me! Next to God, you have given me
most valuable assistance. I would have died of thirst ...
May God who knows what you most desire grant you all
your wishes. You will come to Keur Gallo one day if you
are able. The first man you ask where Serigne Birama
Sidibe lives will bring you right to my house.’
Since that day twenty years have passed. Never has
Mour had reason to doubt Serigne Birama Sidibe.
 Chapter Two

All the beggars in the City have gathered in Salla Niang’s

courtyard for the daily draw on their subscription
scheme: everyone puts down a premium of one hundred
francs and the total sum thus collected — five thousand
francs — is paid out to one or other of the subscribers ;they
are allowed to double or triple their stake and so increase
their chances of ‘winning’ by as many times. Salla Niang
collects the subscriptions, acting as banker and making
no compromises or concessions. She’s a woman with
plenty of guts and knows how to call to order any recalci-
trants who claim their takings from the day’s begging are
less than the one hundred francs needed to put down.
‘It hurts you to have to fork out the dough, eh! And
when you get the chance of pocketing it, Bissimilai! Then
you’re happy enough. You just listen: don’t try your
tricks on me, you hear! Out with the dough! Nobody’s
allowed tick. You can’t tell me! Even on the worst days
anyone can collect more than a hundred francs.’
‘Not at every corner!’ someone in the crowd ventures.
‘You’d better learn to speak the truth! Name me any
part of the City where it isn’t everyone’s first action, first
thing in the morning, to give something to the beggars.
Even in the white areas; the black Toubabs and the white
Toubabs all respect this ritual. And if you’re talking about
the poor districts, then you’ve come to the wrong shop
with that story; everyone knows the poor give more
readily than the rich. So hand over the lolly, you bunch of
skin flints!’
There is universal laughter as Salla Niang, from her
chair in the doorway of her room, harangues the
impressive crowd of beggars who fill the courtyard,
carrying their battu — the calabash which serves as a
begging-bowl. Salla Niang holds a winnowing-basket on
her lap and as she speaks she counts the money in the
basket. The crowd comprises men and women of all ages

8
and sizes, some crippled, some hale and hearty, all depend-
ing on their outstretched hands for their daily pittance.
Among them is blind Ngirane Sarr, always correctly
dressed with his tie, soiled starched collar, dark, gold-
rimmed spectacles, invariable navy-blue suit and white
stick. Nguirane Sarr has a somewhat distinguished air,
perhaps because he always holds his head high and bent
slightly to the left. His vantage point is the roundabout
near the Presidential Palace where he regularly receives a
coin, to which is associated a wish, from everyone who is
about to obtain an audience with the President of the
Republic. Charity opens doors, so here goes a final coin to
open the door of the President’s heart.
And among the faces like masks with darkly protruding
eyes, among the hoary heads and ulcerated limbs, covered
with the pustules of scabies or eaten away with leprosy,
among the rags which leave half-naked bodies which have
long been innocent of any contact with water, arhong the
beggars’ crutches, sticks and battu, there are some
adorable little tots who smile happily at life, twittering in
rhythm with the clatter of pewter Jugs.
Here, among the teeming crowd, is Papa Gorgui Diop —
the old man who has the knack of winkling an extra mite
out of the donors, thanks to his extraordinary comic
talent; he’s a perfect scream, the way he acts an old man
in love with a young girl; he portrays one by one each of
the old man’s three wives who make bawdy fun of their
husband’s fads, then the old man himself, trying to make
himself out a youngster, and finally the mischievous
young girl who first bleeds her elderly lover white and
then gives him a kick in the backside. Gorgui Diop is well-
known all over the City and people come a great distance
to see him do his act in his accustomed pitch, in front of
‘his’ bank, from the twenty-fifth of the month to the
tenth of the following month, and then at ‘his’ market
from the eleventh onwards.
When the draw is over the beggars proceed to the sale
of produce: rice, sugar, millet, biscuits, candles,
sometimes a few chickens. The sole purchaser is Salla
Niang who pays thirty per cent less than the normal price

9
for these goods, which serve to stock up the shop next to
the house, which is managed by her husband. She’s a real
business woman is this Salla Niang. She had been in
service as a maid-of-all-work, but had taken up begging
as a career the day she gave birth to twins. One of her
employers helped her to obtain a small plot of land,
already cleared, on which she was able to build a house
thanks to the proceeds from her begging. The twins are
quite big now, so she can spend her days simply sitting in
front of ‘her’ hospital, not too much in evidence, and
send the children chasing after patients and visitors, while
she keeps a strict watch out in case any competitors try to
take advantage of their superior age and shamelessly do
the children out of their takings.
It is newcomers who most often indulge in this unfair
play, for the regulars respect the law of the underworld,
and even if competition is hard with hands jostling each
other under the noses of the donors who then throw a few
coins at random, just to get rid of the beggars, even then
they only take what actually falls into their own
outstretched palms.
On the day we are talking about, there is only one
absentee from Salla Niang’s courtyard: that is Madiabel,
the lame beggar. He had been a tinker in his native
village, mending pots and pans. But fewer and fewer
people brought cooking-pots with holes needing to be
patched up or old saucepans needing new handles to be
fixed. He couldn’t sell any more cookers, for the agent
who collected them and took them to the City to dispose
of them had disappeared one fine day without paying him
for the results of a whole year’s work. Madiabel had two
wives and eight children to feed and clothe, so one day he
upped and left for the City and became a ‘battu-bearer’ —
without a baltu — simply holding out his hand for alms.
Business was much better and he was able regularly to
send his family clothes and money for food.
On this particular day Salla Niang pointed out his
absence as soon as the meeting started.
‘Something’s happened. Do you know what’s the
matter?’

10
 ‘What’s happened ?’
‘What’s the matter ?’
‘It’s not anything serious, is it 2’
‘Madiabel’s had an accident,’ Salla replied.
‘Ashunalla ! Chet waai! Oh dear! Oh dear! How dreadful!’
‘How did it happen ?’
‘Where was the accident ?’
‘Is he dead ?’
‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’
‘IT don’t know if he’s dead or not,’ said Salla. ‘It seems
the manager of “his” hotel complained to the police.
They’re bastards, those hotel people are. The police
proceeded to organise a round-up. As he was trying to get
away he ran out into the road without looking where he
was going, just as a car came past at full speed.’
Oh! those round-ups! They make our life a misery.
Poor Madiabel! He shouldn’t have run, with his lame leg
It must be fate.’
‘Who wouldn’t run, if he’d ever felt the sting of those
whips ? I take to my heels, I do, as soon as I catch sight of
the fuzz. They lay about them like madmen; when they
get worked up like that, they seem to forget that we’re
human beings.’
‘Some of them are quite decent sorts,’ Salla Niang
intervenes. ‘They’ve never picked me up in their round-
ups; they’ve never laid a hand on me. As soon as I see
them coming, I arrange my scarf neatly on my head, I
settle myself comfortably on my bench and I tell the
children not to be afraid and not to run.’
‘The thing is, they don’t take you for a beggar. In your
smart boubous that are always freshly laundered and
ironed, and with your children dressed as if they were
going to a party, how could anyone imagine that you beg
for a living 2’
Everyone bursts out laughing. Poor Madiabel is
forgotten. Narou, Salla’s husband, happens to be passing
at this moment with his kettle to go to his ablutions. He 1s
delighted to hear the compliments addressed to his wife.
Salla’s boubous are very fine and she knows how to wear
them. What is more, under her boubow she wears a pagne,

11
and under this pagne she wears an immaculate little loin-
cloth, and under this she has strings of white beads round
her hips. Women nowadays disdain this custom, not
realising how much of their sexual attraction they lose
thereby. The tinkle of these beads in the silence of the
night in the Savanna, combined with the intoxicating
smoke of cuuwraye incense and the captivating perfume of
gongo — what words can express the exhilarating effect this
has on Narou!
‘The old gossips in the district’, he says to himself, ‘will
never understand that.’
‘Narou is a weakling,’ they say.
‘Salla wears the trousers.’
‘He’s not really a man.’
‘They can go on slandering me; not one of them will
ever know what ties me to Salla.’

Ws
 Chapter Three

‘Here, marked in red, are their main vantage points. This

time we must keep at it, make no concessions, keep on
rounding them up. There must be daily rounds, from
now on, instead of weekly. Yes, daily! We’ve got all the
necessary means at our disposal: staff, cars, petrol. These
folk have got to be cleared off all the streets in the Capital.’
Keba Dabo is holding a meeting of some twenty people
in his office on the eighth floor of one of the
administrative buildings -— comfortable armchairs,
marble floors, not a single fly to be seen. Keba Dabo
addresses the men, and the men hold their notepads and
pens and carefully follow the itinerary that Keba traces
with a ruler on a map fixed to one of the walls, next to
oriental hangings and pictures by famous artists.
“You must keep on the move throughout the City, untl
it’s completely cleaned up. The Chief insists on this. He’s
received very clear instructions from the Minister.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Dabo, but you know how it is ... It’s
really very difficult.’
‘This time, it’s different; you’
ve got to track them down
wherever they lurk. They think they can wear us down,
but if we have to take severe measures, we shall take
severe measures. It’s a very serious problem, you know.
No one can move about freely any more, without being
attacked wherever one goes. Now this is how we are going
to proceed in future: we keep a systematic record of the
identity of all the ones who are picked up — naturally we
shall have to have a card-index. If it’s their first offence,
we shall try to reason with them, show them how
degrading it is to exhibit themselves in the street,
exposing their infirmities for profit. We must make them
realise that begging lowers their dignity.’
‘But Monsieur Dabo, it would be a complete waste of
time. They won’t even listen to us. They'll think we’ve
gone out of our minds in fact!’

13
 ‘Let’s try, just the same. Persistent offenders will be
given a good lesson and put on a truck for Mbada; that’s
two hundred miles away, a_ village where there’s
practically no means of transport, so how will they
manage to get back here?’
‘They'll still find some way of getting back!’
‘If they come back they’ll be put in prison !Yes, indeed!
They'll land up in prison.’
‘Well, that’s a problem, too, another of the men
comments. ‘The prison governors are complaining ; they
say the prisons are full up and these folk cost a lot to keep.’
‘Listen, gentlemen! I think we’re wasting our time in
futile discussions. ?'m convinced that daily round-ups,
appeals to reason and dignity and a good lesson taught
them in Mbada will succeed in getting rid of them. These
people aren’t animals after all; they’re human beings,
whatever you may think!’
Keba Dabo is optimistic. Every time the thought of a
possible failure crosses his mind, he drives it away with a
vigorous shake of his head. These people must be got rid
of. It has become an obsession with him. He has an almost
morbid fear of driving through the City, he’s constantly
afraid of meeting one and he has this choking sensation in
his throat if one should unfortunately cross his path. His
secretary, Sagar Diouf, an extremely nice-looking girl
with whom he is on rather familiar terms, has told him
not to get so worked up simply because there are some
beggars about. She’s sick of hearing him talking all the
time about ‘these folk who poison the air with their
smell’. This has become his sole subject of conversation.
And all these letters she has to type ull her fingers are
quite numb, and all these memos sent off to arrange
meetings, all these messages to everyone, all because of a
few beggars! It’s quite beyond all reason.
And today again, when Keba Dabo has seen off the
organisers of the various work-parties, he stops at the
door of his secretary’s office and tells her, beaming with
pleasure, ‘This time we'll get them. We’ll succeed this
time!’
Sagar replies, “You know, Keba, you’re wasting your

14
time with the beggars. They’ve been here since the time of
our great-great-grandparents. They were there when you
came into the world and they’ll be there when you leave
it. You can’t do anything about them. In any case what’s
the idea of trying to get rid of them? What harm have
they done you?’
‘You don’t understand, Sagar sar Dont tyou “teel
anything when they approach you ... no, it’s not a matter
of approaching — they accost you, they attack you, they
jump out at you! That’s it, they JJump out at you! Don’t
you feel anything when they jump
j out at you?’
Sagar smiles, smoothes her frizzy black hair with her
two hands and straightens her low-cut blouse.
‘What do you think I should feel ? If ve got anything to
give them, I give it to them; otherwise I go on my way.
That’s all. And besides, religion teaches us we must help
the poor. How could they live otherwise 2’
‘Religion prescribes help for the poor, but it doesn’t tell
the poor to cause continual disturbance to their
neighbours. D’you hear, do you understand what I’m
saying ? It’s you and your sort who encourage this plague.
Has our religion ever blessed the man who loses all sense
of shame ?’
Sagar bursts out laughing and claps her hands together
repeatedly. It’s really too funny. She can’t imagine how
anyone can get so worked up about a stupid business of
some beggars. She finds Keba more and more absurd.
‘But tell me, Keba, just answer one question: how
would they live if they didn’t beg? And tell me this as
well: who would people give alms to, as they have to give
alms to someone, religion tells us so 2’
Keba does not answer; he doesn’t like having to find
answers to questions like this; he prefers to evade them, as
his business is to clean up the highways, to carry out his
chief’s orders and to get over this nausea that he feels at
the sight of the beggars.
He goes back to his office, loosens his tie and flops down
into an armchair. He feels as if he’s suffocating. The vein
on his forehead that runs back into his bushy hair now
stands out prominently. Sagar Diouf has upset him again,

15
but he restrains himself from getting wild with her.
‘Sagar’s not a bad kid; on the contrary ... But she’s got no
idea of really serious problems ... just like my wife.
Women are more interested in frivolous things
They’ve got to be taught responsibility ... Its only a
question of education ... Fine clothes, pomp and
ceremony, futile nonsense ... No, things can’t go on like
this ... But, on the other hand, some men don’t like
intelligent women, so they say; they’re a threat to their
superiority. Women who don’t ask questions and who
don’t present any problems — that’s what these cocksure
fellows need, women they can treat like dolls ... Sagar
looks like a doll with her dimpled cheeks. She’s pretty as a
doll. I don’t know what could have caused her husband to
have dished her ...’

The telephone rings.

‘Hallo, yes. Hallo, Monsieur Ndiaye ... Good morning,
sir. Yes, fine, thanks ... I'm pleased you’ve noticed it
yourself. Iv’ll soon be the same everywhere in the City.
Very soon we shan’t see any at all. Thank you, sir.
Goodbye, sir.’
Mour Ndiaye is delighted. He realises all the advantages
the success of this operation will mean to him. He has
driven round the administrative district, glanced at every
street corner, along every pavement, in front of the public
buildings, and he didn’t see a single beggar. ‘Keba’s a
marvel. There’s no one like him.’
A few days later he decides to go and visit Serigne
Birama. He finds him sitting as usual in the shade of the
majestic baobab tree, reading the Holy Book. Mour
Ndiaye gives him a lift back in his car, to save him having
to walk the two hundred yards or so to his house. In the
boot of the car are the twenty pounds of sugar, the bag of
rice, the carton of dried milk, the tea, cola-nuts and the
packets of candles.
One of Serigne Birama’s wives is sitting in the large
courtyard of the house, surrounded by huge calabashes of
ground millet and making the couscous. Mour Ndiaye
greets her most cordially and throws her a thousand franc

16
note. She immediately stands up and thanks him
profusely, expressing endless wishes for his prosperity.
Mour and Serigne Birama then go into one of the huts,
the one where Serigne Birama receives his clients.
‘Serigne, are you in good health ?’
‘Maangi sant, | thank the Creator. And many thanks to
you too; Jereef, after the Lord, I thank you. May He, who
alone knows what you desire, fulfil your wishes.’
‘Amen, amen, Sidibe! And are you still taking care of
my little matters ?’
‘Have no fears on this score. All you have to do is to
continue to say ““Amen’”’. If the prayers I say for you were
drops of rain you would have drowned long ago. Mour,
you can give thanks to the good Lord.’
‘Yes, yes. I do give thanks to the good Lord, and I am
most grateful to you. My tongue cannot express the
feelings I have for you. I rely on you utterly. That is why I
am going to speak to you of a most important matter. I
have always told you all my difficulties. Lately Ihave hada
lot of trouble with the beggars; in fact, that is the reason I
have not been here for quite a long time.’
‘You, having trouble with the beggars, you who gives so
freely 2?Why should you have trouble with the beggars ?’
‘No, that’s to say, it isn’t me exactly ... It’s the City
authorities who are worrying about them. The beggars
are an obstacle to the hygiene of the City...’
‘Dear me! The City is dehumanising you, hardening
people’s hearts so that they no longer pity the weak. Take
care, Mour; God has said: “‘Let the poor come unto me’”’.’
‘Serigne, that’s not the question. How can IT explain ...
Well, you see, nowadays, people who live a long way
away, in Europe and the United States of America, White
people especially, are beginning to take an interest in the
beauty of our country. These people are called tourists.
You know, in the old days these White people came to rob
and exploit us; now they visit our country for a rest and in
search of happiness. That is why we have built hotels and
holiday villages and casinos to welcome them. These
tourists spend huge sums of money to come here, there
are even special societies over in Europe who organise

17
these journeys. And when these tourists visit the City, they
are accosted by the beggars and we run the risk of their
never coming back here or putting out unfavourable
propaganda to discourage others who might like to
come.’
‘Dear me! I don’t understand this. You City folk, yow’re
the ones who understand these problems. So, nobody
must beg there any more?’
‘Serigne, times have changed. We are the ones now
who are responsible for the destiny of our country. We
must Oppose anything which harms our economic and
tourist development.’
Mour senses that Serigne Birama is displeased and he
knows that his long argument has not convinced him.
‘Serigne, what we really want, in the long run, is for
everyone to get down to a proper job. We want to
discourage idleness, so we exhort everyone to get down to
work.’
‘It is every man’s duty to work.’
Mour has possibly forgotten the infirm and the elderly
who haven’t enough to eat. At all events, this is not
important as far as he’s concerned.
‘Exactly! It’s every man’s duty to work. It’s to make
them work that we are driving them out of the City
streets. It’s a very difficult undertaking, this fight against
an evil that has gained such a strong hold. We’ve been at
it for years and now, thank God, I think we’ve got the
upper hand. My Minister telephoned me to pass on the
President’s congratulations ... It isn’t easy to get the
President’s congratulations; he’s very difficult to please!
That’s why, when he deigns to congratulate anyone, it
means he’s really satisfied.’
‘The President’s congratulations will not rest there,
Insh’ AllahY
‘Insh’ Allah. 1 would like the President to think of me.
Serigne Birama, I do not have any secrets with you. A few
months ago, the President said he was going to select a
Vice-President. Now the rumour goes that he will soon
put this into effect. I would like you to pray for the
President to think of me.’

18
 ‘To the Creator, nothing is impossible. All things are in
His hands, and He has no other use for all he possesses
than to give to His creatures.’
‘All that you say to me, I truly believe.’
Mour Ndiaye does indeed truly believe him. Who could
have persuaded him that he would ever get to his present
position! Oh! those difficult years with the West African
Commercial Association, when he could scarcely make
both ends meet. When he went about hollow-cheeked
and anxious-eyed. When he had only one shirt that he
had to wash out overnight and put to dry on the stove in
the cold weather. When he had nothing left out of his
meagre salary as a copy clerk, after satistying the pressing
demands for money of his parents, cousins, pals, in-laws,
who all crowded at the end of every month into the single
room that he rented to live with his wife and two children.
How distant was this memory! Now he has everything he
can wish for: a fine house, two cars at ‘his disposal,
domestic staff paid for by the State. Sometimes he’s
worried by his corpulance, especially at official
ceremonies when he has to be careful that the buttons of
his dinner-jacket don’t burst.
The beads of the rosary click. Clack-click-clack. The
murmur of Serigne Birama’s lips accompanies the music
of the beads. Mour is impatient and Serigne Birama’s
impassive face tells him nothing. He must perforce wait
ull the rosary is put down on the sheepskin, till Serigne
Birama opens his eyes to the light of day, tll dialogue is
once more established from man to man.
‘That which you desire is in God’s power to grant you.
And [ think that He will grant it, /nsh’ Allah. You shall have
your wish, if it so pleases God. All you have to do is to
sacrifice a fine white ram. You will slaughter it with your
own hand; you will divide the meat into seven parts and
distribute these to beggars.’

