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[So Long A Letter takes place in Senegal, a one-time French colony on the western coast of Africa where the citizens speak French and follow Islam. At the beginning of the novel, the main character Ramatoulaye loses her estranged husband Modou Fall to a sudden heart attack. He has just taken seventeen-year-old Binetou as his second wife and virtually abandoned Ramatoulaye, which is legally and socially acceptable in a Muslim society. The following excerpt describes part of the Muslim funerary tradition, according to which Ramatoulaye is compelled not only to entertain hordes of mourners but also to house her co-wife, in addition to other indignities she endeavors to tolerate with grace under pressure.]
ON THE THIRD DAY, the same comings and goings of friends, relatives, the poor, the unknown. The names of the deceased, who was popular, had mobilized a buzzing crowd, welcomed in my house that has been stripped of all that could be stolen, all that could be spoilt. Mats of all sorts are spread out everywhere there is space. Metal chairs hired for the occasion take on a blue hue in the sun.
Comforting words from the Koran fill the air; divine words, divine instructions, impressive promises of punishment or joy, exhortations to virtue, warnings against evil, exhaltation of humility, of faith. Shivers run through me. My tears flow and my voice joins weakly in the fervent Amen which inspires the crowds ardor at the end of each verse.
The smell of the lakh [a dish made from millet flour] cooling in the calabashes pervades the air, exciting.
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Also passed around are large bowls of red or white rice, cooked here or in neighboring houses. Iced fruit juices, water and curds are served in plastic cups. The mens group eats in silence. Perhaps they remember the stiff body, tied up and lowered by their hands into a gaping hole, quickly covered up again.
In the womens corner, nothing but noise, resonant laughter, loud talk, hand slaps, strident exclamations. Friends who have not seen each other for a long time hug each other noisily. Some discuss the latest material on the market. The latest bits of gossip are exchanged. They laugh heartily and roll their eyes and admire the next persons boubou, her original way of using henna to blacken hands and feet by drawing geometrical figures on them.
From time to time an exasperated manly voice rings out a warning, recalls the purpose of the gathering a ceremony for the redemption of a soul. The voice is quickly forgotten and the brouhaha begins all over again, increasing in volume.
In the evening comes the most disconcerting part of the third days ceremony. More people, more jostling in order to hear and see better. Groups are formed according to relationships, according to blood ties, areas, corporations. Each group displays its own contributions to the costs. In former times this contribution was made in kind millet, livestock, rice, flour, oil, sugar, milk. Today it is made conspicuously in banknotes, and no one wants to give less than the other. A disturbing display of inner feeling that cannot be evaluated and measured in francs! And again I think of how many of the dead would have survived if, before organizing these festive funeral ceremonies, the relative or friend had bought the life-saving prescription or paid for hospitalization.
The takings are carefully recorded. It is a debt to be repaid in similar circumstances. Modous relatives open an exercise book. Lady Mother-in-Law [the co-wifes mother] and her daughter have a notebook. Fatimi, my younger sister, carefully records my takings in a note-pad.
As I come from a large family in this town, with acquaintances at all levels of society, as I am a schoolteacher on friendly terms with the pupils parents, and as I have been Modous companion for thirty years, I receive the greater share of money and many envelopes. The regard shown me raises me in the eyes of the others and it is Lady Mother-in-Laws turn to be annoyed. Newly admitted into the citys bourgeoisie by her daughters marriage, she too reaps banknotes. As for her silent, haggard child, she remains a stranger in these circles. . .
The share of each widow must be doubled, as must the gifts of Modous grandchildren, represented by the offspring of all his male and female cousins.
Thus our family-in-law take away with them a wad of notes, painstakingly topped, and leave us utterly destitute, we who will need material support.
Afterwards comes the procession of old relatives, old acquaintances, griots [part magician, poet, and sorcerer employed by a family] goldsmiths, laobes with their honeyed language. The goodbyes are irritating because they are neither simple nor free they require, depending upon the person leaving, sometimes a coin, sometimes a banknote.
Gradually the house empties. The smell of stale sweat and food blend as trails in the air, unpleasant and nauseating. Cola nuts spat out here and there have left red stains my tiles, kept with such painstaking care, are blackened. Oil stains on the walls, balls of crumpled paper. What a balance sheet for a day!
My horizon lightened, I see an old woman. Who is she? Where is she from? Bent over, the ends of her boubou tied behind her, she empties into a plastic bag the leftovers of red rice. Her smiling face tells of the pleasant day she has just had. She wants to take back proof of this to her family, living perhaps in Ouakam, Thiaroye, or Pikine [lower class suburbs of Dakar, the capital].
Standing upright, her eyes meeting my disapproving look, she mutters between teeth reddened by cola nuts Lady, death is just as beautiful as life has been.
- Transcribed from So Long A Letter by Mariama Ba (translated from French into English by Modupe Bode-Thomas) London Heinemann, 18. ISBN 0-45-0555-4
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