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  El Hadji was trapped. The thought of marriage had until now never crossed his mind. He had been caught off his guard by the Badyen and could only splutter a reply in the vaguest terms. He must talk to his wives. Yay Bineta realized she had the upper hand. She goaded him. Was he not a Muslim? The son of a Muslim? Why did he try to evade Yalla’s obvious wishes? Was he a whiteman that he must consult his wives? Had the country lost its men of yesterday? Those brave men whose blood flowed in his veins?

  As always in this kind of exchange, the less aggressive of the two contestants eventually gave in. El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye surrendered out of weakness. There was no way he could use the law of the Koran for his own justification. As for his wives, why should he explain himself to them? All he had to do was tell them.

  In the weeks that followed, Yay Bineta speeded up the preparations. Mam Fatou, the girl’s mother, seeing the way things were going and the urgency that seemed to possess the Badyen, had certain misgivings. She was deeply opposed to polygamy and wanted El Hadji to repudiate his two wives.

  The Badyen was angry with her sister-in-law for her attitude. ‘Mam Fatou, get this clear,’ she told her, ‘El Hadji is a polygamist, but each of his wives has her own house in the best part of town. Each of these houses is worth fifty or sixty times this hovel. And he is such a good match from your point of view! N’Gone’s future and the future of her own children are assured.’

  ‘I admit I hadn’t thought of that,’ agreed the mother, giving in.

  So, from that day until this the wedding day, all the arrangements had been in the Badyen’s hands.

  There was an outburst of cries, mingled with applause. A group of female griots was clustered around a woman who was handing out money.

  ‘It’s the best marriage of the year,’ said one female griot. Bank-notes were pinned to her fulsome chest like decorations.

  Her companion was enviously calculating her haul.

  ‘I’m out of luck today. Everyone I meet seems to be broke,’ she said.

  ‘The day is not yet over,’ the first said encouragingly, as she moved off towards another victim.

  Above the heads and the head-dresses, in and out among the chanting griots, roamed the dishes of food: bowls of fritters, pails and plastic dishes full of ginger, flavoured with various kinds of herbs. In groups of six, seven, eight, or even as many as ten or twelve, people were regaling themselves with meat and rice.

  The men who had united the couple at the mosque in their absence – the ‘marriers’ – now made their entrance. There were ten or more of them, all notables, in ceremonial dress. The Badyen welcomed them and made sure they were given comfortable seats. Then they were served liberally with refreshments – kola nuts, dishes of food and for each of them a large packet of fritters.

  ‘Alhamdoulillah!’ exclaimed one of their number, who seemed to be the spiritual leader of the community. ‘Yalla’s will has been done. These two people have been united before Yalla.’

  ‘Which is something we don’t often see these days in this country,’ pronounced his neighbour sententiously.

  Isolated from the other guests the elders discussed the present times. The young people, who had attended the ceremony dressed in European clothes, were in another, smaller room, anxious to escape.

  ‘The marriage is over. What are we waiting for now?’ complained a bridesmaid seated near the door.

  ‘It’s stifling in here! It’s time we went,’ grumbled a young man adjusting his black bow-tie,

  ‘What about some records?’

  ‘I told you before, there’s to be a band.’

  ‘And what about the bride? Where has she got to?’

  ‘She’s at her mother’s house with the marabouts, for the gree-grees.’

  All together they began drumming on the walls, whistling and shouting.

  At last when there was no more advice to be given and there were no more prayers to be said for a happy married life, N’Gone, in her white crepe de Chine wedding dress, with its crown and white veil, was handed over by her parents, the Badyen and the elders to her escort of young people. As if from a single pair of lungs there rose a great cry. The Badyen’s joy knew no bounds. She intoned the praises of the family lineage, backed by the female griots, who took up the chorus. Expensive cloths were laid in a carpet of honour from the bedroom to the front door. The bride and her large escort made their way along it.

  In the street fifteen or so cars were waiting. At the rear, on a trailer, a two-seater car with a white ribbon tied in a bow like an Easter egg symbolized the ‘wedding gift’. The horns sounding a mechanical serenade, the cortege set off through the streets of Dakar. People clapped and called out their good wishes to the bride as the cars passed by, with the trailer and its two-seater car following on behind like a trophy.

  The villas were named after the wives. The first wife’s villa, ‘Adja Awa Astou’, was situated on the eastern periphery of the residential suburb. Flame trees lined its tarred roads. A calm reminiscent of the first morning of creation pervaded this part of the town, where the officers of the peace patrolled in pairs without any sense of urgency. A well kept bougainvillæa hedge surrounded the house, and the wrought-iron front door bore an, enamel plaque inscribed with the words ‘Villa Adja Awa Astou’. The doorbell had the muffled tones of an oriental gong.

  The first wife and her two eldest children were waiting in the over-furnished sitting-room. In spite of her age – she was between thirty-six and forty – and in spite of having borne six children, Adja Awa Astou had kept her slim figure. Her colouring was a soft black; she had a prominent forehead above the delicate line of her nose which flattened very slightly at the sides; her face was alive with subdued smiles and there was frankness in her almond-shaped eyes. There emanated from this deceptively fragile woman great strength of will and determination. Since her return from the Holy Place she dressed only in white. She had been born on the island of Gorée and had given up her Christian faith so as to enjoy more fully the pleasures of married life. At the time of their marriage, El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye was still a primary-school teacher.