19
 Chapter Four

‘They’re beginning to make our lives intolerable. Just

because we’re beggars, they think we’re not quite
human!’
It is Nguirane Sarr who is speaking. He’s fed up with all
the persecution. He’s got the impression that ‘these
madmen’ have got it in for him especially. And yet he had
thought he had won their respect and even their
friendship. What had they got against him, when he
always stayed quietly at ‘his’ trafhe-lights, never going up
to accost people in their cars, knowing that he was dealing
with his ‘regular patrons’ who don’t like being disturbed
and who give to charity in any case, for their own benefit ?
And now ‘these madmen’ don’t stop to think any more.
They don’t make any distinction between people.
‘They laid into me today. They tore my clothes,
confiscated my stick and broke my glasses. It’s too much,
it’s too much. Is that a way to treat a human being?’
Nguirane is at the end of his tether. Blood is oozing
from a cut over his right eye that stretches down to his ear.
‘They're quite vicious! When they start laying about
them in a fury they’re worse than mad dogs.’
All the beggars are afraid now. They are being
ceaselessly hunted down without respite. They are afraid
and they suffer physically, but that does not stop them
from returning to their strategic points every morning;
they are drawn back as if by a magnet, armed only with
the hope of being able to rely on the speed of their legs to
escape from the stinging blows of the policemen’s batons,
or of hiding in some nearby house when the round-up
parties come by.
‘But what’s got into them all of a sudden? Why this
sudden zeal ?’ ;
‘It’s pure bloody-mindedness, that’s all.’
They don’t understand — and, what is more, who is
there to tell them — that they constitute a canker that must

20
be hidden from sight. They have always considered
themselves good citizens, practising a trade like everyone
else, and because of this they have never tried to define
what links them specifically to society. According to them,
the contract that links every individual to society can be
summed up in the words: giving and receiving. Well
then, don’t they, the poor, give their blessings, their
prayers and their good wishes ?
‘It’s too much, too much,’ Nguirane Sarr goes on.
‘Since they want war, let it be war.’
‘No, Nguirane,’ Gorgui Diop replies. ‘Don’t talk like
that. When you beg you have to learn to be patient, to put
up with a lot of things. If you need something from
someone, you have to satisfy his whims. Besides Nguirane,
those who give to us aren’t the ones who knock us about.’
Many voices are raised above the general murmurs.
‘That’s true, that’s true. Gorgui Diop’s quite right. You
have to learn in life not to let a situation get out of hand.’
‘Gorgui Diop spoke the truth.’
‘Gorgui Diop’s words are dictated by reason and
wisdom.’
‘If we listened to the young we’d be in a nice mess!’
‘At any rate, we wouldn’t be in our graves,’ retorted
Neguirane Sarr. ‘The young will never lead the way to the
cemetery for you. Who was responsible for poor
Madiabel’s death? Wasn’t it those madmen? Hf they
hadn’t hunted him down mercilessly, what happened
would never have happened.’
Madiabel had died of his injuries. He had lain at the
hospital for five days without treatment, because he
hadn’t a penny on him, and to prove he was a pauper he
had to have a certificate from the local authority; and as
he was too badly injured to go and get this certificate of
indigence which would exempt him from having to pay
for treatment, he had lain in a corner, behind a general
ward, whose inmates expressed sympathy for his suffering
by endless exclamations of ‘Ndeisan! Shame! Shame!’
whenever he groaned and writhed with the pain that
racked him.
The day of his funeral, the whole brotherhood had

oan
accompanied him to his last resting-place and afterwards
had collected a quite substantial sum of money to send to
his family by way of assistance.
‘We’re not dogs!’ Nguirane Sarr continues. ‘Are we
dogs, now?”
His voice is shrill with anger and distress and it pierces
the thin mist that lightly veils the last glimmer of twilight
in the damp air that smells of burning wood. Tiny drops
of water form like beads on the copper-coloured faces,
expr essive of distress and resignation.
‘We’re not dogs! You know perfectly well we’re not
dogs. And they’ve got to be convinced of this too. So we
must get organised.’
‘How can we get organised? Beggars, get organised!
You must be dreaming, Nguirane! You’re young! Just
leave them to the good Lord.’
‘Listen, we can perfectly well get organised. Even these
madmen, these heartless brutes who descend on us and
beat us up, even they give to charity. They need to give
alms because they need our prayers — wishes for long life,
for prosperity, for pilgrimages; they like to hear them
every morning to drive away their bad dreams of the
night before, and to maintain their hopes that things will
be better tomorrow. You think that people give out of the
goodness of their hearts ? Not at all. They give out of an
instinct for self-preservation.’
The atmosphere had suddenly grown silent. Ears are
pricked up; eyelids flicker, but remain closed. Little by
little the mantle of twilight settles on the dark silhouettes
which fill Salla Niang’s courtyard. She herself stands in
the doorway of her room, close to Nguirane. Seeing him
so dishevelled, so cast down, at the sight of his face that
had been pushed into the dust, and the large gash on his
head that gives him the appearance of a martyr, she is
filled with compassion. She is indignant. She shares the
suffering of this man who she thinks of as her own
brother, and who today presents such a downcast
appearance. “Look what they’ve done to a man who
should have deserved some respect, in spite of his
poverty.” At the sight of his shirt which has been torn to

22
ribbons, at the sight of a pair of underpants of doubtful
whiteness that are visible through the wide rents in what
was left of a pair of trousers — now nothing but a
collection of rags floating round a semblance of a belt — at
the sight of Nguirane’s misfortunes Salla Niang has come
to the conclusion that there are some forms of suffering
that no one has the right to inflict on a human being.
Jog jot na! Jogjot na kal! It’s ime we did something! It’s
really ume we did something!’
As she speaks she points her right forefinger at the
audience. When nobody reacts to this serious warning she
goes on, ‘It’s tme we woke up, lads. Nguirane’s right.
People don’t give out of love for us. That’s quite correct.
So, let’s get organised! For a start, don’t let’s accept any
more of those worthless coins they throw us, that won’t
even buy a lollipop. Eh, my little ¢albés, d’you hear! Spit
on their one francs and their two francs; spit on their
three lumps of sugar; spit on their handful of rice! D’you
hear ? Show them we’re men as much as they are! And no
more prayers for their welfare ull we’ve received a good
fat donation! Are you agreed, lads ?’
‘Ah, loolu deyomb na. That’s quite easy.’
‘Yes, indeed. If one looks into it, what you’ve just said
makes good sense.’
‘Sa degg degg leflimot naa seetaat. Yes indeed, we must look
into it. Let us do as Salla suggests.’
‘Agreed, agreed. We’re all agreed.’
They have confidence in Salla. They know she is a
woman of experience. She has had plenty of
opportunities of getting to know the world. Being
orphaned quite young, she had to learn to make her own
way in life very early. Her former job as a maid-of-all-
work gave her the chance to get to know people, to learn
their most intimate secrets and to judge the idiosyncracies
of the rich as well as the poor; for she had swept
sumptuous villas with their soft mattresses as well as
sordid hovels in which at nightfall there were quarrels
over a torn pallet whose straw swarmed with bed-bugs.
The school of life is probably the best school! You see
everything, you get hardened to everything. Nothing

23
surprises you any more, not even a man’s most
contradictory behaviour.
Salla is now sitting just in front of her door. She rests
her elbow on her right knee that is bent up before her;
she leans her cheek on her hand.
‘They always pretend to look down on the people they
need. The last boss I worked for, the one who helped me
get this plot of land, spent his time cursing all marabouts.
I used to see him on television, I used to hear him on the
radio, I recognised his picture in the newspaper when I
took it to light the stove. His children explained to me that
he wanted to wipe out the curse of the marabouts. He
even received some decoration, I think, for his fine
speeches. Yes ... when he got his decoration, he organised
a grand recepuon. And yet this man, a real black
Frenchman, who drank beer when he was thirsty and
whisky when he needed perking up, who only spoke
French to his wife and children, well, he never left home
in the morning without daubing himself with a mixture
of powders and fermented roots that he kept in seven
different pots. And those pots gave off such a sickening
smell that it made me feel quite ill when I cleaned the
bathroom, but it never upset Monsieur. And when he’d
finished his speeches, what did he say to the marabouts he
put up in his own house? ... Yes, the house was always
filled with marabouts; as soon as one left, more arrived
with their dirty washing. Oh! their dirty washing! ... Oh!
Oh! what a peculiar man that boss was...’
She had noticed that Monsieur couldn’t keep his eyes off
her firm breasts. As soon as he got the chance, he’d try a
little teasing and then make more definite advances.
What a bastard! She had always held out. When Madame
was present he didn’t even look at her, or else rebuked her
harshly on account of a speck of dust on the television or
the collar ofa shirt that had been badly ironed. Madame
intervened and sometimes the matter degenerated into a
quarrel.
‘Leave the girl alone. She works here, but she’s not our
slave!’
‘Oh! so you dare to question my authority, just over a

24
servant! One of these fine days I'll give her the sack. And
you'll follow her!’
‘And then, one day, Madame discovered his little game!
The villa was double-storeyed. The bedrooms were
upstairs; the lounge, the dining-room and the kitchen
were on the ground floor. Monsieur had a weakness for
tea; he drank it after lunch and again about six o’clock
after work, and again after dinner. Every working day he
used to say, ‘Salla, keep the last pot of tea for me.’ And
after his siesta, just before he went back to work, he used
to come down to the kitchen while Madame was still
resting. He took the opportunity to tease me, to pinch my
bottom and fondle my tits. One day — I don’t know if she
suspected something — Madame suddenly burst into the
kitchen while Monsieur was groping and I was trying to
escape. We hadn’t even heard her approach. When
Monsieur caught sight of her standing near the kitchen
door, not moving or saying anything, he looked like a
man who’s had a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over
him in mid-winter. He looked shame-faced at Madame
who just stood watching him, then he walked over to the
table where the teapot was and began to pour the tea into
the cups. Madame just stood there for a few minutes, then
turned on her heels and left. I never knew if they had it
out or not; though I listened with all my ears, I never
heard any signs of a quarrel between them and soon
afterwards I left the house as I was going to get married.’

After Mour’s last visit to Serigne Birama, Lolli had gone

back to Keur Gallo to sound out how things were going.
‘Insh’ Allah, this post of Vice-President, he will obtain it.
He must sacrifice a bull. He must divide it into thirty-
three portions which he must distribute among the poor
on a Friday. None of the occupants of his own house must
taste the meat. Insh’ Allah, all will go well.’
Lolli had been hard put to hide her delight. She had let
her happiness explode, departing from the reserve that
she always maintained before Serigne Birama. For the
first time she had raised her voice in the presence of the
holy man.

45
‘Ei Waai amin! Amen to that! May it please God to do
this! Insh’ Allah, God will not forget us.
She could already see herself as the wife of the Vice-
President of the Republic. What an honour! Naturally, as
far as finances were concerned there would be little
change. Had she not everything she could hope for ? Her
wrists were always weighed down with gold and precious
stones; her wardrobes were full to bursting; her relatives
showered with gifts; she owned three villas bought in her
name by Mour Ndiaye because ‘you never know in
politics; better take all precautions while one can’. But
this would be quite different, the prestige of being the
wife of the Vice-President! Being so close to the President.
Coming just after him! Taking precedence over
ministers’ wives, over ministers themselves! And
everyone making a fuss of her, waiting to carry out her
every wish!
And now, were all these dreams to collapse tonight!
The night is dark and moonless, quiet and very cold.
Mour is in the habit of discussing serious problems with
his wife only at times when the whole household is asleep.
He places a hand on Lolli’s thigh, gives her a soft tap. She
stirs; sull half asleep she tugs at the blanket.
‘Lolh, Pve got something very important to tell you.
Wake up.’
‘Mmm ...’
‘Lolli!’
“Yess
‘I’ve got to tell you something. Will you please listen
pacmaly to everything I’ve got to say, and not interrupt
me :
‘Yes, PII listen to you ... Go on, I’m listening.’
‘Lolli, you know how much you mean to me. You know
I wouldn’t exchange you for anything in the world ... I
appreciate all your good qualities, your patience, your
kindness. Life hasn’t always been easy for me; you’ve put
up with all the hardships and difficulties that this has
meant for us and you helped me overcome all the
obstacles. You’re my lucky mascot and you know it.’
‘Do you need to tell me all this? ?'m your wife and it’s

26
normal for me to make your happiness my main concern,
for your happiness is mine too. For me, nothing else
counts, Mour.’
Lolli means what she says. Her mother had taught her
this, and all her aunts, uncles and near and distant
relatives had repeated the same refrain and the same
recommendations on her wedding-day and again on the
night when she moved into the home she was to share
with her husband; in a word, on every possible occasion.
‘Obey your husband; make his happiness your main
concern; on him, your fate and especially that of your
children, depends. If you carry out all his wishes, you will
be happy here on earth and in the life hereafter, and you
will have worthy and deserving children. But, if you don’t,
then you must expect curses from heaven and the shame
of giving birth to children who will turn out failures.’
Lolli had always followed this advice. During the first
years of their marriage Mour had been liable to frequent
indiscretions. He would not come home till nearly dawn
and disappear completely for the whole week-end,
without ever giving his wife any explanations. Besides, she
never asked for any explanations, but she was deeply
upset, especially when she was pregnant. On two
occasions she had had to wake the neighbours to get them
to take her to the nursing-home when her babies were
due. When she complained to her parents, they
remonstrated with her.
‘Lolli, a wife must not grumble. You must understand
that your husband 1s free. He is not an object that belongs
to you. You owe him respect, obedience and submission.
A wile’s sole lot is patience; get that into your head ifyou
want to be a worthy wife.’
So Lolli had said nothing, letting her unhappiness sit
heavily on her heart. Then Mour gave the impression of
having settled down. Perhaps he had grown tired of
running about all night and day. Perhaps, too, he never
found another woman as good as his Lolli and realised
what a rare jewel he had in her, and that he would be well
advised to be satisfied with his lot.
‘For me, Mour, nothing counts except your happiness.’

27
 ‘I know, I know. But you’ve got to understand. In a
man’s life there are always some unexpected occurrences
... one can’t even explain them ... when it has to happen,
it just happens.’
‘What has happened ? What’s the matter with you ? Are
you in trouble ?’
Lolli sits up nervously, throws the blanket to the
bottom of the bed, switches on the bedside lamp which
diffuses a dim light. She is wearing a white nightdress with
green dots and an embroidered beeco that she pulls down
in a vain attempt to cover her thighs.
‘No, put your mind at rest ... I only wanted you to
know that a man is not completely responsible for his fate
... Everything that happens is fated to happen...’
‘Mour, I can’t stand this suspense. Tell me what’s the
matter. Hurry up!’
Mour is still lying in bed. Out of fear or shame? He
cannot meet Lolli’s gaze. It seems to him as though her
eyes give off sparks. He lights a cigarette to hide behind
the smoke. The thought flashes through his mind, like
lightning that this woman does not deserve a moment like
this. But now that the die is cast, he says to himself, it’s too
late for this kind of thought. And then, what’s so
extraordinary about the whole business?
‘Mour, please, be quick! Is my father dead? That
telephone call just after dinner, was it to say my father was
dead ? Wooi, my father! Woot, my poor father!’
‘No, Lolli, there’s nothing the matter with your father.
Well, this is how it is ... Since you’ve got to be told, and I
want to be the one to tell you myself, out of respect and
out of love for you, well, you see ... ’'m being given a new
wife tomorrow.’
Lolli felt an icy shiver run through her whole body; she
felt her teeth chatter and a thick mist clouded her eyes,
then, a moment later, she burst out: ‘You’re “being
given” a wife! You prevent me from sleeping! You wake
me up in the middle of the night to tell me you’re ‘being
given” a wife tomorrow!’
‘Lolh, control yourself! Don’t shout so loud, you’ll
wake up the whole neighbourhood ... It’d cause a

28
scandal, especially in the middle of the night!’
Mour seems more at ease now. Though, in his inmost
heart he feels his conscience slightly troubling him. After
those years spent sowing his wild oats he had learned to
appreciate his wife’s good points. His numerous affairs
had given him the opportunity of seeing the less attractive
side of people: women who have no notion of the
feminine virtues they are supposed to represent; scenes of
uninhibited debauchery; an endless search for sensual
pleasures and the artificial paradise of drink and drugs.
‘When one has a wife like Lolli, who doesn’t make a fool
of you, one should keep her safe.’ He had arrived at this
conclusion over the years, and this opinion was reinforced
day by day as he saw her like a cat on hot bricks if the
house wasn’t properly cleaned, and all the trouble she
took to ensure that the children were decently behaved,
and how she even supervised their education herself, for
though she could neither read nor write she always
insisted they sat down with their school books in front of
them and she made the older ones hear the younger ones’
lessons, and she went regularly to their respective schools
to inquire about their behaviour. And those delicious
meals that she cooked herself, as a treat for the whole
family! Observing his wife day by day had made Mour
finally change his attitude towards her and give her the
respect she deserved. Moreover, he was very pious; his
religious education had left an indelible impression on
him; its effects had taken refuge in his subconscious, to
reappear on the surface when he was visited by the angel
of repentance; then he was filled with remorse and also
with fear: he was afraid divine justice would punish him
for the suffering he inflicted on this person of flesh and
blood who, even in the face of the worst persecutions, the
worst humiliations, the worst mental cruelty, never
flinched. Aku jigeen baahul. Those who ill-treat their wives
shall be punished.
Lolli couldn’t care less if the neighbours hear her. Let
the whole neighbourhood wake up! Let everyone come to
their windows in their pyjamas and nightgowns! Let
them even come knocking at the door to satisfy their

29
morbid curiosity. What does she care! She has lost all
control, because she could have expected anything except
this. She had put up with so much and thought that the
times of unhappiness and unexpected blows were all over
and done with, and now she can’t bear this new burden.
In earlier times, yes, she might have been able to face it;
she would have noted the occurrence with indifference,
but now ‘times have changed, my lad’.
Lolli’s eyes had been opened since she had started going
out and about in society. She had seen that women no
longer accepted being treated as simple objects. They
were engaged in an energetic struggle for emancipation ;
everywhere, on the radio, at meetings, at family
gatherings, they were claiming that, from a legal point of
view, they had the same rights as men. Naturally, they
were not disputing the man’s position as head of the
family, but the man had got to realise that his wife is an
independent human being, with her own rights and
obligations. They were demanding a woman’s full right
to her full development in the framework of the family,
where she should have a voice in all matters, in
accordance with her responsibilities. Moreover, they had
partly succeeded, as a law had now been passed which
hencelorward forbade a man from saying to his wife one
morning — for no reason at all, simply because he had got
out of bed on the wrong side — ‘Pack your bags and get
out!’ Even if the repudiated wife had no home to go to,
she had to leave her husband’s house and go off to try to
find a roof over her head with distant relatives, friends or
acquaintances.
Lolh was informed about the campaign for women’s
liberation that her sisters were waging. Her eldest
daughter, Raabi, who was a law student, was always
saying, “Polygamy must be done away with; there’s no
justification for this practice nowadays.’ When she talked
like this in noisy discussions with her friends, Lolli had
just thought it was the superficial chatter of over-
enthusiastic youth. Never had the idea crossed her mind
that one day she would have to think seriously about her
daughter’s words.

