Xala by Ousmane Sembène Read Free Book Online Page B

was her right. Oumi N’Doye had come to think of herself as the only wife. Without the least concern for Adja Awa Astou she had accompanied El Hadji to receptions, even when it was not her moomé . With Adja Awa Astou she could accept the life of polygamy, but the advent of a third wife reopened the wound of frustration suffered by all the Muslim women of our country. She even thought momentarily of divorcing El Hadji.
    â€˜But why divorce him? Without a man’s help a woman has to fall
back on prostitution to live and bring up her children. This is the way our country wants it. It is the lot of all our women,’ her mother had told her, to persuade her not to divorce her husband. ‘If you had a job one could understand your rejection of this third wife. Your first co-wife was a Catholic. How can you, born a Muslim, dare refuse? What is more your husband has the means to support you. Look around you....’
    Chastened by this advice Oumi N’Doye did not return to her parents with her complaints. She was not going to accept being forgotten, a woman who only saw her man to couple with him.
    The telephone rang.
    â€˜Hullo! Yes... No,’ said the secretary. ‘I’ll make a note. I don’t know when the boss will be back. All right. Yes! Yes!’
    Madame Diouf put down the receiver and looked at her watch.
    â€˜I have to close now. It is time,’ she said, addressing Oumi N’Doye, who had got up.
    â€˜Where is El Hadji?’ she asked.
    â€˜I don’t know. He went out this morning with the President.’
    Babacar had risen and stood at a distance.
    â€˜Young woman, I am the father of N’Gone, his third. When you see him tell him I’ll expect him at my house.’
    Oumi N‘Doye stalked out in fury, without so much as a ‘good-bye.’ Her eyes had encountered Babacar’s. She had given him a look full of animosity and the old man, unsure of its intention, had felt awkward. He followed the retreating woman with his eyes.
    â€˜Who is that?’
    â€˜It is El Hadji’s second wife.’
    â€˜ La illaxa illa la ! I should have liked to make her acquaintance,’ said the old man hurrying after her.
    The shops and offices were closing. People were streaming back to the Medina and the dormitory blocks of the suburbs.
    Babacar looked up and down the road. He saw her in the distance disappearing into a taxi. Then his attention was caught by the beggar. He dropped a coin onto his sheepskin and walked on.
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    Alassane had dropped Adja Awa Astou’s children and was helping the other children out of the vehicle in front of Oumi N’Doye’s villa.
    â€˜Alassane! Alassane! Wait a moment!’ she shouted to the chauffeur.
    She paid the taxi-driver and called out to her daughter. ‘Mariem! Mariem! Listen! Come here!’
    The child went up to her.
    â€˜Go and fetch your father for me. He is at his third’s house. Tell him I must see him.’
    â€˜Mother, can I wash first?’
    â€˜Do as I tell you. Alassane, drive her there.’
    â€˜Yes, madam.’
    Alassane drove off with the girl.
    Back in the sitting-room Oumi N’Doye turned on the radio. She only listened to the international service, because the broadcasts were exclusively in French. She asked the maid if the master had come while she was out. No, he hadn’t.
    Mariem was back already.
    â€˜Father isn’t there. No one has seen him all day.’
    â€˜Did you leave my message?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said her daughter, helping herself to something to eat. The maid had laid out bread and butter, jam and dry cakes for the children’s tea.
    Mactar lay on the sofa with his legs in the air, in the throes of a fit of coughing. His mother shook the silver bell. The maid came.
    â€˜Bring Mactar a glass of water.’
    â€˜He eats top quickly, he’s so greedy,’ said Mariem, busily finishing her piece of bread.
    The maid