Xala by Ousmane Sembène

in advance that the woman would move heaven and earth to bring him back to her house.
    â€˜Answer me!’
    â€˜I didn’t hear. What were you saying?’
    Hands on her hips, she looked down at her husband.
    â€˜No one is more deaf than he who doesn’t want to hear. I repeat, my children must also have a car. Adja has one, your third has one. I don’t mind being on the tandem but I won’t be the spare wheel. You’re giving my children a complex about it.’
    â€˜No need to shout. You’ll wake them.’
    â€˜Admit that I am right. Everything for the others. Nothing for me or my children.’
    â€˜Pass me the mineral water.’
    Her anger was only a flash in the pan. She brought him the bottle and a glass.
    â€˜Shall I run you a bath?’ she asked.
    She had just read this in one of her magazines. El Hadji could hardly believe his ears. He looked at her, agreeably surprised.
    â€˜Yes, thank you.’
    She disappeared.
    After his bath El Hadji climbed into bed. Soon she was ready too. The room was filled with her perfume. Slipping into bed beside him she unbuttoned his pyjamas. Her hand travelled up and down the man’s body, familiar with its geography. The exploration became more feverish and she pressed herself against him.
    El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye had to endure this torture. His back was running with perspiration. Physical contact with Oumi N’Doye used once to stimulate his desire. Now the hand that caressed him inflicted the sufferings of hell. He was wet all over. His nerves were dead. He lacked the simple, humble courage of everyday heroism to tear himself from this misery which burned him like red-hot coals. Unable to help himself, tears welled up from deep inside him.
    Oumi N’Doye interpreted her husband’s attitude as an indication
of her fall from favour. She flew into a rage. Her highly coloured verbal repertoire, rich in innuendo, hit its mark, filling the man with resentment. She suffered as well.
    â€˜Your old Adja has worn you out. Or is it your N’Gone? You have to be a good rider and a young one to mount two mares at the same time, especially at a canter,’ she said. She came to the end of her outburst and turned her back on him.
    Eventually, feeling calmer, his mind a blank, El Hadji slept in fits and starts. Each time he woke he could hear the beggar’s chant unwinding itself.
    The following morning, shaved and in a fresh change of clothes, he was having his breakfast – after the children’s departure for school – when Oumi N’Doye came and sat down beside him. Her eyes were dull as a result of her unsatisfied night. There was an awkward barrier between them. El Hadji, anxious to justify himself, tried to explain. He blamed an increase in business activity. To win her forgiveness for his conduct of the previous night he took out his wallet and at the sight of the wads of notes she melted.
    â€˜Don’t expect me this afternoon.’
    â€˜Where will you have lunch?’
    â€˜With the President. We have to meet some toubab businessmen and spend the day together.’
    As he spoke El Hadji looked away towards the door. This lie gave him a feeling of relief; like a soothing balm.
    â€˜Come home early then. It’s a long time since we went to the cinema.’
    â€˜All right,’ he agreed as he left her.
    Â 
    Â 
    Modu had noticed his employer’s decline: his voice, his reluctance to look you in the eyes, his heavy hesitant walk. El Hadji had always been like a grandfather to him. But since his marriage he had become different, distant. After dropping him Modu went and sat on his stool, listening to the beggar. The car-washer busied himself about the vehicle as he did every morning.
    The hours passed.
    Yay Bineta, the Badyen, arrived, accompanied by the woman with the cock. As soon as she was seated opposite El Hadji, she said:

    â€˜How are you these days?’
    â€˜Thanks to