30
 ‘What! And you tell me to keep quiet, into the bargain!
You ungrateful wretch! You bastard, you liar! You want
me to shut up, do you! Twenty-four years of marriage!
You were nothing, nothing but a miserable beggar! And I
backed you up, I put up with everything patiently, I
worked my fingers to the bone, and now you want to
share everything you've got with another woman, thanks
to my patience and my work, and everything that you got
when you married me and that you’ve got since with my
assistance! You ungrateful wretch, you guttersnipe, you
liar! You men are all the same. Guttersnipe! Shameless
creature! Oh! ... I should have suspected this!’
Lolli’s voice carries far; the torrent of her wrath makes
her hoarse and her words come in jerks. Her face bears
the furious expression of a wounded lioness. Her eyes
flash in Mour’s face, like those of a wild animal. He can
scarcely recognise her. Whatever has got into her? Mour
decides not to reply to Lolli’s insults, preferring to let her
shout til she is tired. Perhaps it will make her feel better.
But soon his masculine pride is aroused and he can no
longer keep quiet.
‘That’s enough now! I won’t allow you to insult me.
You hear, Lolli, I won’t allow this; you’re carrying things
just a bit too far!’
He has got to his feet now, facing her, his hand raised
threateningly.
‘After all, he goes on, ‘just think; ’'m the one who
feeds you and keeps you, aren’t 1? And just tell me what
contract am I tied by that prevents me from taking a
second wife, if Iso desire ?’
‘The contract of decency and gratitude. When you were
nothing, who slaved away ? Who wore herselfto a shadow
to keep the home going decently on the smell of an oil rag?
Who ran to the marabouts for you? And now, you tell me
something else ... Where did all the money go that my
father and brothers gave me because they were sorry for
me ? Into the pockets of marabouts, to unlock the door to
better times for you! And where did all my boubous
disappear to, leaving me only one to my back that I wore
month in, month out? One solitary boubou that in the

31
end couldn’t be distinguished from my skin, so that
people didn’t say, ‘““That woman there, that’s Lolli
Badiane’’, but ‘“‘That boubou there, that’s Lolli Badiane!”’
In wind and rain and sun, always the same boubou,
because the others had all been sold, the same as my
bracelets and ear-rings, so that we could keep up some
semblance of decency in our lives and not let the children
starve. Have you forgotten that already? Ungrateful
wretch and liar that you are!’
What can have got into her to put her into such a state
and make her speak to her husband as if he were the most
despicable of individuals ? It is disappointed hopes rather
than any indoctrination. Never before had Lolli allowed
herself the luxury of any hopes; she had nourished no
dreams. She had been long-suffering and had accepted
her situation. Then, with the improvement in Mour’s
treatment of her, and as their political and financial
position altered for the better, she was beginning to
cultivate some hopes and dreams. And now, Mour waits
for the precise moment when all her dreams are possible
— ‘The Vice-President of the Republic and Madame
Ndiaye!’ — to inform her that his own happiness can exist
apart from his life with her: in fact with a radiant little
seventeen-year-old who works as a secretary in a travel
agency. Mour had met her at a hotel in a neighbouring
country, which he had visited with his Minister, to see
what had been accomplished there to develop their tourist
sites and clear the cities of their human _ pollution
problem. He had been attracted by her spontaneity, her
youth and especially by the ease with which she expressed
herself in the official language, with which Mour himself
still had some difficulties. She was very elegant and very
modern. In order to see her without arousing Lolli’s
suspicions Mour had invented ‘late meetings with V.I.P.s
from Europe who were studying the tourist situation’, or
‘two-day business trips to a neighbouring country’, or
‘lunches with technical advisers’. Then one day Sine, who
had had plenty of time to appreciate her friend’s
generosity and his love for her, asked him to marry her.
‘I’m young and I’ve all my life in front of me. Marry me

32
or else let me try my luck elsewhere.’
The marriage took place. Raabi tried to convince her
mother she ought to fight back, tried to persuade her not
to accept the ambiguous situation, telling her it was her
duty to prevent an intruder taking her place, that she
must ‘assume her responsibilities and tell Papa he’s got to
choose’.
Then Lolli’s mother arrived, old Sanou Cissé, with her
reputation for virtue and honesty. She burst into tears
when Mour told her that Lolli had insulted him and that,
if it hadn’t been for the children, he would have divorced
her. Her father, ill as he was and scarcely able to stand,
dragged himself to their house. ‘Do you want to be
responsible for my death, Lolli? You must know that if
Mour divorces you you will be covered with shame. When
a woman has got eight children, some of them old enough
to be married, she can’t allow herself to behave like a
child; Mour is your husband. He is free. He doesn’t
belong to you.’
Her friends also gave her advice: ‘You'd be really stupid
to lose your husband and let another woman have him.
She’d laugh at you and say you were frightened of her.’
‘Mother, all these women’s arguments are ways of
trying to justify themselves. Every one of them would have
liked to have a husband to herself; they’ve all said to
themselves, at least once in their lives, that they would
never share their husband with anyone. If they haven’t
said it, at least they've dreamed of it. Then, when they
found themselves in the same situation as you are in now,
they gave way to the pressures of the old men and women
who belong to a different era and can’t understand
today’s world; but they gave way, in the first place, out of
cowardice, because they couldn’t assume their own
responsibilities. Then they tried to find other excuses for
remaining in a situation which they really hate. In that
way, they thought they were keeping up appearances.’
Raabi is filled with resentment against her father; she
knows that her mother is unhappy and that is why she
talks to her as a friend. What a child has seen is never
forgotten; she can still recall her father’s absences, her

$5
mother’s suffering, the sobs discreetly stifled in the fold of
her scarf, then the forced smile to appease the child’s
questioning gaze. A child of ten guesses everything, and
when Raabi was ten, the age when a little girl can take
charge of the new baby to relieve Mother a bit, her
parents were far from suspecting that they were being
watched and judged. Raabi’s affection for her mother was
infinite; when she reached the age of puberty, Lolli
instructed her in her duties as a wife and as Raabi grew
more mature the dialogue between them became direct
and frank and they talked together like two friends.
‘Raabi, my child, there are things you can’t
understand. If I left this house today, my parents would
curse me, and so would all the members of my family.
And if they died, people would say I had killed them by
filling their hearts with shame and misery. Think hard,
my child; I'd have no work, I'd be all alone, and what
would I do with you children if Itook you with me ? And if
I left you here, think how wretched I would be.’
After the storm, resignation. After the first few days
spent sulking came renewed efforts to win back the
favours of her lord and master. Lolli still nourished one
last hope in her heart: that of getting her husband back
for herself alone. This was the explanation for
confidential discussions with marabouts; this was also the
explanation for the exorbitant sums and countless gifts
distributed to her in-laws. These must be won over to
express their gratitude to her in public, on the occasion of
family gatherings, and so giving the impression of
swaying the balance in her favour.
Raabi is not convinced. She promises to be rather
strong-minded, does Raabi. Lolli sometimes wonders
anxiously how her daughter will manage to put up with a
husband. She’s not pretty, her oval face is rather gaunt,
her jaw too prominent, her eyes small and rather hard;
she always dresses severely, uses no make-up, wears no
useless jewellery, only little hoop ear-rings, a thin chain
round her neck, a silver bracelet on her right wrist and a
watch on her left wrist. She has never had any time for the
trivialities of life; always at her books; interminable

34
discussions with her fellow-students about serious world
problems: war, the exploitation of small countries by
super-powers, rampant injustice, the dehumanisation of
society. She can’t stand compromises; she likes clear-cut
situations, where you stand up to be counted. That is why
she begged her mother not to give way to the countless
pressures put upon her; she talked to her as she would to a
weak person who doesn’t know how to defend her own
rights, or hasn’t the power to do so. Her mother didn’t
listen to her, but Raabi does not bear her any ill-will
because of this. On the contrary, she understands her
motives, but does not consider them justified. This in no
way militates against the love she feels for her mother. But
when her father returns home, after an absence of four
days spent with his ‘second’, and she sees her mother
welcome him like a king, dressed in her best finery, all
smiles, incense burning, a meal of delicacies prepared,
she is heart-sore. She has no appetite for four long days,
during which communication between herself and her
father is reduced to formal greetings and short replies to
his questions about her studies, her friends or world
events.
 Chapter Five

The beggars are in a flutter of disquiet; there is a rumble

‘and—a-grammbte of suppressedanger. They have just
returned from old Gorgui Diop’s funeral. All they knew
was that he had been picked up in a raid. A few days later
they heard on the radio an announcement from the
hospital superintendent, requesting the next-of-kin of
Gorgui Diop, deceased, aged about fifty-two, native of
Sandiara, to come and collect his body. No one had any
idea in what circumstances he had been taken to hospital
or what he had died of.
An oppressive silence hangs over Salla Niang’s
courtyard. It is the moment when the jinn are abroad,
wallowing in the heat, when the sun that accompanies the
rainy season pierces man’s bruised flesh with its flaming
darts. Stunned by apprehension and grief, thefaces of this
human flotsam wear an expression of terror. Tired_of
being clobbered! Tired of being hunted! Tired of
running ! For some time now they haven t been going out
in daylight any more. They get up before dawn, converge
in small tight groups on the markets and the mosques, the
only places where human activities are carried on before
daybreak. When windows suddenly thrown open to the
morning air and the uninterrupted rumble of the traffic
announce the awakening of the City, they slip discreetly
back to Salla’s courtyard.
They have buried old Diop and here they are, back
again, heavy-hearted, drenched in_ perspiration. The
scorching air reeks of poverty and human desolation,
‘If we don’t look out we'll all end up like Gorgui Diop,’
Nguirane Sarr cries. ‘We’ll all die like dogs!’
Today he is wearing a white caftan which has become
the colour of ashes. He has bought a new pair of
spectacles, this time with black frames. He wears a thin
gold chain round his neck. The gash across his face has
not yet healed; scabs have formed round the edges of the

26
 wound that is stained with mercurochrome.
‘And, in any case, Gorgui Diop didn’t do anyone any
harm, he resumes. NJoanrent. Som
‘Listen, my friends; since théy want us to leave them in
peace, let’s leave them in peace. Let’s stay here! Don’t
let’s move from here!’
His friends_expected anything but this. They are
desperate, terrorised; they want a solution which will
Pailin acne inn rights like
everyone else. But Nguirane Sarr~astonishes them. His
suggestion seems devoid of sense.
‘We don’t go asking for charity any more?’
‘What shall we do? Must we be left without any
resources? It’s true that things aren’t easy for us, but we
sull manage to take a bit of money here and there.’
‘Nguirane, your suggestion just isn’t feasible. Don’t get
carried away by anger. Life is fu pitialls. st be
yrave; one day they Il leave us alone. But if we don’t go
out looking for charity, where shall we go? If we stay at
home sulking, we’ll just be cutting off our own noses to
spite our faces.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ Nguirane thunders.
Backs that had stooped beneath the sun’s heat are
straightened. In Nguirane’s voice are undercurrents of
hostility, contempt, anger.
‘That’s where you are wrong! I’ve told you before: it’s
not because of our rags, nor our physical disabilities, nor
for the pleasure of performing a disinterested good deed
that people deign to throw us the money we get as
donations. First of all they have whispered their dearest vs
and most secret desires to the alms they tender: “Imake 7 per
you_this offering so that_God_ cant me long Ii life,
prosperity and happiness ...” “This donation is so that
‘the Creator may remove all the difficulties [ might
“encounter
on my path ...” “In exchange for this
contribution may the Master o ( elp me
Se to climb to
the top of the ladder » Head of my
Department ...” “Thanks to this offering, may the
Almighty drive away all my cares as well as those of my
family, protect me from Satan, from man-eating sor-
cerers and all the spells that might be cast upon me ...”
That’s what they say when they drop a coin or a little gift
in the palm of your out-stretched hand. And when they
SN opr eal SE heir steaming,
SD
“odorous calabashesof millet porridge and curdled milk,
oO you imagine 1 you might be
hungry ? No, my friends, that’s the least of their worries!
Our hunger doesn’t worry them. They o-give in
order to survive, and if we didn’t exist, who would they
give to ? How could they ensure their own peace of mind ?
They don’t give for our_ sake; they_give for_ their own
Stet Theyneediie tetial they
can live in peace!’
Salla Niang, who was cooking the midday meal at the
other end of the courtyard, had been listening to
everything Nguirane had been saying. She now moves
deliberately forward, pushing her way through the dense
throng till she stands in front of Nguirane. She is wearing
a camisole that is pulled in at the waist and shows off the
curves of her hips. Tiny beads of sweat stand out on her
forehead and nose. Gorgui Diop’s death has affected her
deeply ;she had known him in her native village, where
everyone was unanimous in saying that he had been her
father’s best friend. As she had scarcely known her father,
she had transferred all her affection to this man who was
the friend of all the children in the village. Every evening
they crowded round him and he used to tell them
marvellous stories about the origin of the world. Later,
when Salla saw him turn up in the City, she hastened to
offer him her hospitality.
Her features became drawn with sorrow. She reached
out to the assembled crowd a hand stained with henna
arabesques.
, Now, my friends, the hour has_come to make our
choice: to live Tkeddgs, pursued, hunted, tracked down,
rough-handled;or to live like men. Gorgui Diop’s reason
for living was always to bring a little cheer to men’s
hearts. But these madmen have forgotten the meaning of
cheer. Since Gorgui Diop has not been spared — Gorgui
Diop who made people laugh — no one will be spared. So
now, let’s have no more of this stealing in and out on the

38
 5 ease eae ~~)
sly; let’s have no more of this running away like mad;
let’s have no more distress and fear. Let’s all stay here! Do
you hear, we’ll stay here! In a yee amavan'll see
that we are as necessary to them as the air they breathe.
Where will you find a man who's Oss and who
doesn’t give to charity so that he can stay the boss ? Where
will you find a man who’s suffering from a real or
imaginary illness and who doesn’t believe that his
troubles will disappear the moment a donation leaves his
hands? Where will you find an ambitious man who
doesn’t think that the magic effects of charity can open all
doors ? Everyone gives for one reason or another. Even
the parents of a man who’s awaiting judgement,
expecting to be condemned, have recourse to charity, to
blur the judge’s reasoning, in the hope of an acquittal.’
Everything that Salla Niang has said is based on what
she saw during her experiences as a maid-ol-all-work.
She
eee ae ets
have fed ten paupers, but paupers were never invited to
share the meal; paupers are dirty, a nuisance, they don’t
know how to behave. But, in these same houses, when the
marabout recommended them to feed seven, ten or
twelve paupers on delicacies for three days, they went to
seek out these same paupers, invited them to their homes,
welcomed them, pressed dishes upon them that they
would never have dreamed of: rice with fish, swimming
in arich, red sauce; white rice with plenty of tender meat;
a delicious couscous with raisins, mixed vegetables, dates
and prunes; and after every meal, fresh cola-nuts to aid
the digestion.
What Salla Niang has just said is not the result of a
inspiration. It derives, among other experiences,
from a painful scen Cf witnessed
at a ume when
-ked for some people who were not exactly rolling
in money. As she made the eds, swept the rooms,
scoured the saucepans, she kept her ears and eyes open
and so was able to reconstitute the drama in which the
family was involved. The husband, Galaye, was leader of
the workers’ union in a small metalworks, whose owner

Sha. wed b> Be

= le. —

GaSdou i — Wyache rol, 7

 didn’t look very favourably on the union’s demands
which, he said, were ‘an obstacle to good working
conditions and liable to have disastrous consequences for
the financial situation of the firm’, The owner’s motto
was ‘The output first, foremost and attthetime’ and this
motto had become-a sort of regular prayer recited at all
times of the day, accompanying the showers of sparks
given off from the welders’ oxyacetylene lamps. Tojustify
his obsession, he invoked the heavy taxes he had to meet,
although all his employees knew that he enjoyed the
enormous facilities and tax concessions granted to
foreign investors. The workers’ rights and the most
elementary safety regulations ‘no Tonger counted, and it
beca him that there were bye-
Taws relating to the employees’
es" conditions ) rk. The
Be rae rerGalaye’s submissions and gave
him to understand that under no circumstances was his
firm — which had been set up to help the State and the
workers — to be transformed into a political forum.
‘You're here to get on with your work and not to create
trouble! If you don’t want to work, you can bugger off!
There are hundreds waiting for your job!’
‘If anyone here ought to bugger off, it’s you! This is our
country, and that’s what you seem to forget! You just
comply with the regulations laid down in the bye-laws;
just pay us the overtime you owe us; and see that there’s
soap in the washrooms after work! And we must ask you
again to install at least two fire-extinguishers. In a firm
like this, it’s inconceivable that there isn’t a single one!’
While these exchanges were being shouted above the
shrill hiss of the oxyacetylene lamps in the workshop,
most of the welders remained bent over their jobs.
‘That’s right, Mister Galaye, go on! And while you’re at
it, why don’t you demand air-conditioners to diminish
the effects of the heat!’
That had been the end of the argument that day. But
Galaye had no idea how far his employer would go in
double-dealing. The latter had got the impression that the
factory ran the risk of being at the mercy of a wave of
rebellion which would seriously impair his profits. To

40
enable_him_ to sack Galaye without paying him any
“Compensation, he got some of the latter’s compatriots to
aid-and abet him by dazzling them with wild promises of
advancement. One day he pointed out to the storéman —
that the chit authorising the removal of ten wrought-iron
gates from the workshop was a forgery. The storeman
submitted that the chit had been given to him by Galaye.
The owner brought a charge against Galaye who denied
Signi but thesoremar persisted arisaccusation,
Finally Galaye was condemned to three months’
imprisonment,
with suspended sentence; plus costs and
the repayment of the value of the tei-gates;-estimated at
sixty thousand francs each.
Galaye was _o f work for a long ume. While Salla
Niang took care of the housework, his wife made pagnes
and prepared fritters which she sold to meet the family’s
expenses.
One morning, very early, Salla saw Galaye take a bench
and place it in front of the entrance to the house. He sat
there, holding a sheet of white paper in his hand. Salla
watched him out of the corner of her eye as she lit the
stove, and could not explain his apparent nervousness. As
usual beggars streamed past but Galaye remained deaf to
their pleas for alms. |
This intrigued Salla all the more. Finally an old beggar-
woman came past; she was tiny, wrinkled, but bright-eyed.
On her head she carried two little calabashes placed one
on top of the other, and ash-grey strands of hair escaped
from her tightly-knotted head-scarf. As soon as Galaye
caught sight of her he ran up to her and offered her the
white paper saying, ‘Take this, lady, it’s a gift from God!’
The old beggar-woman, who presumably found this a
rather odd gift, showed her surprise; she frowned and
looked carefully to make sure there was nothing in the
paper. Galaye’s hand trembled as he held it out. Salla
watched, her broom in her hand.
‘It’s charity, Grandma! I’m giving it you out of
charity!’
‘Eh, son! What can I do with a piece of paper? I can’t
read or write!’