  Speaking in a restrained voice, with an intense gleam in her eyes, Adja Awa Astou repeated what she had said a few moments before:

  ‘My co-wife and I should attend the ceremony. It’s your father’s wish. So ... ’

  ‘Mother you can’t expect Mactar and me to believe that you are happy about this third marriage and that it is taking place with your agreement.’

  Rama, her eldest daughter, with her face thrust forward and her short hair plaited, was consumed with anger and reproach.

  ‘You are young still. Your day will come if it pleases Yalla. Then you will understand.’

  ‘Mother, I am not a child. I’m twenty. I will never share my husband with another woman. I’d rather divorce him.’

  There was a long silence.

  Mactar, who admired his elder sister, looked away out of the window into the distance beyond the flowers. He avoided his mother’s eyes. The sharp pangs he felt in his heart grew worse. In spite of her directness, Rama was anxious to be tactful. She had grown up during the upheavals of the struggle for Independence, when her father and others like him had fought for freedom for everyone. She had taken part in street battles and pasted up posters at night. With the evolution of African society she had joined political associations, been a university student and a member of the Wolof language group. This third marriage of her father’s had taken her by surprise and deeply disappointed her.

  ‘It’s easy to talk about divorce, Rama,’ her mother began slowly. What she was about to say was the product of much careful reflection. ‘You think I should get a divorce. Where would I go at my age? Where would I find another husband? A man of my own age and still a bachelor? If I left your father and with luck and Yalla’s help found a husband, I would be his third or his fourth wife. And what would become of you?’

  As she finished speaking, she smiled, just a little, to soften the impact
of her words. Had she convinced Rama? She did not ask herself this question. Adja Awa Astou kept no secrets from her children.

  Angry with impotence, Rama rounded on her mother:

  ‘Don’t you realize, mother, that this villa belongs to you? Everything in it is yours. Father owns nothing here.’

  ‘Rama, I know that too. But it was your father who gave it to me. I cannot turn him out.’

  ‘I won’t go to this wedding.’

  ‘I will. I must put in an appearance. If I don’t it will be said that I am jealous.’

  ‘Mother, that wife of my father’s, that N’Gone, is my age. She’s just a whore. You are only going because you’re afraid of what people will say.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ her mother interrupted her. ‘It’s true N’Gone is your age. But she’s only a victim....’

  The gong gave its oriental sound.

  ‘It’s your father.’

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye came into the sitting-room with a sprightly step.

  ‘Greetings!’ he said to the two children. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked his wife.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you, Rama?’

  ‘I’m not going, father.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Father, can you give me some money for school?’ asked Mactar, approaching his father. El Hadji took out a bundle of notes and counting five gave them to his son.

  Rama stood where she was. She caught her mother’s eye and said:

  ‘I’m against this marriage, father. A polygamist is never frank.’

  El Hadji’s slap struck her on her right cheek. She stumbled and fell. He moved towards Rama to repeat the blow. Quickly Mactar stepped between them.

  ‘You can be a revolutionary at the university or in the street but not in my house. Never!’

  ‘This is not your house. Nothing here belongs to you,’ retorted Rama. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Come, El Hadji. Let us go,’ said the girl’s mother, pulling her husband towards the door.

  ‘You should have brought that child up properly,’ El Hadji shouted at his wife.

  ‘You are right. Come, they are waiting. It’s your wedding day.’

  When their parents had left, Mactar ventured:

  ‘Father is becoming more and more reactionary.’

  Rama got up and went to her room.

  As the Mercedes drove slowly away the man and his first wife sat silent, looking in opposite directions, anxious.

  The second wife’s villa was identical with the first’s except for the hedge. Trees provided shade at the front. The front door had an enamel plaque with the words ‘Villa Oumi N’Doye’ in black lettering.

  Modu the chauffeur drew up at the entrance and opened the door of his employer’s car. El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye climbed out and stood for a moment on the pavement. Then he put his head through the window and said to Adja Awa Astou:

  ‘Come on, get out!’

  Adja Awa Astou glanced at her husband and shook her head. Her eyes were lifeless, they had a deep inscrutability that seemed like a total absence of reaction. But there was the strength of controlled inertia burning in them.

  El Hadji could not sustain her look. He turned away. Then, as if he were addressing someone else, he pleaded with her:

  ‘Adja, either you get out or you return home. What will Oumi N’Doye think?’

  Adja Awa Astou had not lowered her eyes. Etiquette? She struggled to keep her temper. Deep inside her like an angry sea, her resentment welled up. But since she was sincerely religious she controlled herself and tamed her fury, imploring Yalla to help her. Restraining the urge to speak out, she said:

  ‘El Hadji, I beg you to forgive me. You seem to forget that I am your Awa2. I will not set foot in that house. I’ll wait here.’

