The Impatient: A Novel

Dedication

To my husband, Hamadou Baba, and

to all our children, love and tenderness.

Epigraph

Munyal defan hayre.

Patience can cook a stone.

Fulani proverb

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Contents

RAMLA

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

HINDOU

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

SAFIRA

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

Acknowledgments

A Note from the Translator

Colophon

About the Author

About the Translator

Copyright

About the Publisher

RAMLA

A heart’s patience

is proportional

to its grandeur.

Arab proverb

I

"Patience, my girls! Munyal! That is the most valuable component of marriage and of life. That is the true value of our religion, of our customs, of pulaaku—our Fulani identity. Incorporate patience into your future life. Inscribe it in your heart, repeat it in your mind! Munyal, don’t forget it!" my father says. His voice is serious.

Head lowered, I am drowning in emotion. My aunts have brought Hindou and I into our father’s apartment. Outside, the effervescence of the double wedding is in full swing. The cars are already parked. The in-laws are waiting, impatient. The children, excited by the festivities, shout and dance around the cars. Our friends and younger sisters, unaware of our anguish, stand by our sides. They envy us, dreaming of the day when they will be the queens of the party. The griots are here, accompanied by lute and tambourine players. They sing words of praise at the top of their lungs in honor of the family and the new sons-in-law.

My father is seated on his favorite sofa. He calmly sips a cup of clove tea. Hayatou and Oumarou, my uncles, are also present, surrounded by a few close friends. These men are supposed to pass on their final words of advice, list our future duties as wives, and then say their goodbyes—after granting us their blessings.

"Munyal, my girls, for patience is a virtue. God loves those who are patient, my father repeats, imperturbable. Today I have achieved my duty as your father. I raised you, instructed you, and today I entrust you to these responsible men! You are now big girls—women! Henceforth you are married and owe respect and consideration to your husbands."

I adjust my coat around me. It’s a sumptuous alkibbare. I am sitting next to my sister Hindou at our father’s feet on a bright red Turkish rug that contrasts sharply with our dark dresses. We are surrounded by our aunts who, designated as our elder kamo, fulfill the role of maids of honor. As with every marriage, Goggo Nenné, Goggo Diya, and their acolytes have enormous difficulty masking their emotion. Only their sniffling disturbs the silence. Tears dig deep grooves in their wrinkled cheeks. They don’t attempt to hide their red eyes. Through us, they relive their own weddings. They, too, were brought to their fathers for a final goodbye and received the customary advice passed down from generation to generation with each new bride.

"Munyal, my girls!" says my uncle Hayatou. Then he pauses and clears his throat before listing orders in a solemn tone:

Respect your five daily prayers.

Read the Quran so that your progeny will be blessed.

Fear your God.

Spare your minds from distraction.

Be for him a slave and he will be your captive.

Be for him the earth and he will be your sky.

Be for him a field and he will be your rain.

Be for him a bed and he will be your hut.

Do not sulk.

Do not look down on a gift, do not return it.

Do not be bad-tempered.

Do not be talkative.

Do not be scatter-brained.

Do not beg, do not demand.

Be modest.

Be grateful.

Be patient.

Be discreet.

Valorize him so that he will honor you.

Respect his family and submit to them so that they will support you.

Aid your husband.

Preserve his fortune.

Preserve his dignity.

Preserve his appetite.

May he never starve because of your laziness, your bad mood, or your bad cooking.

Spare his sight, his hearing, his sense of smell.

May his eyes never be confronted by anything dirty in your food or in your house.

May his ears never hear obscenities or insults coming from your mouth.

May his nose never smell anything that reeks in your body or in your house, may he breathe in only perfume and incense.

These words lodge in my mind. I feel my heart break, realizing that my worst nightmare is coming to life.

Up to the last minute, naively, I had hoped that a miracle would spare me from this hardship. A powerless, mute rage strangles me. A desire to smash everything, to cry, to scream. My sister stops holding back her tears and sobs. Suffocates. I reach for her hand and squeeze it to comfort her. Faced with her distress, I feel strong despite my pain. Now that I am being separated from her, Hindou is all the more dear to me.

May your parents never learn of anything unpleasant in your household. Keep your conjugal conflicts to yourself—do not cultivate dislike between your two families, for you will reconcile but the hatred you sow will last, adds Uncle Hayatou.

After a moment of silence, my father continues in the same solemn and authoritative tone:

Starting now, you each belong to your husband and owe him total submission, as decreed by Allah. Without his permission, you do not have the right to leave the house or even to visit my bedside. Only by following this rule will you be successful wives!

Uncle Oumarou, who had kept quiet up to this point, continues:

Always remember: To please her husband, every time they meet, a wife must perfume herself with her most precious perfume, adorn herself in her most beautiful attire, ornament herself with jewelry—and much more! A woman’s paradise is at her husband’s feet.