4
 She continued to hold her two calabashes on her head
with both hands. She seemed to have no inclination to
take the paper.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers! That’s a divine law! It says
you mustn’t pick and choose and you mustn’t look a gift-
horse in the mouth!’
‘Perhaps you’re right, my son. But a piece of paper ...’
She was about to turn away. Salla saw Galaye pleading
with her, imploring, beseeching with burning eyes and
parched throat. The old beggar-woman remained
unmoved and tried to go on her way. Then Galaye caught
hold of her camisole, dug his hand into his pocket and
brought out a shining coin which he waved under the
woman’s nose.
‘Take the paper and take this money too.’
Salla thought to herself that Galaye was certainly
parting with the last money he had left. She felt quite
heart-sore. Later, as she listened to conversations through

42
“You_must be pleased now! The street corners are
: ar to be seen any more.’
There is a semi-reproachful note in Sagar Diouf’s voice
as she speaks to ~The latter was just drifting into a
“daydream, intoxicated by the sea air that he breathes
deeply into his lungs, by the sight of the monotonous
landscape of the coast which glides past the car, by the
enchantment of the music broadcast by the radio: in this
duet of contrasting voices which seem to range into
infinity and lose themselves in the depths of one’s soul,
accompanied by the melancholy sobbing, drawn from the
Kora by skilful fingers, Keba recognises Soundiou Sakho
and his wife, the celebrated singing couple who have the
strange power of flexing the most rigid strings and
touching the coldest hearts.
‘What power, what sweetness, what magic in these
voices! You see, Sagar, every time |hear them, Lec! ast
I’m losing a little of my bodily presence, while I am
filled
with as effable PERS
‘What voices? Sagar asks.
She has not noticed the music. She is waiting
impatiently to discover the new hotel complex on the
Lower Coast, a veritable paradise, according to what 1s
said in the Capital, and where Keba has invited her this
weekend.
‘But ... the sound of the kora and the voices of the
singers!’
‘Oh! ... I was saying there are no more beggars in the
City, You've succeeded ? I forgot_to_ask you: is it true the
President is very _pl and
going to appoint Mour Ndi -post of Vice-_
resident :
T don’t know. There is a rumour to this effect in the
City, but Mour Ndiaye hasn’t said anything to me.’
‘You
a
can be sure that if he is appointed Vice-President,

43
 ou’ll be the new Minister! I really, sincerely hope so, for

‘T did it because it’s my job, not because I expected any

promouon. Saag ALS perma cere sO
important fe ould have < take it on
yerson th laced mein another
Department.’
Sagar bursts out laughing again. When she mentioned
the problem of the beggars, she expected this passionate
and almost childish reaction from Keba. The vein stands
out on his forehead; his expression which a moment ago
was calm, is now tense. Just because of a silly business ofa
few beggars; Sagar will never understand Keba’s motives.
“What attracts you towards the beggars ? They’re poor ;
aren't you sorry for the poor ?’
‘What attracts me towards the beggars! You’re wrong,
Sagar, you never see eR understand
anything! Don’t you realise that everything separates me
from them! Poverty _hastever compelled people to beg;
poverty has never excluded self-respect, human dignity!
I’ve told you this a thousand times!’
Sagar does not reply. The amused smile which lit up her
face has disappeared. She has perceived in Keba’s voice
and expression something that she has never noticed
before: as if he felt a deep suffering that he was repressing
with a supreme effort. She 1s all the more surprised in that
she thought that in this hour of success Keba could not
help being happy. She stares at him: in his eyes that are
fixed determinedly on the tarred road that unfurls before
them, a red veinule has appeared; his lips are tightly
closed and the pulse throbs feverishly on his prominent
temples. The silence is broken only by the uninterrupted
hum of the motor and the whistle of the salt-laden breeze
that bends the tops of the coconut palms that line the
road. The car is travelling more slowly now: Keba glances
briefly at Sagar and makes an effort to relax his lips in a
forced smile.
‘ ‘Sagar, don’t be cross with me; it’s _n I’m angry
with, but those people who do a real wrong to humamtty;
and who, if you Took carefully, harm the genuinely poor,

44
that is the ones who have nothing but who manage to
keep up an appearance of respectabilityand dignity
At the side of the deserted road a group of children can
be seen from time to time, with bare chests, their hair
reddened by the sun and the sea; they give broad,
innocent smiles and wave their hands in greeting.
‘When I was a boy, I saw a striking example of
unselfishness on the part of a woman who was never
reduced to begging, by either hunger or extreme poverty
. Isaw a family — are you listening, Sagar ? — I saw with
my own eyes whatPm gome to tell you —Tdidn’ t hear it
from anyone. A family of five children, the husband
drowned one day when he went out fishing in a home-
made canoe; the wife was paralysed in the right arm and
depended on the small allowance that one of her brothers
who was a school-teacher grudgingly gave her, and on the
meagre proceeds from the sale of roast peanuts, which
was the only way she could earn anything, because she
was handicapped by her useless arm. One holy day she
paid a visit to her brother, accompanied by her five
children, all boys. Her brother had three wives and a large
number of children. This large family, together with
many people who had come to present the compliments
of the season, were sitting in the spacious courtyard round
the master of the house. The woman — her name was
Dibor — greeted him and mingled with the crowd of
people present, while her children ran off to find their
young cousins. The master of the house then called two of
them in a disagreeable, dictatorial voice, “Hey, you there,
Birama, Famara, come here!”
‘The two children pushed forward and stood in front of
their uncle. The latter then called one of his own sons,
Talla. All the people present watched them. The master of
the house shouted, ‘‘Birama, Talla tells me that you and
your brother steal pens every day at school. You little
hooligans, isn’t everything Ido for you enough ?’
‘The children denied the charge, with their eyes
lowered. The woman got up from where she sat and
shouted at her brother in an unaccustomed fury,
“Bougouma, that’s low-down
aoie thing Se That’s not
to do. en DST er
N R
coin Ae Lata
45
_the way a human being behaves; anyone would think you
were speaking to a dumb beast! It’s wicked to want to
shame children in front of everyone, simply on the basis
So ee aes .
of your son’s accusations. Is yo fer than
them ? Doesn’t the same blood flow in their veins 2?What
a petty way to behave! How petty to expend so much
energy over a trifling matter of a few miserable pens! I'll
have you know, Bougouma, that all I’ve got to live on is
what you give me and what I earn from my roast peanuts,
but God hasn’t yet deprived me of the means of buying
pens for my children. Your son is a_liarand—you
encourage him!”’ glee cosnib &
‘After this furious outburst, Dibor called her children
and
_left her brother’s house where she never set foot
again, while the people who had _gathered—in—the
courtyard blamed her for having spoken-in-this
way to her
brother who was also her benefactor. Bougouma cut off
her allowance
and they had no further t.
Keba
did not tell Sagar that hi “wept ceaseless]

he’d get his-own_back for this public insul icted on

him, on_account of some miserable pens. .And he kept his
word: the uncle was pensioned off after having invested
all his savings to build the house where he lived with his
large family. Then he was expropriated because he had
built on a site that belonged to the state; the meagre sum
that was offered him in compensation could not begin to
counterbalance all the outlay he had had for his house.
Then he remembered his nephew who might intervene
with the Minister on his behalf. As soon as he had one foot
inside Keba’s office and the other still outside, elated and
proud to be the uncle of a man who was respected and
praised everywhere in the Capital, he was greeted by a
face like a thundercloud and a terrifying roar which
stopped him dead in his tracks, with one foot inside the
door and the other outside, unable either to open or close
it. “Get out! I refuse to see you! Out, you understand,
out!’
Sagar gets the impression that the road has got busier

46
now with the peasants returning home in their short
trousers, their backs bent, carrying farm instruments on
their shoulders. Women walk along with huge loads of
sticks or enormous baskets on their heads.
‘Poverty’, Keba resumes, ‘is always heart-breaking, but
it'S impossible_10 Tmagine-the- hares Tha ely
don’t understand and pull a long face at the sight of
boiled rice, without any sugar, because the grocer on the
corner won’t allow any more credit. And the mother who
kept her self-respect, grimly refusing to beg, to ask for
anything, but obliged — because of the children, only
because of the children — to accept the left-overs from
neighbours’ tables or the reach-me-downs that they
offered them out of pity.’
‘So she did accept charity!’ Sagar exclaimed. ‘And you
admired her for it!’
‘She never held out her hand to ask for anything, Sagar!
That’s very important. What I admired about her was her
strength, her will-power in resistirg-the temptation of
okeceeOvatientte aaclienian er. It was her
refusal to give other creatures no better than herself the
opportunity
of snubbing her, and treating her as
someone undesirable. It’s incredible, if you imagine that
there were some periods of total indigence when the
cooking pot that she placed on the fire in the evening —
made from a few twigs that she had collected — contained
nothing but water. The children waited. ‘The cassava’s
very hard today, it'll soon be soft.’ And the children
waited hopefully; she told them stories and sang them the
songs that used to excite the wrestlers in the arena in the
olden days. Finally they fell asleep. Only the oldest one,
Birama, knew that the cooking-pot contained nothing
but water.’
Sagar hasn’t even been listening to Keba’s last words; it
is enough Torher toobserve-onree-apat that“Keba is a
rather peculiar person, who doesn’t react like other
people. She remembers the day she had asked him for
some petrol vouchers.
‘What do you want petrol vouchers for? To the best of

47
my knowledge you don’t own a car.’
‘It’s for one of my friends. She works in the private
sector and it’s not always easy for her to get them.’
‘All right. Bring your friend here.’
When Sagar and her friend were seated in front of
Keba, expecting some grand gesture on the part of a
generous boss, Keba turned to the friend whom Sagar had
introduced to him a few moments before.
‘Mademoiselle Dieng, I understand that you want some
petrol vouchers.’
Yessy
‘What make of car have you got?’
‘A Peugeot 504.’
‘How did you purchase it?’
‘Why ... with my own money!’
Up ull then Sagar had been under the impression that
they had just been making conversation, although this
was not in Keba’s nature. “But who knows ? Perhaps today
he’s feeling in a particularly light-hearted mood.’
‘So you’ve got enough money to buy yourself a car!’
Silence.
‘Well, Mademoiselle, I’m sorry, but since you yourself
offer me the opportunity, I'll take advantage of it to draw
your attention to certain very important matters which
may well have escaped you, because you simply haven’t
thought about them ... Well then: first of all, don’‘t you
think it is degrading to ask fort -
must be preparetto-assume oone’s responsibilities; ifone
one
buys a car, must
oneé be inposition
a to buy petrol, for
before buying your-car—you-knew that it-can’t work
without fuel! Finally, Mademoiselle, you know nary well
that the petrol vouchers you are asking me for don’t
belong to me; they belong to the State. In asking me for
them, you are inciting me to rob the State; do you think
that is honest?’
Sagar had felt the ground literally giving way under
her; she was paralysed with shame and could find no
other outlet than to burst into tears. But Mademoiselle
Dieng was by no means put out; she stood up, placed her
handbag and her large glinting spectacles on Keba’s desk,

48
pulled her blouse down over her skirt and snapped her
fingers at him.
‘You're out of date! And you’re too young to try to
teach me how to act. Since your coupons are so precious,
you can stuff them! Stuff them, my lad, my car will go on
running! Sagar, your boss is crackers!’
After this scene Sagar had every intention of leaving
Keba’s department as soon as she could, and then time
ad sorted things out; she “come to the conclusion
that Keba was different from other people and that one
had to accept him as he was.

49
 Chapter Seven

Mour Ndiaye has been awarded the Order of Merit, an

ronour which is reserved for nationals who have shown
quite exceptional qualities. He is the second citizen to be
able to glory in the rare title of Knight of the Order of
Merit, the first being Lieutenant-Colonel Massaer Sarr,
who was decorated for succeeding in breaking up the
celebrated network of smugglers who deprived the State
every year of hundreds of millions and who, ull then, had
constituted a national scourge that no one had been able
to eradicate. After his decoration, Lieutenant-Colonel
Massaer had been appointed Minister of Finance and
Commerce, which is an added reason, on top of the
rumours which continue to be current and_ the
compliments which the President heaps upon him, for
confirming Mour Ndiaye’s hopes of being appointed
Vice-President. He has more ‘extensive and more frequent
contacts with marabouts. Mour is no longer satisfied to
consult the most esteemed marabouts of his own country ;
he travels through foreign territories and sends his
confidential agents into quite distant lands in search of
the greatest specialists in occult science.

after reception in order to hear himself congratulated by

the social elite. He isn’t just Mour Ndiaye any more, he is
‘that exceptional man who succeeds in_ rectifying
compromising situations’; he has become one with his
own image of himself.
One day, however, Mour comes down to earth again
alter a night of terrifying dreams. Troubled by these, he

5°
 yin —
SP) y Eyes

goes to ask counsel of one of his many marabouts who

instructs him to make an offering of seven white cola-nuts
to an old woman who has no physical infirmity. ‘Be
parucularly careful not to give them to a blind woman’
How great is his disappointment, his distress, his fear
also, when his son brings back the cola-nuts, explaining
that he hasn’t seen a single beggar! Mour is vexed, but to
tell the truth he is afraid that this is an unlucky omen: will
this terrible nightmare which has so upset him, and which
must be exorcised by giving away the colas, come true
because the colas have come back ? He falls into a terrible
rage.
‘You good-for-nothing! You’re all a lot of ne’er-do-
wells. You’re not even capable of going out and giving
alms to a beggar!’
‘But papa, I did try. I went ever so far and I didn’t see a
single beggar!
‘You're lying. Now go and find someone to give those
nuts to! If you bring them back you’ll see what stuff I’m
made of. Go on, you lazy-bones!’
Just when his son is about to leave, Mour calls him
back. ‘No, leave it alone. Give them to me!’
He calls one of the servants. ‘Sally, here’s a thousand
francs for you. Try to find an old woman who’s not lame,
who’s not blind, not even in one eye, and give her these
colas. Don’t bring them back under any circumstances,
Sally. This donation must be made today, urgently.’
Sally explored the whole district without meeting a
single beggar. In any case, it is common knowledge this
district has never suffered from the continuous assault of
beggars. The only establishment that risked being
frequented is the baker’s shop, and the baker some me
ago — long before the mopping-up campaign — had taken
care to clear his shop of these undesirable canvassers of all
sorts: beggars, hawkers, shoe-shine-boys and others.
‘I’ve got my washing-up to do ... and the laundry ...
it’s getting late ... what must I do with these cola-nuts
#2
Sally gives way to the temptation simply to throw them.
away to get rid of them; she places them at the foot ofa—

jl ==
ie) Mea ae An 14 } tor rai
UMYN DAQL TRg pas yo
 tree and goes away. Then, feeling a pang of remorse just
“as she is slipping the thousand-franc-note, folded in four,
into her brassiére, she turns round quickly, picks up the
cola-nuts wrapped in a piece of white paper, stands for a
moment with them poised in her hand, not knowing
what she must decide to do. Fortunately she catches sight
of a bus.
‘It can’t be helped! I'd better go to the Main Market ...
The washing up ... The laundry ... If I take the bus, it
won't take me too long.’
She explores the whole market. For want of beggars,
she has recourse to examining the multicoloured objects
that glitter on the merchants’ stalls. She bargains hard
and buys a pair of ear-rings, some gilt bracelets and a jar
of skin-lotion. Just as the stallkeeper is passing her her
parcel, she is once more aware of the weight ofthe colas.
‘Brother, do you know. where the beggars hang
out ?’
‘Hi-i-1-! Don’t you live in the City 2’
“Yes, of course, I live here!
‘Then you don’t know what’s happening? It’s not easy
now to meet a beggar; you never see them any more; they __
~
don’t come to get their handout; people take it tothem
“Where ?’ T.¢ ¢
‘It’s a long way out, you know! In the new Slum-
Clearance Resettlement Area.’ x
~~Sally counts her money. Out of the thousand francs that
Mour gave her, she has a hundred and forty francs left.
She hasn’t the heart to go back without having deposited
the nuts in the hands of an able-bodied old beggar-
woman. ‘The washing-up ... The laundry ... But the
master treats me so well ...’
People are really in the soup now,’ the stallkeeper went
an THEY Te: short of beggars. Can you imagine an
existence in-which you can’t make your daily offering to
charity without travelling several miles ?’

which has already been christened ‘the beggars’ bus-

stop’, she has no difficulty in finding Salla Niang’s house;
all she has to do is to follow the crowds that converge on it

52
from all directions, carrying diverse packets. To listen to
the conversations exchanged, the complaints at having to
travel so far to make their donations, she realises that
shortage of beggars is causing a considera
inconvenience to a part of the populaation 7 she sees sick

suffering this distance in order to make the sacrifice which

may perhaps help them to be restored to physical and
mental well-being. She sees luxurious cars, with all their
windows tightly closed, speeding down the sandy track
that leads to ‘the beggars’ house’. She hears the laments of
people of modest means who condemn the _ ever-
increasing demands of the beggars: ‘They really go too
far! They don’t care a damn for what the Holy Scriptures
lay down. Can you imagine their cheek! The amount
prescribed for a donation is seven lumps of sugar or a
candle, and here are these ladies and gentlemen
demanding to be offered anything up to two pounds of
sugar or a really thick blanket that’s not been patched.
And they are the ones who decide what they’ll have! And
you can’t please them so easily; they have to have the best
. But what can we do?’