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye knew his first wife’s pride very well. As soon as she finished speaking her bearing became rigid again and she turned her face away from him. Her husband crossed the garden and pushed open the front door of the villa. He entered the sitting-room, full of expensive French furniture and artificial flowers. As soon as he appeared the youngest daughter, Mariem, flung her arms joyfully round his neck. She was fifteen years old, big for her age, and wore a mini-skirt.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ asked her father.

  ‘No, I’ve got permission to stay away today. I’m coming to the wedding with some of my friends from school. Father, can you give me some money?

  ‘All right. Where’s your mother?’

  Mischievously Mariem indicated where she was with her thumb. Her father gave her three bank-notes as he crossed the room.

  Oumi N’Doye saw El Hadji in her mirror. She was securing her black wig with the aid of pins.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said in French.

  ‘Who’s with you in the Mercedes?’

  ‘Adja Awa. She’s waiting in the car.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she come in?’ asked Oumi N‘Doye immediately, turning towards the man. ‘Mariem! Mariem!’ she called.

  Mariem arrived and stood with her hand on the door-knob.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Tell Adja Awa to come inside. She’s in the car. Tell her I’m having my shower.’

  Mariem went out.

  ‘Is she angry?’

  ‘Who?’ asked El Hadji, sitting on the bed.

  ‘Adja Awa Astou.’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ he replied, leafing through a woman’s magazine.

  ‘She persuaded you to marry this third wife purely out of jealousy. Just because I’m younger than she is, the old cow.’

  Had her shaft gone home? El Hadji did not react. She had spoken with heavy sarcasm, gritting her teeth. There was still no reply so she went on:

  ‘She’s playing games now, your old woman. She’s waiting outside just to see how I will take it, isn’t she? Your old piece of dried fish-skin thinks I’m her rival. I bet you she’ll gang up with that N’Gone to annoy me. But we’ll see about that.’

  ‘Listen, Oumi, I don’t want any quarrelling, here or at the wedding. If you don’t want to come that’s your affair. But please stop talking like that.’

  ‘What was I saying then? Now you’re threatening me. If you don’t want me at the wedding say so. That’s what she said, didn’t she? Your third, N’Gone, is no different from us.’

  She stood facing the man, menace in her voice.

  ‘Believe me, I’m not going to your third’s to pick a fight. You needn’t worry.’

  ‘Get me something to drink. I’m very thirsty,’ said El Hadji to change the subject.

  ‘There is no mineral water in the house.’ (El Hadji only drank mineral water.) ‘Will you have tap water?’ asked Oumi N’Doye in a mocking tone of voice and with an air of defiance that wrinkled the corners of her mouth.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye left the room. Outside he called his chauffeur Modu.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Bring me some mineral water.’

  Beside the Mercedes Mariem was trying her best to cajole Adja Awa Astou from the car into the house.

  ‘Mariem, tell your mother I’d rather wait here.’

  ‘Mother Adja, you know how long my mother takes to get ready. She’s having a shower,’ said the child.

  Defeated by Adja Awa Astou’s smile Mariem returned in dejection to the house, followed by Modu carrying the portable ice-hamper.

  As they came out of the front door Oumi N’Doye whispered to El Hadji:

  ‘Which of us is to sit in the back with you?’

  Before El Hadji could reply she continued: ‘All three of us then. After all it isn’t her moomé.’3

  Settling herself in the Mercedes Oumi N’Doye asked after the health of her co-wife’s children. The conversation between the two women was distant and full of courtesy. Each complimented the other on her clothes.

  ‘So you don’t want to come into my house?’

  ‘You mustn’t misunde
rstand me. I was comfortable in the car. I don’t get out because I still have those attacks of dizziness,’ said Adja Awa Astou by way of apology.

  El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye, seated in the back between his two wives, let his mind wander, only half listening to what they were saying.

  They could hear the band – playing modern music – from some way off. A crowd of youngsters were dancing among themselves on the pavement. Stewards stood guard on the entrance, examining the guests’ invitations before letting them in. Couples were dancing on the cement floor of the courtyard. Under the verandah a kora-player with two women accompanists took advantage of breaks in the band’s playing to show what he could do, singing at the top of his voice.

  The third wife’s villa, which was of recent construction, stood outside the more heavily populated residential area in a new suburb intended for people of means.

  The Mercedes pulled up.

  Walking two paces ahead of his wives El Hadji crossed the courtyard amid the acclamations of the guests and the frenzied playing of the band, which completely drowned the efforts of the kora-player.

  Yay Bineta reached the wives before the bride and in her role of mistress of the house she welcomed them and escorted them to a room where all the most distinguished women guests were congregated. Urbane as ever the Badyen abounded in civilities towards the co-wives.

  ‘You will give a good example to the young ones, won’t you? Good co-wives should be united.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we are used to it. We are one family. The same blood flows in our children’s veins,’ parried Oumi N‘Doye, not giving Adja Awa Astou a chance to say anything. ‘I take Adja our senior as my example. I thank Yalla for putting me to the test so that in my turn I too can show that I am not jealous or selfish.’