He pauses as if to give us time to reflect, then turns toward his younger brother and concludes:

"Hayatou, complete the do’a, speak the prayer. May Allah grant them happiness, honor their household with numerous children, and give them the baraka. Finally, may Allah grant every father the joy of seeing his daughter married!"

Amine! my father responds. Then he addresses my aunts: Go now. The cars are waiting.

Goggo Nenné elbows me. In a muffled voice, I thank my father, then my uncles. To everyone’s surprise, Hindou throws herself in tears at the feet of our stunned father and begs:

Please, Baaba, listen to me: I don’t want to marry him! Please, let me stay here.

What is this nonsense, Hindou?

I don’t love Moubarak! she says, sobbing even harder. I don’t want to marry him.

My father barely glances at the teenager hunched at his feet. Turning toward me, he orders calmly:

Go! May Allah grant them happiness.

And it’s over. That’s the only goodbye I receive from my father, whom I will probably not see again for another year—if everything goes according to plan.

At that moment, despite the distance that has always existed between us, I wanted my father to speak to me, to tell me he was going to miss me. I hoped he would assure me of his love, murmur that I would always be his little girl, that this house would always be mine and that I would still be welcome here. But I know that such things are unrealistic. We aren’t in one of those foreign TV series that inspired our teenage dreams, nor in one of those soppy novels that so delighted us. We are neither the first nor the last girls that my father and uncles will marry off. On the contrary, they are content to have seamlessly accomplished their duty. Since our childhood, they have waited for this moment when they could finally offload their responsibilities by entrusting us, still virgins, to other men.

My aunts lead us, completely veiled, toward the exit. There are so many women waiting for us in the large courtyard that my hand loses Hindou’s. I cannot say a word to her. Already, amid the ululation, I am brought to the car awaiting me. A final glance and I see her, in tears, distraught. She is shoved into the second car.

II

For the whole drive, per the custom, I am accompanied by shouts of joy. The luxurious black Mercedes I’m sitting in advances ahead of dozens of others, horns blaring. The procession drives around the city before entering a magnificent compound gleaming with colorful lights. The sounds of tom-toms and the songs of griots blend with the youyous of overexcited women and children, creating an incredible cacophony.

An hour later, my co-wife comes to welcome me. I stare at her from beneath my veil. Contrary to how I had imagined her, she is not old. She is in the prime of her thirties, a woman of great beauty.

I hope to ally myself with her, but the look she gives me forbids it. She seems to detest me before even knowing me. She, too, is surrounded by the women of her family, who all display polite smiles.

The two camps stare each other down, scrutinizing each other in a tacit duel, barely concealing a honeyed contempt.

My co-wife is dressed like a bride. A sparkling pagne wrapper, her beautiful braids, hands and feet decorated with henna. But I can tell that she’s making an enormous effort to remain calm. Her lips form a slight smile that does not hide the sadness of her eyes. They say she sank into depression upon the announcement of this marriage, that she spent entire days crying. She must have come around thanks to the support of her family—or did she simply concede that nothing and no one could dissuade her husband from this marriage that all the city was mocking?

Her eyes examine me, pierce through me. Our gazes meet. And the hatred I read in hers makes me lower mine.

My eldest sister-in-law, highly regarded by other women, addresses my co-wife:

"My dear Safira, here is the new bride, your amariya. Her name is Ramla. She is your younger sister, your little one, your daughter. Her family entrusts her to you. You must help her now, by passing down your advice, by showing her the ways of the compound. You are the first wife, the daada-saaré. And, as you know, the daada-saaré is the guide of the house, the one who ensures the harmony of the home.

"Daada-saaré, you will also be the punching bag of the house. You will keep your place as daada-saaré even if your husband marries ten others. So, a single word: munyal, patience! For everything depends on you. You are the pillar of the house. It’s up to you to make the effort, to be resilient and conciliatory. In order to be so, you will have to practice perfect self-control from now on. Munyal. You, Safira, the daada-saaré, jiddere-saaré, the mother, the mistress of the home and the punching bag of the household! Munyal, munyal . . ."

Then she turns toward me:

"Ramla, you are now Safira’s little sister, her daughter, and she is your mother. You owe her obedience and respect. You will entrust yourself to her, ask her advice, follow her orders. You are the younger sister. You will not take any initiative to do with the management of the compound without the approval of your daada-saaré. She is the mistress of the house. You are only her little sister. Your job is the thankless tasks. Absolute obedience, patience before her anger, respect! Munyal, munyal . . ."

We listen in silence, nodding our heads in a sign of acquiescence. Then Safira leaves, accompanied by her family. My own leaves soon after. Only the women who, according to custom, have been chosen to accompany me for the first days of the marriage remain. They settle into my new apartment, located just opposite that of my co-wife. And Goggo Nenné has the honor of leading me into the bridal chamber.

III

I grew up in a Fulani household,