D3
 Chapter Eight

In his New Year speech to the Nation, the President ofthe

“Republic s imism-about the future of the
country; he announced a period of prosperity | “and
encouraged all the citizens to persevere in their efforts for
the good of the State. He
He quoted the example of Mour
Ndiaye, who by his skilful,
ful, intelligent and firm handling
of the pro emi. has succeeded in ridding the Capital of a_
ie ee as Ee ee
nuisance, thus favouring the progress oftourism, which |
in turn has“been responsi or the consider in
the standard of living of the citizens, since the average
income per capita has undergone a substantial increase.
The new congratulations publicly addressed to Mour
Ndiaye by the President in the same speech, moreover,
which confirmed his intention of reshuffling the cabinet
and appointing a Vice-President of the Republic in the
near future, constitute in-everyone’s_eyes the proof that
Mour will shortly be promoted and his Minister of State
Femoved _from_ofhce. Moreover the Tatter has been
waging an open war against Mour. iw for ssome time, At
every opportunity, in the course of receptions, political
conventions, meetings of secuonal committees, he never
fails to remind people that Mour has undoubtedly a bent
for politics, in the popular sense of the term; that he has
the knack of mobilising the masses; but that he has no
training which would qualify him for any claim to be able
to take charge of the Government. ‘He can’t even express
himself cor rectly in the official language of thecountry, so
how ‘could he take on this function?’ To the many
questions asked by the embittered Minister, certain
people replied ironically, “And what pray are technical
advisers for?’
When this malicious talk reached Mour’s ears, he was
not unduly hurt. He saw in it the pique and mortification
of a man who has known the delights of high honours,
who has wallowed in them without thought for the

54
 uly
aa ty {
y of THE oN
"\ Ov pe ia

morrow, and who knows he is about to be tumbled from

his tower. Mour has never paid any particular attention to
the Mot hist hun hae ee
simply asked his marabouts to protect him from all the
spells that might be woven against him and to him—
obtain the coveted post of Vice-President of the Republic
as rapidly as possible. Mour ts fully aware that many other
people in high positions in the country are scheming to
get this post. That is why, after having been advised by
Serigne Birama to pray to God and wait calmly and with
equanimity for the glory with which the Creator would
soon surround him, he went offto a pastoral village in the
heart of the bush, which is reputed for the infallible
knowledge of its marabouts. He returned accompanied by
the man who for miles and miles around is considered to
‘be the one whom no forces ¢can resist. He is said to
converse with jinn and that they in turn carry out all his
wishes, even the ones that seem the most impossible to
realise. No one has ever seen his face which he always
keeps hidden beneath a chéchia, which leaves only his little
red eyes visible with a gaze as sharp as a steel blade. He is
known to everyone by the curious name of Kifi Bokoul for_
the following reason: The story goes ‘that his, mother was
for long completely barren.. Neither powders, nor potions
nor incantations sung ‘n pitchblack night in the heart of
the deserted bush succeeded in satisfying her desire to
bear a child. And yet there was nothing of the harridan
about her: she was kindness itself. One day, she had gone
with her husband to the foot of the fetish-tree of her
village; her husband implored the spirits with tears in his
eyes to come to the help of his wife who, in seventeen
years of marriage, had never raised her eyes to look him in
the face and had always carried out his most capricious
requests. For this model wife, the husband had offered the
spirits gold dust, camel’s milk and steaming bull’s blood
in the cool of the early dawn. After this sacrifice, an
enormous snake had glided down from the tree and had
addressed the couple in these words: ‘A child will be born
from the entrails of this woman, a child whose eye will be
able to perceive what you will never see. For this being
"
+

)\
(D\KLO
ae \
whom this woman will bear, will be born of you, he will
live among you, but he will not be one of you.’ When the
snake had pronounced these obscure words it ordered the
woman to dance; she had danced and danced and danced
until she fell into a trance and then fell sound asleep; then
her husband lifted her on to his sturdy shoulders and they
returned home. Shortly afterwards the child who was to
bear the name of Kifi Bokoul was conceived.
Mour Ndiaye took Kifi Bokoul home to Lolli’s house, as
he had done with so many other marabouts. For Sine, the
second wife, was still being coddled and given everything
that she desired; but Lolli is the depository of all Mour’s
secrets regarding his dealings with marabouts. He is
convinced that whatever happens Lolli will never betray
his secrets, for this would be out of keeping with the
pattern of behaviour which has been laid down for her;
and it so happens that she has been so conditioned that
she will never permit herself any departure from this
pattern. The proof of this is that after the stormy reaction
to Mour’s second marriage, she resigned herself to
accepting her new situation. Lolli will never permit
herself any deviation from the accepted standards ; even
the one, little escapade that she had once been guilty of
only helped to assure her place within the accepted
pattern of behaviour: it was the innocent enough
occasion when all the girls from the district ran away in
search of a tattooist in a neighbouring village. She left her
parents’ house without letting anyone know, but when
they realised that all the adolescent girls had disappeared,
they understood; they felt immensely happy and proud
that they had managed to inculcate into their daughter
the indispensable virtue of jom, which constitutes a
restraint on any reprehensible behaviour. And with the
other parents they made ready to honour the girls who
had gone to brave pain; they prepared enormous
quanuties of couscous and decided on the bull which
would be slaughtered for the festivities organised to
welcome them when they returned from the trials of the
tattooing. And one day, at the entrance to the village, the
beat of tom-toms was to be heard and all the inhabitants

56
ofthe village ran to meet the initiates: their lower lips and
chins were all indigo stained, and they danced to the
rhythm of the tom-toms, to songs and the happy clapping
of hands, while the tattooist who accompanied them back
sang their praises and received many gifts from all the
villagers. All the young men were also at the feast; and
this was the first ime that Mour had been struck by Lolli
Badiane’s physical appearance: tall as a gazelle, fresh as a
sea-breeze, as she returned from the only escapade that
could be tolerated — an honourable escapade.

og
 Chapter Nine

Kifi Bokoul remained shut up for seven days and seven

“nights
in the guest apa
peers at Goh SeNowe eat
nothing but couscous _sprinkled with Tukewarm water
“which was placed every evening, just before bed-time,
outside the door of the apartment, as no one must see the
marabout during his retreat. After seven days and seven
nights, which seemed to Mour to last for centuries, Kifi
“Bokoul gave his verdict:
(ee desire,and youwill
ill have iit very

yw + pr erably fawn. The ound must be soaked with the

{da blood of this bull which you must slaughter here in the
Ni courtyard of this house; then_you must_divide_it-4
D seventy-seven portions aVRich oe eae Dra
a battu-Dearers.”
‘What are the battu-bearers?’ Mour asked.
“They are beggars. who walk about the streets to beg-
This offeri‘ing Must go to its cor rect destination, otherwise
everything risks going wrong. ‘Tt must go to genuine
miskin, that is to genuine paupers, people who have
nothing, absolutely nothing and who would starve, were
it not for their battu that they stretch out to passers-by.
You have heard my words ?’
‘I have heard and I have fully understood; everything
shall be done as you say.’
‘But this sacrifice that you will make, must not be
limited to one district of the town only. You are destined
to be appreciated in the four corners of the town, in the
four corners of the country; you will be a man of fame;
this fame must be symbolised by the manner in which you
distribute the meat from the sacrifice: offer this meat

Ch
throughout Be to ne Deeeat s In ev ery district ofthe”
:
‘Insh’ Allah, serene Insh’ Allah 1 shall follow your

58
recommendations ... And when I have done all this, I
shall obtain what I desire? ...’
‘Those who know me know that my words have never
been wasted on the empty air.’
‘That is true. That is true Serigne ... Forget that I
mentioned it.’
‘If you make the offerings as indicated, with three times
seven yards of white, non-silky material, as well as seven
hundred cola-nuts, of which three hundred must be red
and four hundred white, you will be Vice-President a
week later. Not later than a week.’
Mour thrills with happiness. He gazes at Kifi Bokoul as
if to try to pierce his mystery, but all he can see is a little,
shrivelled wisp of aman, huddled on a sheepskin which is
quite large enough to serve him as a bed, the way he is
curled up on it. His whole body is wrapped in his blue
cotton boubou, and when Mour makes so bold as to try to
descry the minutest fragment of something in this head
resting on a hand which is entirely hidden beneath the
boubou, he comes up against two tny, mobile,
apparently bottomless apertures behind the chéchia
which is disproportionately voluminous in comparison
with the man’s diminutive silhouette.
‘This man is certainly quite extraordinary; he isn’t
human ... no, he isn’t human ... A week after the
SACIINCE .
‘If you make the offerings as indicated, and you are not
appointed a week later, you can spit on my chéchia, you
can drag me in the mire, you can take my life if you so
wish.’
After this interview, when the retreat of seven days and
seven nights had elapsed, Kifi Bokoul took his leave of
Mour. The latter asked Kouli, the most loyal of his
chauffeurs, to drive him back to his village, then he began
to cogitate on the words of {this man who is not human’.
And suddenly he recalled that the beggars no longer beg
mn the streets; he has purged the streets of them and forced
€ somewherein a corner of one of the
IStricts.
‘Sally! Sally!’ uk os

«non Wh e 9
 SV ESISITer a
‘The other day, where did you take the colas to?’
‘A long way away, sir. In the beggars’ house.’
‘Ah! ... They have a house ?’
‘Yes, in the new Slum-Clearance Resettlement Area.
That’s where everyone goes to find them and make their
donations to charity. The day I took the colas, I went by
bus.’
‘Good, that’s all right. You can go.’

The beggars are living like princes; they are even

beginning to get bored at having nothing to do from
morning to evening. Donations rain from heaven and
lately they have noticed greater crowds and more
generous gifts: Salla Niang’s shop has benefited from a
stock of meat where all the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood come to make their purchases of
excellent quality cuts. One day, Nguirane Sarr, who now
plays the guitar to fill in his excess of leisure time,
suddenly interrupted his recital and said to his fellow-
beggars, ‘I’m sure that something is happening in the
world of politics! All this activity, all these luxury cars
driving up the whole day, these fine horned rams ... that
can only be because of politics.’
‘No, the radio would have mentioned it ... The radio
hasn’t said anything about elections ...’
‘You see,’ says Nguirane, ‘I was right. Now, all we have
to do is to sit down and everything falls from heaven. We
don’t have to go out early in the morning any more, we
don’t have to keep on the run all the time, we don’t have
to strain our vocal chords any more, shouting above the
noise everywhere.’
‘It was hard, very hard. And to think that if it weren’t
for you, Nguirane, we would have gone on with this
disastrous game of hide-and-seek with those people who
were hounding us, and we should have gone on getting
the worst of it.’
‘The mistake they made’, Nguirane goes on, “was never
to Stop to think why we begged~
‘Do people stop to ask that kind of question ? Really,

60
Nguirane, sometimes you talk as if you were dreaming!
Why were we begging? The answer’s easy, we begged
because we had nothing!’
olttsay we begged because we couldn't work because
of Our sical infirmities.’
‘If we begged, it was because every individual doesn’t
have the same opportunities, and those people who are
better off must give some of their wealth to the poorer
ones. That’s what religion says: when we beg we just
claim what is our due!’
Nguirane lets his fellow-beggars argue about the
various reasons why they are beggars; then, when silence
has been restored, he says, ‘Certainly opportunities are
not the same for everyone! You see my cousin who often
comes to see me here, he has done a lot of studying, he’s a
“situdent” in the biggest school in the City and soon he’ll
be a ‘‘dokatari”’ if God wills; he’ll look after the sick.’
‘Is that so? If ’'d known that I'd have shown him my
sores and I’d have asked him to give me a medicine! Oh!
how I itch, how I itch!’
‘Hey Nguirane, tell him to help me to get to hospital.
My child has been sick for long enough, anyone would
think! He coughs and vomits his heart out. I put him on
my back, I take the bus to the hospital, but they won’t let
me in. They ask me for a paper from the nurse here at the
clinic. Three times I’ve been there and back for nothing
and the child’s getting weaker by the hour!’
‘That cousin’, Nguirane resumes, ‘grew up with me in
our village. His father and my mother have the same
mother. Before I lost my sight we went to the Koranic
school together ...
‘Oh, so you weren’t born blind?’
‘No, when I was struck with this infirmity I was already
a sturdy lad; it was the result of an illness ... I studied with
the same marabout as my cousin; we both’ went to beg for
our food; we went from door to door, calling out in our
shrill voices, and the people who were not well-off in the
village still gave us a little share of what they had.
‘The city changes people ... It lures them in “and
destroys them ...’
61
 ‘Begging’, Nguirane continues, ‘was not considered a
curse then. It was quite natural for those who found
themselves obliged to beg, and it was considered a duty
for those who gave ...’
‘Nguirane! You are too fond of holding forth! You’re
only happy when you’re palavering!
‘Salla, go away and look after your cooking-pot. Today
we want a really juicy couscous, hey! I hope you’ve put the
tripes and the head in. If the sauce isn’t rich enough [Il
tell your “uncle” who'll put you in your place!’
Everybody bursts out laughing. Salla just shakes her
head and smiles while she continues cleaning her teeth
with a piece of swmp-root.
‘And then, one day’, Nguirane resumes, ‘my cousin
was sent to school; meanwhile I had lost my father and
was plunged into the blackness of an endless night; my
mother who couldn’t maintain me put me in the care ofa
marabout who lived in the neighbourhood. Even if I
hadn’t been blind, how could I exercise a trade, when I
hadn’t learned anything, and I hadn’t been trained for
anything 2’
‘But you have got a trade! You are a beggar!’
Nguirane does not reply to this pleasantry which comes
from the other end of the vast courtyard, filled with men
and women of all ages.
‘My cousin, thanks to the schooling he received, and
thanks to the intelligence which God gave him, was able
to come out all right. And we thought we’d survive by
coming to the City which we saw in our dreams as a
paradise where nothing was lacking ...’
‘Really, Nguirane, you’re never satisfied. What more
do you need now? Before, you had to go out to beg,
sometimes people snubbed you, other times they gave you
something; then they started hunting you down like a
mad dog; now you stay here and you’ve got people
coming to you bringing everything you need _ here:
clothes, food, money. What more do you want? D’you
think that the workers have got as much ?’
‘Salla, I'm not complaining. Even my cousin said that
we've got nothing to complain about and that we ought

62
to have adopted this attitude a long time ago. When he
comes here and sees people besieging us, he has a good
laugh! No, no, ’'m not complaining. I’m only trying to
find the reasons why certain people are obliged to beg
while others are short of nothing.’
‘Well, if you go on trying to find these reasons, you'll go
crackers, you'll go stark-staring bonkers; you just have to
look at your hand: are your five fingers all equal?
Nguirane, we’re getting trred of your chatter!’
Nguirane picks up his guitar again, adjusts his glasses
and asks everyone to join in his song:
Salla, cook the couscous,
A good baasi salté
Cassava, beans and pumpkin,
Baasi salté Cayor
Baasi salté Jolof
Richly dripping with buttery sauces
Red with tomatoes
Baasi salté fit for a king.

63
 Chapter Ten

The whole night following the departure of the

. mysterious Kifi Bokoul, Mour could not steep a wink.
Nothing was easier than to buy a bull with a coat of one
even colour, three times seven yards of a non-silky
material, and seven hundred colas, but how is he to be
able to distribute them around the City,when there aren’t
an beggars |about any more? “You must make your
offerings exactly as indicated, otherwise things may go
wrong—’ What did Kifi Bokoul mean by that ?— ‘Isn’t it
possible to distribute the meat from house to house in the
poor districts, as is usually done?’
Mour is well aware that in the poor districts there are
people who would welcome with great joy meat like this,
that they haven’t the means to buy in the market. ‘But’,
he reminds himself, “Kifi Bokoul gave me very precise
instructions; he said if T didn’t respect them and things
went wrong, it would be my own fault. A week later
Where shall Ifind battw-bearers? . .What am T to do?’
Mour spent an anxious night reviewing all the means
by which he might solve the problem: tr ansport the meat
out of the City, to another regional capital ? —‘No, no, no,
Kifi Bokoul specifically - referred to the town where I live;
Tio, that can't be possible . What irony_of fate! The
“beggars.
rs whose very existence I had forgotten for some
fime . One never knows ... one never knows what the
next day will bring ... Sally says they have a house,
perhaps it would come to the same thing if Itook the meat
to them since they are the ones who used to walk about
the streets begging ...’
Just as Mour was regretting that Kifi Bokoul was already
far away, his thoughts wandered to Serigne Birama. He
decided to go and consult Serigne Birama to find out if
“there were any ways of getting round the difficulty.
Mour started out before dawn, in order to be back for
an important meeting at the Ministry, so the village of

64
 Keur Gallo had hardly awoken from its slumbers when
the large Mercedes drew up in front of Serigne Birama’s
house. Mour found Serigne Birama at prayer and had to
wait for half an hour till the circle of beads had slipped
through the bony fingers of the servant of the Lord. At
one moment he had the impression as he watched the
passion with which Serigne Birama abandoned his whole
being to invocations and praises, that his revered
marabout was in the process of losing his material
presence and was about to take flight into the holy spheres
ofthe spiritual world. He felt a deep emotion which only
reinforced his faith in the man.
‘Mour, Ndiaye, Ndiaye, Ndiaye. Are you in good
health ?’
‘Sidibe, Serigne: Sidibe. I am in good health, Sidibe.’
‘Al hamdulilai. We give thanks to God, Ndiaye. It has
been a long time, quite a long time ... It is your work that
detains you?’
‘Yes, Serigne, it is only the work that has kept me; we
are submerged. But even if Ido not come, I never stop
thinking of you for one moment.’
‘I can believe you, Ndiaye. I know how it is, Ndiaye.
Your body is not often here, but your hand is perpetually
stretched out to us. God will repay you.’
‘Amen, Sidibe ... Today I have a very important
questionto put to you, and you are the only person who_
~can_reassure_me. This is how it is. I have to make a
“sacrifice ... the sacrifice of a bull...’
‘That is good. It is always good to make a sacrifice. It is a
way of thanking the Creator who has entrusted to you
what you offer to the poor to help them support their
misery. It is good, every time you can, you must give.
Fortune has no fixed domicile, God has not bestowed it
for all time. He has only offered it on loan. One must
never cease to remember that.’
‘That is true, Sidibe ... That is true. But I am in a very
difficult position ... In the City there are no more beggars in _
“the streets; and it so happens
that the sacrifice that [must —
make, must go to the beggarsin the streets ...to)the boroom
‘battu, the begging-bowl-bearers.’_ .

65
 ‘How can that be? A city without beggars? ... But it is
true that one day you told me that you were waging war
on the beggars!’
‘Yes, it was decided to get rid of them for reasons of
development.’
Serigne lowered his head for a moment, in an attitude
of meditation, then he raised it again, looked at Mour
with a smile and said, “You waged war against the beggars
. Who won?”

admit that the distressing insecurity that he had felt ever

since
hearing
Kifi Bokoul’s verdict proved that the
balance of power. had been reversed. He believes firmly in-
‘the words of ‘this man who is not human’ and he is
convinced that from this moment his whole fate is in the

‘their vantage points. But, it happens that he has set his

“mind-onr this post of Vice-President; he has placed all his
hopes on it; he has even donned the mantle already, since
his slightest action, his every plan, each one of his
decisions is now thought out and executed in relation to
his future — which is now imminent: ‘in a week’s time’ —
to his future situation as Vice-President of the Republic.
‘Chet yalla! Eh, by Allah! Serigne Birama continued.
‘Everything is upside down in the world today!’
Mour tried, somewhat clumsily, to overcome his
confusion and bring back a note of everyday humour to
the discussion. Forcing a laugh he said, ‘Hey, Serigne, you
too! You don’t like changes; but they’re necessary,
because the world is changing. And it changes more often
for the good than for the bad. Just think. Before, it used to
take months to get to the Holy Places. Now you can get
there in a few hours.’
‘That is true, but that is the work of the Lord ... Now,
tell me, since you have driven the beggars away,why
don‘t-you give your donations in some other way?
There are surely people in their own homes who are in
need.
‘Inany. case the beggar: s — those who haven’t gone off to
other regions — are sul ini the City; they have their house
et

66
 Uv rtp net Me

there. But... the marabout who recommended me to

ake this sacrifice told me (oha it
among
battu the -bear the street, in all parts of the
iners
City. That’s why I’v if Ican take the
se se ...You know, you are>the
“only one who understands these things!’
“Allright, allright! You must respect the instructions of
your marabout.’ —’
Mour thought he detected some caustic note in Serigne\
Birama’s voice. He is very distressed. —_—
‘Oh, Serigne Birama, what are you saying ? You are my
marabout. You know you are the only one that I have an
almost religious respect for; I place all my confidence in
you; only certain others visit us at home...’
‘That’s true. That’s all right. There’s no harm done. Do
what he told you to do.’
After uttering these words, Serigne Birama took up his
beads again. Mour did not dare interrupt him again. He
took his leave and Serigne Birama replied to his greeting
with a nod of his head.
In going to visit Serigne Birama, Mour had not had any
lurking doubts for one moment that the holy man might
not appreciate his need to consult other marabouts. But
in the course of his journey back, as he was haunted with a
thousand contradictory ideas, he decided that this was the
explanation for Serigne Birama’s attitude, and he
suddenly hada feeling of guilt.
‘No, I did not betray him! Not for anything in the
world would Tshow ingratitude to Serigne Birama ... But
can he be reproached for taking umbrage? . “Twas
lacking in tact, I oughtn’t to have told him that I was
seeing other marabouts ... It’s as 1f T wanted to Tet him
sete ieaieeani think his prayers efficacious ... But
then, it’s only human to want to try everything to assure
my chances . .. Serigne Birama is undoubtedly a man of
great_know -d ¢,but marabouts have different ways of
reaching the realms of mystery, and Kifi Bokoul is said
nieve tobe wrongs. A week later” . But how shall ]
Manage to respect Fis instructions to the Tetter?
—<= Te a

Mour turned up at his meeting an hour late, a thing

which had practically never happened with him before.
His Minister-in-Charge looked at his watch very pointedly
when Mour made his appearance in the large committee-
room, and glanced at him contemptuously. Mour
apologised to the ‘ladies and gentlemen present’, with the
excuse that he had had an appointment with his doctor
who had kept him longer than he had anticipated, then,
as Keba smiled at him deferentially, he smiled back. He
listened to the Minister with half an ear as he spoke ofthe
necessity to clear the last ‘insanitary zones’ from the
residential areas. Then, 1n_a weary voice, and with his5 eyes_
glued to the document in front of him, he drew attention
to the di the roject" The slightest mistake may
esult infailure ; after all these people own their property
_and_ won’t understand that we swish to expropriate them,
‘because they’re poor and can’t rebuild; that’s the root of
the problem: however much we compensate them, they
are bound to underestimate the amount granted them,
and will think themselves hard done by ... So we shall
have to set up a very shrewd strategy before we confront
them ... We shall have to act with tact and diplomacy ...’
The Minister interrupted him with an ironic smile:
‘Monsieur Ndiaye, it’s not a question of diplomacy,
really! ... but of using our brains. You must know how to
use your brains in order to succeed ... there are matters in
which diplomacy doesn’t work and, believe me, all the
delicate problems of the beggars to which Monsieur Keba
Dabo found a brilliant solution ... all these serious
problems ... do you think that diplomacy would have
sufficed to resolve them! ... No, certainly not! You must
tackle them in a scientific manner: evaluate the various
approaches and the ways of intervening.’
Mour did not think it would serve any purpose to reply
to the Minister’s domineering retort; he simply looked at
him with the same amused glance that the cook reserves
for the chicken while it’s still alive, with the certainty
that one day, in the very near future, it will be on the
grill.
The Minister went on, ‘Consequently, I give you ten
days to present me with as complete a report as possible

68
on the ways and means of clearing the insanitary zones of
the City.’
And turning to Keba Dabo, he added, ‘Monsieur Dabo,
we have complete confidence in you!’

69
 oper oy ro i)
pa atacier Eleven
pee
Mour has spent three long sleeplessnights, three wretched
nights of unanswered questions, nights of
of «anguish during
which he has au constantly assailed by distress at having
Caused pai erigne vith his
unshaken ane increasingly imperative yearning to
achieve his ambition, and finally the agony caused by his
inability to carry out the sacrifice.
In his mind’s eye he saw the blurred image of the Holy
Scriptures with their yellowing pages, heaped up on the
mats and occupying the whole length of Serigne Birama’s
rectangular hut ... ‘The fine white ram which I sent him
will probably put me back in his good books ... He will
only know how much he means to me ‘when I am
appointed, Insh’ Allah ... A week after the sacrifice ...
Then the image of Kifi Bokoul loomed up again before
him: the voluminous chechia, the blue boubou, the two
bottomless apertures in what it was agreed to call his face
‘in what our human logic persuades us to take for a
face ... for this creature is not a man ... What are his
hands, his feet, his nose like ...?’
In a state of semi-hallucination, he saw battu clashing
under his nose, held out by beggars in rags and tatters and
looking physical wrecks. He came down to earth again,
decided to settle the whole business, at the same time
“ensuring ‘that hhiswishes. would:be fulfilled. He would not,
accept failure. a
‘This offering ... I shall make it in the prescribed
manner ... whatever it may cost me . | shall have this
post of Vice-President ... Imust have ite
Deciding to settle the matter, he got up earlier than
usual; he pointed towards the four points of the compass
with the magic horn filled with cowries, that Kifi Bokoul
had given him, waited on his prayer-mat for the sun to
rise, then ventured out on a drive through the City in the
hope of meeting, in the early hours of the morning, a few

70
 diehards among the beggars whose greed for easy
earnings was stronger than their fear of being hunted
down and clobbered ... Not a soul! Not a single solitary
soul! He drove through every part of the City, the
beggars’ vantage points were deserted, hopelessly
deserted! Anger, rage ... against whom? Mour has no
idea. He feels a prickling sensation in his stomach
Hunger? Perhaps ... But hunger can wait ... wait until
ambition, that is growing by the hour, is satisfied.
‘No!’ He did not return home to have breakfast. He
went to his office and threw himself exhausted into an
armchair — not the one at his desk — but one of the
armchairs that are arranged in one corner of his office
like a little sitting-room. He dropped his brief-case on the
carpet. A few minutes later Keba came in, a note-book
and a pen in his hands.
‘Good-morning, sir.’
‘Good-morning Keba.’
Keba hesitated: should he sit at the desk or
‘Come and sit here, Keba.’
Mour indicated an armchair opposite the one he had
flopped down into, with his legs apart, his feet under the
coffee-table, his hands clasped on his belly. Keba noticed
the black rings round his chief?s eyes but did not try to
find out the explanation.
‘T sent for you ... It’s about the beggars again ...’
Keba did not understand, he even felt somewhat
disconcerted. To talk to him about beggars again, so early
in the morning, when he had practically forgotten their
existence, when he had felt liberated from the burden
they had caused him! He did not understand, and he
preferred to let Mour e xplain.
‘Where are they now?’ Mg y~ GOATS |, Lavy Usronw|
‘Treatly couldn’t tell you, sir. Since we have achieved ae
_our objective, since no one risks meeting a beggar
anywhere, I have not worried myself about the spot where Ge
they might have gone to earth. Perhaps they have simply
returned to their villages.’
Mour once again discerned Keba’s — youthful
exuberance and enthusiasm in his gestures and in his

71
whole being. He had been hesitant to carry out his
intentions to the bitter end, but he was immediately
reassured by the total loyalty that Keba had always shown
him. And besides he felt at the end of his tether, really at
the end of his tether.
‘No, they haven’t gone back to their villages. They are
on the outskirts of the City, in the new Slum-Clearance
Resettlement Area ... In any case, they never go out, they
stay permanently indoors.’
‘The main thing is that they don’t overrun the City any
more.
‘Yes ... yes. But Keba, I must tell you ... I need these
béggars today. | need ‘then so! Ve got tto distribute a_
‘sacrifice among them. I need them to} go back to their
vantage points for one day, for one day only... Itwon’t
even be for one day, only for afew hours!’
“Keba, completely nonplussed, slightly loosened his tie
to give himself time to think; he felt himself growing hot
all over and his head began to swim. He had difficulty in
getting his breath. In a timid, almost inaudible voice, 45
asked Mour, “You watnt the beggar s back in the City ?.
that what you're saying?’
“Yes, for a very personal reason . I'd like you to go to
see them with a few members of the former clearance
squads to give them confidence and to persuade them to
come back on the streets for a few hours. Tell them they
Tisk nothing, absolutely nothing!’
Keba did not reply immediately. He lowered his eyes to
his note-book for a few minutes during which Mour
watched the vein which stood out on the forehead of his
faithful assistant, and said to himself that Keba was
certainly trying to find a solution, a way of dealing with
the beggars. Finally Keba raised his head, and prompted
by some violent emotion stared at his chief and_cried
passionately, ‘No! Who do you take me for! It’s madness
what you’re saying! I’ve hunted down these beggars, I’ve
‘destroyed them physically and morally, and finally they
‘leave us in peace, and now you want me to go and tell
them to come back! What would I look like ? Now that we
can finally breathe freely, you want me to pollute the

72
 anes Staee)
: K/ Oo 2
Peso mo

atmosphere again! You ask me to open a sore that has not

yet healed. Not.on_your
No! life! | won’t do it!’
He stood up, facing Mour. The latter tried to catch him
by the arm to calm him down, but he didn’t succeed.
Then he raised his voice threateningly.
_Keba, that’s enough! That’s enough, I say! Don’t
forget I'm your superior and I won't allow you to be —
disre ectful to me, under any pretext!’
‘Do what you like |! Have me suspended or sacked even. I
don’tt care! I don’t care a damn!’ cee
He turned towards the door. Mour jumped up hurriedly
to catch him. He was in a pitiful | state, was Mour! A man

acting as much from anger and oo as from pain at

seeing a man fall so low, to descend to such depths for
reasons that so far he cannot explain.
‘Wait, Keba ... ve always considered you as one of my
own family, not just as an assistant ... God alone knows
the admiration I feel for you!’
He has finally succeeded in making Keba sit down
again.
‘Listen Keba ... It can happen to any of us to take
certain steps that afterwards turn against us, without such
an eventuality having ever occurred to us ... This problem
of the beggars, we didn’t think about it enough, perhaps
we ought to have tooked for another way of resolving it, a
way which did not mean totally destroying all the br idges
Between them-and us... Don’t worry, I'm not accusing
you of not having done your job properly, on the
contrary, since I answered for it one hundred per cent,
and I’m not in the habit of making spectacular U-turns ...
Only, you see, we have certain beliefs that we can’t throw
overboard overnight, it needs time to prepare the ground

“As he speaks Mour has almost succeeded in regaining

his self-possession, whereas Keba systematically refuses to
look him in the face; he lets his gaze wander around the
office over the armchairs, the table, the ceiling, the
photograph of the President, the wall-to-wall carpet and
the pictures by famous artists.

73
 ‘If I’m reduced to asking you to do what I’ve just asked
you to do,’ Mour went on, ‘do you think I’m just acting
out of caprice? We are men, Keba; if a man found
himself today in a critical situation, faced with an
insoluble crisis, and he had been instructed to make an
offering as the only means ofsalvation, what do you think
he would do ? Just imagine the anguish of this man who
had been brought up from his most tender childhood to
believe that he could gain relief from all his fears, all his
apprehensions, all his nightmares, his dreads, by giving
three lumps of sugar, a candle, a length of material, in a
word all kinds of objects to beggars! Can one chuck all
these beliefs overboard in one night ?’
Keba has not opened his mouth once. Besides, what is
there for him to say ? When he was young, he was one of
the people who were the recipients of charity; he never
had the opportunity of gaining relief from any anguish by
giving to charity. He had had to live with his torments, his
misery, his suffering; his mother lived with them; his
brothers lived with them; they suffered them till they were
forgotten. So he can’t reason like those who find relief in
giving: he has never known any other consolation than
that brought by time.
When he passed nervously through his secretary’s office
on the way back to his own desk, Sagar Diouf had a
shrewd idea that something had happened; she noted his
nervous state, she saw his blood-shot eyes and the vein
throbbing in his temple. She thought of a thousand
possibilities before she made up her mind to go and ask
him what was the matter.
‘It’s just that there are certain things that I simply can’t
accept! No, I won’t tolerate being used as a servant or an
errand boy. ’'m a Government servant and I serve the
Government and not one man.’
‘But you know very well, Keba, that everyone realises
you're not anyone’s servant!’
o, that’s just it, Monsieur Ndiaye doesn’t realise it.
He’s just asked me, for personal reasons — you hear that!
for personal reasons! — to go and dig out the beggars,
goodness knows where, so that he can give them goodness

74
knows what! The Government’s decision about cleaning
up the City doesn’t count any more; Monsieur Ndiaye’s
wishes must come first. No, no and no!’
‘If Iwere you, I’d adopt a different attitude, rather than
opposing him with a categorical refusal.’
‘What attitude ?’
‘You know, Keba, you’re not always very easy to get on
with ... Nevertheless, it’s time you began to open your
eyes a bit ... Do you want me to tell you what I think?’
Go on. DOBOS CN -
Well Keba, it’s like this; you can’t live tivorced from _

nothingthat “people -say that when _you’re in in Rome you_

must do as Rome does ... You must follow the rhythm of
the dance and if ever yoné dances on one Toot, so Must you”
... Isn’t that true, Keba?’
‘Well ... it all depends! ... It depends on where the
dance is being organised. If we risk falling down a
precipice by dancing on one foot, I prefer to remain on
my two feet. It’s safer and it’s more comfortable in any
case!’
Sagar Diouf laughed and succeeded in stimulating Keba
to a little smile, which encouraged her to go on.
‘I’m quite sure that what Monsieur Ndiaye asks you to
do has got something to do with the eventual
appointment of a Vice-President. Everyone’s saying that
he’ll be Vice-President and I believe he will. So, it would
be better to keep on good terms with him ... all the more
so, so as he won’t forget you when he’s appointed. At the
stage he’s reached, he’s got heaps of offerings to make;
you see now that what I said to you about the beggars 1s
true! . So, since he wants to see the beggars and you’re
the only-one who can help him todo so, why don’t you
make the most of the BSSsIT
COO at «opportunity ?
‘Well, if I were in your shoes, I’d cash in on it. He’s got
a lot at stake; he wouldn’t hesitate to do anything you
asked for. That’s life; one must know how to take
advantage of a situation, andyou wouldn't be domg any
harm. Look how rich he’s got, while you’re the one who’s

15
 always done the work ... Without even giving the
impression that you want him to pay for the service he’s
asking you, tell him that you’d like to get a bigger house
and that you need his help.’
The look that Keba gave Sagar Diouf betrayed
enormous disappointment and profound indignation.
Without giving way to the anger that might have been
expected from him in similar circumstances, Keba said in
a voice almost devoid of any expression, ‘Pll never be a
party to such sordid, odious bargains, which are co nite‘ary
to human «dignity ...You can go back to your office.

716
 Chapter Twelve

oab
In the City, on one pune of conversation, only one

appoinunent of a Vice- President ;are imminent, and the

competition will be close? Bie ae
“For some trme Raabi has been studying her father’s
slightest actions, slightest
his reactions; she has noticed
that he is at home more regularly than usual; he shuts
himself up for whole nights — even those which he would
normally have spent with his second wife — in a room set
aside for prayers, furnished only with oriental carpets and
from which an intoxicating smell of incense is given off.
Since Mour married Sine, Raabi has been unable to make
“up her mind to adopt the necessary ae
certain diplomacy which would help her to hide her
resentment. She disapproves of pretence i hypocrisy ;
that is why she has never been moved by her father’s
Many attempts to ingratiate himself, his generous actions,
his repeated, poignant demonstrations of affection which
is not returned. She has never responded to Lolhi’s
repeated attempts to reason with her: ‘Raabi, everything
wears off. One must learn to forget. And after all, you
mustn’t lose sight of the fact that your father is your
father and you have no right to judge him; that can bring
you misfortune.’
Raabi never told her mother her true feelings; every
time she listened to her with a smile, giving her the
impression that she didn’t attach any importance to what
she did in fact consider a serious situation.
One day, however, noticing her father’s extreme
lassitude, she asked Lolli, ‘Why is my father so agitated ? Is
it because of the public rumour that is talking about him
as if he were already the Vice-Pr esident of the Republic >”
‘He’s been the victim of a nasty trick of fate. But it’s a
good thing. These tricks of fate are sent by the Creator.to
uy his servants, to test their loyalty and _their ‘belief.

vii;
Afterwards, good fortune will follow.’
‘What’s happened to him ?’
Lolli told her daughter the whole story of the beggars,
which she already knew from having read about it in the
newspapers, heard it on the radio, seen it on television;
she also told her about the sacrifice which had been
prescribed and Keba’s disloyalty; ‘a man Mour had done
everything for and who would never have had such a fine
position — a good salary, a car, a secretary — without
Mour’s foresight’. From everything that Lolli told her
daughter, Lolli has drawn the conclusion that people are
jealous and that it is more necessary than ever not to trust
anyone, not even ‘one’s own shadow’.
‘But your father is too good; he never thinks badly of
anyone; he has a heart of gold and that will probably be
his salvation!’
Lolli had scarcely finished speaking when Mour burst
into the room. Raabi got up abruptly from the bed where
she had been sitting beside her mother, and made for the
door, just avoiding her father who did not pay any
attention to her and did not even hear her say ‘Good
morning, father’. When she had gone a little way towards
the sitting-room, she heard Lolli calling, ‘Sally, Sally!’

78
 Chapter Thirteen
ES
Yor aces dh) hey a
‘Is it much further?’ Mour asked,” seething with
impatience.
‘When the tarred road gives out’, the chauffeur replied,
‘there is a long sandy track that we must follow for about
five miles before reaching the new Slum-Clearance
Resettlement Area.’
As soon as the tarred road was out of sight Mour had
the impression that the car was lost in a wildernéss which
seemed to stretch to infinity: a dreary, bare landscape,
lifeless, swept by a wind of such violence that its howls
mingled with the clouds of dust whipped up from the
sand-dunes and with the fierce moans of the sea that
foamed in fury.
Mour has never set foot in these parts, he only knew of
their existence from maps on which they are marked in
red; that indicated vacant zones in which a good part of
the population could be accommodated. He is also
discovering other realities, without even being aware of
it: neither the skilful manoeuvres of his chauffeur, nor the
swaying of the car from side to side, nor the murky
atmosphere that he tries to penetrate from behind his
dark glasses, can hold his attention ;what intrigues him is
that he has not yet glimpsed any houses.
‘Sally, are you sure this is the right place ? You haven’t
made a mistake ?’
Sally turns round slightly towards the back seat. ‘We'll
soon be there, sir.’
The chauffeur confirms this. ‘This is the right place.
Those buses we’re passing are all coming from there ...’
Mour is reassured and can once more follow the drift of
his own thoughts. Seated in the right corner of the back
seat of the car, dressed in a simple boubou and slippers, to
put the beggars at ease, he cannot imagine that his errand
can fail. ‘I'll pay whatever is necessary.’
‘One week later ... Is it fitting that such a simple thing

(i)
as a shortage of beggars should make me miss the part in
the national destiny that Iam called upon to play? A bull,
twenty-one yards of material, seven hundred cola-nuts,
that’s enough to make an unforgettable feast ... Since
they’ve taken refuge in this wilderness, the paupers must
be hungry ... No, they will never have seen so much
munificence in one day ...’
The chauffeur parked the car in front of a house
surrounded by a green-painted fence, and turned to his
employer, ‘We’re here, sir. This is the beggars’ house.’
‘Oh! So you knew it ...’
‘Yes, yes, sir. Everyone knows this place, sir!’
“Assalamu alleikum !’
“Malikum salam.’
No one has moved, nobody isinterested in knowing the
identityofthe visitor who has just parked such a large car
in front of the house. They are used now to this type of
visit. Nguirane Sarr, in his suit and tie, continues to draw
plaintive melodies from his guitar; he sings the song of
friendship that a little girl composed in far-off times to
immortalise her play-mate, the hippopotamus, who was
shot by a cruel hunter.
Salla Niang is seated on her mat playing with some
cowrie-shells; her head-scarfis tied in a peak on top of her
head, her legs stretched out and crossed in front of her,
and a long tooth-pick is stuck in the corner of her mouth.
And then there is this crowd of beggars moving about,
chatting, or lying asleep or scratching themselves amidst
the continual squalling of the babies who are playing in
the sand in the courtyard.
Mour is struck by the sight. Astonishment rather than
compassion.
He has never seen, as if simultaneously
projected onto a screen, the image of so many physical
defects, so much physical decrepitude and human
tlisintegration from which, it is true, some patches oflight
“stand out, like this Salla Niang whose face gleams like a
“bronze bust, fashioned by a master sculptor. By
spontaneous association of ideas he begins to think of
certain insalubrious districts of the City, certain slums in
the middle of which stand a few buildings in

80
ostentatiously luxurious style, like castles standing in
solitary state.
‘Mba jamm ngeen am? Are you in peace ?’
‘Tabarak Allah! We give thanks to God!’
‘Who is the master of this house 2”
Only now does Salla Niang raise her eyes to look at the
visitor.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’d like to speak to the master of the house.’
‘I’m in charge here.’
A clarion-call of a voice, clear and crystalline like a
stream of molten silver. Mour is silent for a moment, then
begins to wonder what kind of links there might be
between this lady and these beggars.
‘I’ve come about a matter concerning the beggars ...’
Pom
Mour would have felt more at ease if he had been
invited to sit down, but Salla makes no move in this
direction. She asks Nguirane to approach and the others
to listen to ‘the visitor who wishes to speak to us’.
Since his arrival Mour has noticed frequent comings
and goings: he has seen people making donations to the
first beggar they meet; he has seen others going the rounds
of the battu-bearers, examining them closely without
being in the least shocked, and finally making their gift to
the chosen one. He thinks to himself that these people are
possibly not as wretched-asone might have imagined.
“But then, how do they make use of everything they
receive ? Why don’t certain ones of them aspire to more
cleanliness, more decency? Could they possibly have
taken on the identity of the mask that they had been
obliged to wear in order to arouse people’s pity, to such a
point that now that their situation is visibly improved,
they continue to play the game of poverty and
starvation ?’ [x louns Wis Situodn
‘This is the rec Sido my visit to these parts: I have a
very, very important sacrifice to make. You are the ones |
am going to offer it to, but I cannot bring it to you here. It
is essential that tomorrow morning — tomorrow morning
only — it will only be for a few hours = essential
itis that

81
 tomorrow you go to take up your regular vantage points.
“You must take up your stands in every part of the City!
Justas you used to do
before;in front of the markets, at
the entrance to the hospitals, at the traffic-lights, in front
of offices, clinics, banks, shops, throughout the City,11
every part of the City. You will receive offerings from me,
offerings that will make it worth your while having |taken :
the trouble to travel from here. “And besides, you’ve been
huddled together here for such a long time, as if you were
ae scarcely human. For once in a while get out and about, at
n Yeast to stretch your legs a bit!’
oe _If_it had not been for the laughter that_greeted_him
from every side, Mour would have continued _his speech ;
he had been trapped, without realising it, by the demon of
eloquence by which he stirred up and magnetised the
crowds in political arenas.
‘Go out into the streets, can you be serious 2’
“Now that we are here in peace, to expose ourselves to
harassment again!’ aa tive ba fen
~~*Such an action would be to return voluntarily to a hell
from which the Lord has delivered us?
~*May the Lord preserve us from that! May he preserve
us! Yalla Tere! May the Lord preserve us!’
‘You don’t risk anything, absolutely nothing! I
guarantee that nothing will happen to you. It will simply
be a matter of going to get what I shall be giving you, and
you won’t regret it!’
Mour has deliberately tried to arouse the greed of
certain of the beggars, but he does not _seem to have
succeeded. —
‘Besides,’ says Nguirane Sarr, ‘who are you, to talk to us
like this and guarantee our safety ?’
‘Tam the Director of the Public Health Service. I am in
charge of all the people who might cause you any
trouble.’
‘Ah! ... So you are Mour Ndiaye, who they talk about
on the radio every day ?’
Mour’s heart swelled with pride as he replied to
Nguirane, ‘Yes, that’s me. You have nothing to fear.’
The news is immediately shouted throughout the

82
gathering: Ae s Mour Ndiaye!’; ‘Mour Ndiaye has come
to talk to us’; ‘Ngoor si nyeu, ihe gentleman who’s here,
Mour Ndiaye, here.
Salla has not yet opened her mouth. She has simply
watched the scene. Nguirane Sarr has got up, placed his
guitar on the chair that he had been sitting on,
straightened his jacket and tie and says in a voice that
seemed to Mour mocking and disrespectful,
‘So, governor, you drove us away and now "re the

for this, if Ima i

Salla smiles in complicity.
Mour is astonished at the impertinence of this beggar;
he could never have imagined that so paul | effrontery ir
in

depends on Ser for his existence. “$6 they start

cheeking us now!’ Mour almost gives way to the
temptation to put this fellow in his place, but he speedily
remembers that he is obliged to contain his irritation and
to try to establish a peaceful dialogue with these people.
Haunted by the idea of _failure_and bedevi he
obsession of the sacrifice — ‘a week later, the Vice-
Presidency’ — he deliberately chooses to play his Tast card,
thatof dishonesty.
‘We don’t have to misunderstand each other, chaps.
Have you ever seen me intervening directly, in person, in
the war waged against you?
General silence.
‘We bosses, we’re in an awkward position; we’re made
responsible for everything, and God only knows that we
haven't the slightest idea of half the actions that our
inspectors Commit; they do as they like and then people
say thatit’s the chief?
Mour realises that his attempts to justify himself
| have
fallen flat, so he changes his tactics. ‘You’ve got radio sets,
haven’t you? You listen to the radio every day, so you
must have heard all last week programmes broadcasting
information to citizens and particularly those who are
eligible for pensions ... You’ve heard what’s happened,
haven’t you?’

83
 No one replied to Mour’s questions. He tries to detect
some reaction in the silent crowd; then he turns to Salla
Niang and Nguirane Sarr, but neither of them seems to
have heard what he has just said. He continues: ‘You
know that some contempuble individuals were depriving
widows of their just dues, which is contrary to our religion
and to what is right. In order to get someone to see to
their papers, these poor women were paying considerable
sums in advance to government inspectors, who are paid
by the Government to do this work. Do you think that
their chiefs knew what was going on? — Certainly not,
since they were severely punished as soon as the
administration became aware of the inhuman
transactions that they were involved in. Can you imagine
that these widows, who hadn’t the means to pay in
advance, were being put in touch with ‘money-lenders’
who advanced them the sums demanded with huge
interest and against papers that they had to sign, to prove
that they owed money! And then after making hundreds
of applications, going from one office to another, going
backwards and forwards in vain, and receiving hundreds
of promises, these poor widows finally reached the right
department to find themselves faced with creditors who
sometimes took their whole pension. All that is the fault
of unscrupulous employees, acting contrary to their
superiors’ directives ... You can see that this business is far
more serious than yours ... yes, More serious, in as much
as you, at least, you are here and you manage to find
enough to live on. But a widow, a woman all alone, who
often has no work, who has no support, with her whole
family! Their sufferings only ceased on the day that the
heads of departments realised what had been -going-on-—
The heavy silence which greets Mour’s s flight of oratory
deeply disappoints him. His story has neither convinced
nor moved the beggars. So-then, Mour decidesto put his
I
cards on the table.
“Can T count on you tomorrow ? I’m prepared to satisfy
all your demands!’
Thereupon he hears on all sides a murmur which gives
him a little hope. He looks again at Nguirane Sarr who

84
 has already resumed his seat and placed his guitar on his
lap. Mour decides to address him familiarly. ‘You fellow
with the guitar, what do you say ?’
‘You're asking us to return to the same places that you
yourself drove us away from!’
Mour is worried.
ied. Very worr ied. On the brink ae
But must
he not give in, he must win thebattle ...‘One
week later ... Andtheyare there, in front of me, on pier
my destiny depends ... But this blind beggar, what pig-
headedness! ... God is the Creator of all things, He alone
knows why he has ordered the world as He has done ...
For if this blind man had his sight, he would have been a
phenomenon!’
‘Guitar-player, you have not understood what I have
just said to you! It is my men who went too far!’
‘They weren't satisfied with driving us away, they
tracked us down, flogged us, beat us like dogs!
‘They are men who act without thought; they are
inhuman! I have never been informed of this savage
behaviour! Go back on the streets tomorrow, and you’ll
see if they lay a hand on you!’
‘You drove us away!’
Now a Ni: s the scene amusing. Mour’s
appearance of being out- manoeuvred, Stan ae eda
countenance, The crowd’s indifference. She bursts into
peals of laughter: ‘What a liar, what a damned liar! ... If
my former employer’s countless marabouts had
challenged him when he was waging such a_ heated
campaign against marabouts, he’d have denied that he
was the main person responsible for the anti-marabout
campaign ... But why do they wear a reversible boubou!
Why don’t they remain what they are, and show their real
face! ... Nu noo seu! How petty they are! They'll go
anywhere to follow their ambition or if it’s in their own
interests, even if they go to the devil.’
She has made up her mind to get rid of Mour. He is"
visibly at the end ofhis tether. She is pitiless;her humour
turns to derision;the sight of ane irritates her.
‘Monsieur Ndiaye, you can go. Tomorrow, if it please,
veggars will = back at their old posts. a

a A ft Mar 85
 Mour feels an enormous weight lifted from his chest.
€ Ca
“They will be backat their posts?’
‘Certainly’, Salla replied, ‘they will go ...’
‘Thank you, sister. You see, we are all equal, we are all
ot fhesaine conten iomreareainnimenaea weston
~ find grounds for agreement on every:ry occasion. Thank
‘you, sister. wis
When he has once more passed through the gate of the
property, Salla hastens to say to her fellow-beggars,
‘Don’t budge from here. No one is to budge from here
ever again! Tomorrow, we shall see that he bites the
dust!’
Nguirane Sarr is seized with uncontrollable laughter, so
uncontrollable and so infectious that all the beggars join
in the general hilarity. When everyone has rejoiced at
what they call Mour’s ‘madness’ — ‘it’s because he’s mad
that he dared to come here to seek us out’ — Nguirane
Sarr, acting the buffoon this time, imitates blows being
most energetically administered, saying, ‘Saila, you have
the knack of plying the whip without even raising your
little finger. Swi-i-sh-sh! Swi-i-sh-sh! Swi-i-sh-sh! Poor
fellow, he’ll be none the worse for it — just a bruised back.
Nothing serious.’

86
 Chapter Fourteen

Mour purchased the best bull that he could find at the

cattle market and paid a fortune for it. When he
expressed his preferences as to the colour of the coat, the
experienced dealers took the hint, immediately guessing
the destination of the bull, and speculated on how much it
meant to him, but Mour did not in the least think he had
been done, for he would have paid any price for his fawn
bull.
The next day, before the first prayers at day-break, the
two expert butchers whom he had summoned
slaughtered the beast, and before you could say Jack
Robinson, they had cut it up and filled two huge basins
with good fat meat. Early as it was, Raabi watched the
whole scene from her window, less attracted by the
slaughter of the bull — it was a sight to which the
household had become familiar for some years — than by
her father’s zeal, for it was the first time that she had seen
him participating directly in the operations. Mour ran
hither and thither till he was completely breathless, lifted
huge quarters of meat and cut them into smaller
portions. Then he took a large piece of oilcloth, spread it
on the ground and laid out eleven rows, each of seven
heaps of meat; he wouldn’t let anyone help him in this
task of dividing up the portions. ‘No, leave me alone,
otherwise ll get mixed up.’ Raabi watched him counting
the number of heaps over and over again with an air of
devotion, and as she watched and saw his white clothes all
stained with blood, as she watched him stooping down,
wrapping up the seventy-seven heaps of meat in seventy-
seven cellophane bags, walking backwards and forwards
carrying them clumsily all by himself and placing them
carefully in huge bowls, she tried to find an explanation
for so much zeal, but could find none, not having been
informed of the period of one week that Kifi Bokoul had
set for Mour, for if Mour had told Lolli of his conversation

87
 with Kifi Bokoul, he had deliberately omitted any
mention of the period set for the realisation of his
ambitions: it was too good to be true, too close, so
that out of superstition he was afraid to say a word about
it.
Mour loaded the seventy-seven packets of meat, the
seven hundred cola-nuts and the three times seven yards
of non-silky white material into a van. With a light heart
he took his seat beside the driver, having allocated to
himself the role of distributing the parcels as they met the
beggars. ‘All I shall have to do is to lift a packet out of the
bowls and in that way Kouli won’t have to stop for long
.. Just to slow down a little.
Not a soul in his own neighbourhood no one in front.
of the baker’s, no one in front of the chemist’s, not a.
“beggar in front of the grocer’s. Mour is somewhat put
Out; he certainly could have wished that the beggars
would have thought of coming as far as this, on this _
particular morning, but he knows that they have never
particularly frequented this neighbourhood.
‘Kouli, drive on towards the Main Market!’
Previously, the Main Market constituted the beggars’
rallying ground when they were driven out from their
various vantage points in the centre of the City.
Not a soul at the Main Market; no ¢alibés, no beggars, no
battu. Mour’s heart begins to beat faster. He refuses to give
up hope, he remembers the assured tone in which ‘the
lady with the beggars” had told him they would go back to
their places iin the streets. “No, she can’t have been lying
to me,no.
‘Kouli, let’s go on a bit further towards the main
streets, where there are a lot of crossings with traffic-
lights, then you must go to the mosques, as it’s Friday
today perhaps there are some who have gone to take up
their position in front of the mosques.’
At the traffic-lights, in front of the mosques, no
beggars, no talibés, no battu. Then Mour feels a weight on
his chest, he has difficulty in breathing, there is a ringing
in his ears.
‘Let's drive round the town once more. They live a long

88
 way out, perhaps they haven’t been able to find transport
sovearlyi.)..?
‘Possibly’, Kouli replies, ‘where they live it’s quite a
problem to get a bus early in the morning. When you do
see one six or seven hundred yards away, there’s a whole
crowd of people waiting already at the bus-stop and they
rush at it and it’s soon full up. So only the able-bodied
men get on first. Beggars and women aren’t strong
enough to face the scuffle which often degenerates into a
free-for-all.’
Kouli’s words are like balm to Mour’s heart.
‘Yes, that must be the reason! No buses! ... Oh, yes,
that’s another problem ... The vast mass of workers live
in those outlying districts.’
‘Some of them have to get up at half past four to get to
work in time ...’
‘Kouli, drive round by the central hospital!
At the central hospital, no beggars, no talibés. They
scour the whole City; not a battu in sight.
The golden globe of the sun has dispersed the morning
mist in which the atmosphere was veiled and now its
burning arrows are radiated throughout the City, dazzling
Kouli when he turns in certain directions.
Mour can no longer be in any doubt when, at his
request, Kouli parks the lorry for two whole hours at the
Main Market, in front of the bus-stop which served the
neighbourhood where the beggars live. Not a single
beggar alights from the buses.
Mour is absolutely shatter ed, while at the same time he
is overcome with fury. ‘The roguest the hypocrites! the
liars! That’s the reason why they are reduced to begging
. They’ve only got what they deserve!’
What can he do with seventy-seven cellophane bags full
of meat, seven hundred cola-nuts, three times seven yards
of white, non-silky material? ... “They’ve taken me for a
ride, they’ve deliberately deceived me! ... That woman
lied to me shamelessly! . ssl pay for it one day at!
get even with that rabble yet! Just let them wait!’
, What is he to do? For the moment they’ ve got the
X power in ‘their hands bye

IAA ; Ns 89
lhCOPYANd Nowe foe
 ‘Kouli, let’s go to the place where they live!’
The bustle of the Main Market; clusters of humanity
swarming in all directions; an interminable din; dealers
calling out; shouts from the auction sales, arguments and
insults exchanged between lookers-on and pedlars, but
bursts of laughter here and there; the delicate tints of the
fruit and vegetables piled up along the pavements; the
brighter hues of multicoloured objects that fill the stalls;
the kaleidoscopic effect of the majestic boubous worn by
the men and women who stroll around the market.
Along the streets, the ceaseless procession of hurried
workers, carefree schoolchildren, energeuc housewives
who hurry by — in spite of the weight of their shopping
baskets — still careful not to jolt unnecessarily the baby
tied on their backs and who still sleeps the sleep of the
innocent.
The whole City is now flooded with a_ brilliant,
scorching light. Kouli keeps his foot down on_ the
accelerator and the tarmac rolls by at a breakneck speed
and in the distance patches of light gleam, but these are
nothing but mirages.
Mour sees nothing of all this. The sandy track ... a
wilderness which seems lacking in any oases or any
boundaries. Mour’s jangled nerves can hardly bear any
more. Today he feels every jolt; the van is less smooth-
running than the Mercedes; several times he has had to
reach over to the back to stop the bags of meat from
falling off.
The beggars’ house. The whole brotherhood is there;
thé place is literally invaded: the morning’s offerings are
arriving. Out diseretion
of Mour asks Kouli to turn round
and park a little way off, while they wait for the crowd to
diminish.
‘There’s not even a tree here to give a bit of shade to
wait in. You'll be very hot in the sun,’ Kouli ventures
anxiously.
‘That’s nothing. It isn’t important.’
Inside the van it is like a furnace, in spite of the open
windows. Kouli is upset by his employer’s discomfort. He
tries out all sorts of subjects of conversation that

go
discretion permits: the heat that promises to be
interminable; the distance of this neighbourhood which
doesn’t seem to discourage people ;the way they overdo it,
instead of offering their sacrifice and then going away,
they stay an eternity worrying about things that don’t
even concern them.
Mour replies with the utmost brevity to all these
attempts to engage him in conversation.
‘Would you like me to go and get you something to
drink from the Moor’s shop, sir ?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea! Here, get me anything, coke,
orangeade, anything.’
In a few moments Kouli is back.
‘lve brought you a lemonade, but it’s not ice-cold; he
says that the ice hasn’t arrived yet.’
“All right. That doesn’t matter.’
It_is_almost_noon when Mour enters the beggars’
domain. He stares at Nguirane resentfully as the latter sits
in a corner, near the entrance, plucking his guitar. He
looks for Salla Niang and catches sight of her at the other
end of the yard, in front of her stove. Finally he calls out a
greeting to which comes a murmured, indistinct reply. He
advances towards Salla, followed by Kouli. He tries to
control his anger, but he cannot manage” ‘to_stop_his
leart ating faster, a fact that Salla Niang is not slow to _
Notices,
“Good-day, sister; are you in peace 2?”
‘Tabarakala. 1 give thanks to God.’
Mour is struck—disagreeably struck — by Salla’s very
ostentatious air of indifference. She goes on stoking up
her stove, withoutat looking uup, ‘as if she was not the one
who yesterday made me a firm promise which has not
been respected! ... Not even any explanation, or ... does
she perhaps expect me to ask her for one ? There are some
types of behaviour that it’s very hard to swallow ... these
people that I would never have come into contact with if
it hadn’t been for this sacrifice ... who are possibly the
only ones in the whole town who dare to receive me with
so little consideration. Buttoday I am the one who needs \
them . I shall have to put up: with their behaviour 4

gl
 Mour is standing like a stuffed dummy in front of Salla
Niang who has taken the lid off her cook-pot and has put
the onions into the hot oil, then adding a bowl of tomato
paste diluted with water, she stirs and stirs the boiling
sauce continuously; she doesn’t seem to see Mour or the
uniformed chauffeur standing a few yards behind his
employer.
‘I must put up with everything. Negotiate, discuss, to
achieve my end ... The day when I get my own back ...’
‘Sister, I came to see what had held the lads up ... They
promised to be back at their old posts, in the City.’
After a few moments Salla deigns to look up at Mour.
“What held them up? I don’t know. Ask them yourself.
They aren’t children and I’m not their mother.’
Mour is astonished at Salla’s aggressive tone. He makes
an effort not to show his feelings. In a conciliatory voice, a
smile on his lips, he says to Salla, “What you say is true.
But if Ithought right to confer with you, it is because you
are the one I spoke with yesterday ... This morning, when
I didn’t see them, I realised I had not given them the
money for their bus-fares ;it was an omission on my part;
it was completely my fault.’
Then turning round briskly without giving Salla the
time to reply, Mour looked for the best place from which
he could address the whole gathering and be heard by
them all.
‘My greetings to you, lads!’
Without waiting for a reply, and to take them by
surprise, Mour dips his hand into the pocket of his boubou,
bringing out wads of bank-notes which he hurls towards
the beggars; the majority of the crowd immediately jump
up to seize the notes as they flutter in the wind. They jostle
each other shouting, ‘Money’s flying about! Money’s
ying about!’
‘That’s for your bus-fares; so you can go into town and
take up your places in the streets, can’t you?’
As ifelectrified, the crowd hops up and down, laughing
and some even praise Mour’s generosity.
‘Yes, yes, we'll come!’
Even the blind beggars hurl themselves into the mélée;

Q2
 __ Sas on Pa(AWN SiN ae \

(most of thém haven’t a Peed with those who have full

;

_use of their eyes; a few, guided by some instinct, make an

ffort and catch some notes in the air. Mour, seeing the
effect he has produced, penetrates into the thick of the
crimmage; the crowd falls on him now, swarming like
ees all round him; arms are raised high giving the
impression of an army of basket-ball players waiting
xcitedly for the ball which hangs above the net; Mour
rows Out more wads of notes.
“You will come, won’t you?’
\;Sure, we'll come. We'll come this afternoon!’
‘The money’s flying about, it’s flying everywhere.’
‘Come! you won’t regret it; I guarantee you won’t be
sorry.’
It’s raining bank-notes. Mour is pleased to see that Salla
is in the midst of the scrum; that’s a good sign, he thinks.
To placate her and to make her better disposed towards
him, Mour throws a whole wad in her direction so that
she can easily catch a good share. She has lost her head-
scar: in the scuffle. Mour interprets her broad_ smileasan
undoubted victory for himself. He is jubilant. It is only
“tiow, he thinks, that he has managed to break down i
wall that separated him from the beggars._
—Kouli, dumbfounded, watches the scene in silence.
What a waste ofso. much money! How can his employer
be_a_party to this circus amidst all these beggars! Kouli
doesn’t take his eyes off Salla Niang; he hates her for her
behaviour just now towards his employer. ‘And yet she
made a rush for the money!’ Kouli is sorry for his
employer, deeply sorry for him.
When calm has been restored, Mour once more
addresses the gathering: ‘Immediately after the Tisbaar
prayer, I’ll drive through the town to give you your alms.
You will be there, won’t you?’
‘We'll be there. Oh, yes, we'll be there,’ several voices
call out.
As he reaches the gate again, Mour starts: he sees ‘the
cheeky blind beggar with the guitar’ still sitting on his
chair, with his guitar on his lap, motionless as a block of
stone. Clearly he has never moved.

93
 ‘So much the worse for him,’ Mour thinks. ‘The others
will have filled their pockets.’
The van doesn’t seem so uncomfortable now. His
nervous excitement has given way to the lightness of
heart that results from victory in a difficult fight.
‘Other people give them everything,’ he explains to
Kouli, ‘everything except the rustle of bank-notes.’

It is Kouli now who suffers from the blazing darts of the

sun.
‘Kouli we'll go to Sine’s. Then, after the midday prayer
We Cal Grive drOUl again.) |) “sais
Mour thinks of the beggars now without any ill-feeling.
‘Allinall, they don’t deserve our scorn ... In any case, we |
only despise them when we don’t need them | We shall
‘have to find some way of letting them get back their rights,
as citizens ... create some organisations to which, they cz
can
paz“assimilated... carry out a vast campaign of
habilitation ontheir behalf ... They need to be
educarec: as do a large part of the population... No, they
aren't the only ones who are left out ...’
The house which Mour has bought for Sine is a
luxurious villa situated on the Corniche; throughout the
day the air is fresh with cool sea-breezes. The creaking of
the heavy iron gate awakens Mour front the drowsy state _
intowhich he had lapsed while thinking of a society in
‘which. begs
eging would be neither cusoe ession ofwant,

city in he north of the county, os extraoreae case of

a beggar who attracted the respect and admiration of the
whole population. This man only begged once a week, on
the night of Thursday to Friday. This was for him the
occasion to pay tribute to God’s might and sing the
praises of the glory of the Prophet. When the people who
had waited for a whole week for this moment and had
already prepared their offerings heard his voice which
penetrated deep into their hearts and cast its spell over
them, they rushed zealously to their doors, where he
waited only a few moments; they offered him money, rice
or millet and they had the chance to admire the immense

94
 white or indigo boubou stiff with starch, worn over an
equally ample turki, from which a kind of small tab, at the
neck, pressed against the Adam’s apple of the venerable
blind old gentleman, leaning on his stick.
Mour found Sine in the dining-room, sitting at the
table waiting for her coffee, a cigarettein her mout e
Tury with which he ‘shouted at Sine was the expression of
his own bitterness and resentment.
‘Sine, I’ve told you I don’t like to See yousmnoing. I
have formally fforbidden you to smoke, and I thought that"
thathad been understood!’
“By way of reply, Sine simply drew deeply on her
cigarette and blew a long wisp of smoke towards the
ceiling.
‘Sine, it’s you I’m talking to! Will you please put out
that cigarette!’
As Mour thunders at her, he simultaneously walks over
to her and sends the cigarette flying, as well as the cup of
coffee that a servant has just placed on the table. The
white curtains and Mour’s boubou are splashed. Sine gets
up to avoid staining her dress. She_stares at Mour
insolently, and shouts back, ‘If you think
I'm prepared to
bee stuck herelikea piece offurniture andTeceve you
ur
orders and your prohibitions, then you’re making a
mistake! I’m a person and not a block of wood?
“You're ttaking leave of your senses, Sine! You don’t
know what you're saying.
‘You're the one who's ‘raving mad! What are you
thinking about That
? I’m here just to» satisfy your whims ?
~—No! I’m your wife, so treat me like a wife. Really, Mour,
if you think Tm going to let you treat me like a common-
or-garden object, then you’ve got another think coming!
Monsieur disappears for days on end and when he
reappears it’s to start giving me orders! Oh, no, Mour!
You can do that to your Lolli, but Pm_no_sheep!
Lolli is a very worthy, respectable woman! I think that
if you’d looked at yourself in a mirror, with a cigarette
dangling out of your mouth, you’d see how you belittle
yourself! Your hair cut so short, you look as if you'd

95
shaved it and all that lipstick, all that causes me very deep
displeasure!’
‘We don’t talk the same language! ... We shall never
talk the same language.’
‘Not as long as you ape habits and ways of behaving
that don’t suit you!’
‘No; because you argue like someone out of the Middle
Ages. And besides, if you stop to think, that’s how you
found me when you married me. Now you want me to
change simply because I’ve become your wife. It’s not
logical! You ought to be able to put up with mejust as you
found me.’
Mour is heavy-hearted. It’s true that it was not ull
several months after his marriage to Sine that he realised
that certain things upset him, shocked him even, but he
had always hoped that he would be able to make his wife
see reason, for he had thought he had managed to make
her give up smoking, using lipstick and wearing tight
trousers.
‘If today she’s starting doing things again that she
knows I hate the most, it’s undoubtedly out of a wish to
provoke me ... I fell into the trap ... | ought not to have

Mour waited a long time for a lunch which no one

served, With an empty stomach and a heavy head, he had
to resign himself to praying and setting off again in the
van, seated next to Kouli.

A torrid heat blazes down in this early afternoon. Mour

feels as if burning coals are at his temples. He asks Kouli
to begin at the Main Market. Then they go the rounds of
the three hospitals in the City; then they visit each one of
the countless mosques ; they go to every one of the squares
and all the beggars’ vantage points, but the beggars have
not turned up as agreed. On Salla Niang’s instructions,
they are continuing their strike.
After Mour’s last visit some of them, moved by the
supplications of someone who didn’t give the impression
of being a bad man, and anxious to respect the pact that
they had made together — he by giving his money, and

96
they by giving their word — had decided to go to take up
their positions in the streets. With her last energy, Salla
Niang harangued them.
‘What! It’s out of the question; it’s completely out of
the question! Just because he threw his money at us, we
have to give in to his whims! No! If he threw his money
about, it’s because he’d got his pockets full, it’s because he
can afford to throw it about by the handful. What we
managed to pick up — sunw wersek la! — is just our good
luck! If you go out on the streets you'll seem like
miserable weak-kneed creatures, with no dignity, who
can’t be relied on ... Remember what decided you to hole
up here! No! Nobody budges from here!’
The van drives round and round and round. Kouli,
realising his employer’s anger and distress, does not dare
ask him what they should do next. He keeps on driving
about in the van, wondering from time to time if Mour
realises that they have driven round the City more than
ten times: Main Market, hospitals, mosques, the main
squares, in front of the big shops, and even the most
obscure corners of the City. Not a sign of a beggar, not a
sign of a battu. The sun starts to set, sets lower and lower
... It is the first hour of twilight.
‘Kouli, go back to their house. We must go and give
them this meat.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I said you must drive to the beggars’ house. We can’t
keep this meat all night in this heat. We must go and give
it to them.’
“Right, sir.
‘Then you can take me back to Sine’s house. Tomorrow
you must come and pick me up at half past four in the
morning, to drive me to the village where you took the
little man — the little Serigne — with the blue boubou and
the huge chéchia.’
‘Yes, sir... Perhaps I’d better go and warn my family
and then come and spend the night at your house to be
ready to start early.’
Mour scarcely heard what Kouli said. His thoughts were
already drifting between the way the beggars had cheated

97
him, the impudence — no, the barefaced brazenness — of
‘that woman who undoutedly manipulates them’, the
insolence of the ‘jackanapes of a blind beggar’ and the
sheer madness of Keba Dabo.
‘All my troubles arise from having chosen Keba Dabo
as my assistant ... For this type of delicate operation I
ought to have chosen someone more mature, who would
have found a solution to the problem by negotiation ...
Keba is a hot-head ... One day he’ll come a cropper.’
When Kouli opened the door of the van for him to
alight, Mour dragged himself towards the sitting-room.
Completely fagged-out, he dropped into an armchair, not
even having the strength to go up to his room and
change.
He didn’t harbour any resentment against Sine. After
the quarrel, just as he was getting into the van, after the
midday prayer, he had thought to himself that he
shouldn’t have stayed away the whole time it was her
‘turn’. ‘After all, it must be upsetting for a woman ...’ He
reproached himself also for not having given her any
explanation. He came to the conclusion that their
misunderstandings arose from the great difference in age
between them, and because of this it was his duty, as the
older, to make certain concessions, insofar as they were
not prejudicial to his authority nor in any way
detrimental to his respectability.
‘Dinner is ready, sir.’
Mour raised his head slightly, without answering the
cook. He is exhausted. How long is it since he had a good
night’s sleep ? How long is it since he ate his fill as he liked
to, with tastily prepared dishes ? — He has not counted the
days since everything has ceased to have any meaning for
him, except his appointment as Vice-President of the
Republic, the image of the mysterious and henceforth
elusive Kifi Bokoul, and the beggars’ resistance. Even
Serigne Birama has slipped out of his universe. The
beggars, Kifi Bokoul, the Vice-Presidency ... The beggars,
Kifi Bokoul, the Vice-Presidency ...
Mour is dog-tired. Physically and mentally. To be made
a fool of by the beggars, what an irony of fate! His whole

98
body aches, especially his lower back and his shoulders ...
‘It must be the huge quarters of meat I lifted this morning
... I shall have to start doing exercises again.’
No, he won’t eat; he’ll just have a glass of hot milk
before going to bed; or better still an infusion of kinkiliba
and a glass of hot milk. .
He sees Sine sit down at table. Sine has not spoken a
word to him; she doesn’t know that he has forgotten their
quarrel at midday. He even tries to concentrate all his
attention till Sine has finished her dinner to see if she is
going to smoke again. He must have fallen asleep again as
he only comes to when the signature tune announcing the
television news catches his ear. He opens his eyes and sees
Sine sit down on the couch, after switching on the
television. He remembers that he has to look and see ifshe
has been smoking, but just as he turns his eyes towards
Sine, the news reader’s voice announces, in the solemn
tone that gives him the impression that he is speaking face
to face with God:
‘Whereas the Constitution;
— Whereas the decree of the 6th of June, bearing on the
revision of the Constitution; etc.,
The President of the Republic decrees that
Firstly, Monsieur Toumane Sane’s functions as Home
Secretary shall be terminated.
Secondly, Monsieur Toumane Sane is hereby appointed
Vice-President of the Republic ...’

1)
Also in Longman African Writers

Hungry Flames and other

Black South African Short Stories
Edited by Mbulelo Mzamane
From the bare concrete of the crowded prisons to the
carpeted drawing rooms of the new African middle
class, these fifteen short stories by South Africa’s finest
Black writers paint an urgent and vital picture of
contemporary South Africa.

These stories rank with those of Steinbeck and

Hemingway in their honest portraits of working men
and women in all their strengths and in all their
weaknesses all of them living in the shadow of the
apartheid state.

Over fifty years of Black South African writing in

English is represented in this collection. A critical
introduction describes the evolution of writing from
the pioneers, such as R.R.R. Dhlomo and Sol Plaatje,
through the urban ‘‘jazz’ style of the fifties to the more
politicised Black Consciousness writers of the
Sharpeville and Soweto eras.
The editor, Mbulelo Mzamane, is himself a
distinguished writer of short stories and is the author
of My Cousin Comes to Jo’burg (1982) and of The Children
of Soweto (1982). He now teaches in the Department of
English, Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria in Nigeria.
ISBN 0 582 78590 1

100
 Other Titles Available

Longman African Writers

Tides I Okpewho 0 582 10276 6
Of Men and Ghosts K Aidoo Olos22 287159
Flowers and Shadows B Okri 0 582 03536 8
Violence F lyayi 0 582 00240 0
The Victims I Okpewho 0 582 00241 9
Call Me Not a Man M Matshoba 0 582 00242 7
The Beggar’s Strike A Sow Fall 0 582 00243 5
Dilemma Of a Ghost/Anowa A A Aidoo 0 582 00244 3
Our Sister Killjoy A A Aidoo 0 582 00391 1
No Sweetness Here A A Aidoo 0 582 00393 8
The Marriage of Anansewa/Edufa _ E Sutherland 0 582 00245 1
The Cockroach Dance M Mwangi 0 582 00392 X
Muriel At Metropolitan M Tlahi 0 582 01657 6
The Children of Soweto M Mzamane 0 582 01680 0
A Son Of The Soil W Katiyo 0 582 02656 3
The Stillborn Z Alkali 0 582 02657 1
The Life of Olaudah Equiano P Edwards 0 582 03070 6
Sundiata D T Niane 0 582 64259 0
The Last Duty I Okpewho 0 582 78535 9
Tales of Amadou Koumba B Diop 0 582 78587 1
Native Life South Africa S Plaatje 0 582 78589 8
Hungry Flames M Mzamane 0 582 78590 |
Scarlet Song M Ba 0 582 78595 2
Fools N Ndebele 0 582 78621 5
Master and Servant D Mulwa 0 582 78632 0
The Park J Matthews 0 582 04080 9
Man Pass Man N Mokoso 0 582 01681 9
Hurricane of Dust A Djoleto 0 582 01682 7
Heroes F lyayi 0 582 78603 7
Loyalties A Maja-Pearce 0 582 78628 2
Sugarcane With Salt J Ng’ombe 0 582 05204 |
Study Guide to ‘Scarlet Song’ M Ba O82 219,795
10]
 Other titles available

Longman Caribbean Writers

Satellite City A McKenzie 0 582 08688 4
Karl and other stories V Pollard O5S2 227267
Homestretch V Pollard 0 582 22732 1
Discoveries J Wickham 0 582 21804 7
Chieftain’s Carnival M Anthony 0 582 21805 5
DreamStories K Brathwaite 0 582 09340 6
Arrival of the Snakewoman O Senior 0 582 03170 2
Summer Lightning O Senior 0 582 78627 4
The Dragon Can’t Dance E Lovelace 0 582 64231 0
Ways of Sunlight S Selvon 0 582 64261 2
The Lonely Londoners S Selvon 0 582 64264 7
A Brighter Sun S Selvon 0 582 64265 5
Foreday Morning S Selvon 0 582 03982 7
In the Castle of my Skin G Lamming 0 582 64267 1
My Bones and My Flute E Mittelholzer 0 582 78552 9
Black Albino N Roy 0 582 78563 4
The Children of Sisyphus O Patterson 0 582 78571 5
The Jumbie Bird I Khan 0 582 78619 3
Plays for Today E Hill e¢ al 0 582 78620 7
Old Story Time and Smile Orange T D Rhone 0 582 78633 9
Baby Mother and the King of Swords L Goodison 0 582 05492 3
Two Roads to Mount Joyful E McKenzie 0 582 071259
Voiceprint S Brown et al 0 582 78629 0

All these titles are available, or can be ordered, from your local
bookseller. For further information on these titles, and on study
guides available, contact your local Longman agent or Longman
International Education, Longman Group Limited, Longman House,
Burnt Mill, Harlow, Essex, CM20 2JE, England.

102
Scarlet Song
Mariama Ba
Translated by Dorothy S. Blair
Mariama Ba’s first novel So Long a Letter was the
winner of the Noma Award in 1980. In this her second
and, tragically, last novel she displays all the same
virtues of warmth and crusading zeal for women’s
rights that won her so many admirers for her earlier
work.

Mireille, daughter of a French diplomat and Ousmane,

son of a poor Muslim family in Senegal, are two
childhood sweethearts forced to share their love in
secret. Their marriage shocks and dismays both sets of
parents, but it soon becomes clear that their\youthful
optimism and love offer a poor defence against the
pressures of society. As Ousmane is lured back to his
roots, Mireille is left humiliated, isolated and alone.

The tyranny of tradition and chauvinism 1s brilliantly

exposed in this passionate plea for human
understanding. The author’s sympathetic insights into
the condition of women deserve recognition
throughout the world.

ISBN 0 582 78595 2

103
Tales of Amadou Koumba
Birago Diop
Translated by Dorothy S. Blair

Retold with wit and charm, this classic collection of folk

tales by the ‘poet of the African bush’ stands
comparison with the fables of Aesop and La Fontaine.
Originally told to Diop by his family’s griot, these tales
take us back and forth between the surreal world of
the miraculous and the profound reality of African
daily life.
“The poetic nature of Birago Diop’s writing, in its
primitive majesty, is in direct line from the Griots and
the oral tradition’.

Jean-Paul Sartre

‘Everything in this subtle and perceptive work is a

delight’. Présence Africaine
‘This show of African wisdom, constitutes, without a
shadow of doubt, the finest prose work in our African
literature’.

Afrique en Marche
ISBN 0 582 78587 |
LPN. GMs ee ey Ye

The sight of dideaie- ren beggars iin the streets is giving the
town a bad name, a the tourists are starting to stay away.
If the Director a Public Health and Hygiene can get rid of
them he will have done a great service to the health and
economy of the nation — not to mention his own promotional
prospects. A plan of military precision is put, into action to
rid the streets of these verminous scroungers.

~ But the beggars are jie oe :

They know that giving alms ig a divine obligation and that :

Allah’s soodwill is vital to worldly promotion. So when the
beggars withdraw their ete service the pious city civil .
_ servants and businessmen start to panic.

This brilliant satire on conflicting Wliies:in the pushy world.

of the chslepine African city won the 1980 Grand Prix de
Littératuredee l'Afrique Noire. and was short-listed-for © .
France’s prestigious Prix Goncourt..

Cleat sighted writing. around a neat and sini plot.’

SPARE RIB

‘a delicious satirical fable’

TIMES EDUCATIONAL SUPPLEMENT

Cover illustration by Roger Payne/Arena : aan

ATE
meee. Dat AS

IT. f A {

ISBN 0=S6e-00e%83-5

LONGMAN 9 II 002432