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La Grève des Bàttus/The Beggars' Strike
Aaminata Sow Fall
(First published 1979)
The beggars are in a flutter of disquiet; there is a rumble and a grumble of suppressed anger. They have just returned from old Gorgui Diop’s funeral. All they knew was that he had been picked up in a raid. A few days later they heard on the radio an announcement from the hospital superintendent, requesting the next-of-kin of Gorgui Diop, deceased, aged about fifty-two, native of Sandiara, to come and collect his body. No one had any idea in what circumstances he had been taken to hospital or what he had died of.
An oppressive silence hangs over Salla Niang’s courtyard. It is the moment when the jinn are abroad, wallowing in the heat, when the sun that accompanies the rainy season pierces man’s bruised flesh with its flaming darts. Stunned by apprehension and grief, the faces of this human flotsam wear an expression of terror. Tired of being clobbered! Tired of being hunted! Tired of running! For some time now they haven’t been going out in daylight any more. They get up before dawn, converge in small tight groups on the markets and the mosques, the only places where human activities are carried on before daybreak. When windows suddenly thrown open to the morning air and the uninterrupted rumble of the traffic announce the awakening of the City, they slip discreetly back to Salla’s courtyard.
They have buried old Diop and here they are, back again, heavy-hearted, drenched in perspiration. The scorching air reeks of poverty and human desolation.
‘If we don’t look out we’ll end up like Gorgui Diop,’ Nguirane Sarr cries. ‘We’ll all die like dogs!’
Today he is wearing a white caftan which has become the colour of ashes. He has bought a new pair of spectacles, this time with black frames. He wears a thin gold chain round his neck. The gash across his face has not yet healed; scabs have formed round the edges of the wound that is stained with mercurochrome.
‘And, in any case, Gorgui Diop didn’t do anyone any harm,’ he resumes.
‘Listen, my friends; since they want us to leave them in peace, let’s leave them in peace. Let’s stay here! Don’t let’s move from here!’
His friends expected anything but this. They are desperate, terrorised; they want a solution which will ensure that they are treated as citizens with full rights like everyone else. But Nguirane Sarr astonishes them. His suggestion seems devoid of sense.
‘We don’t go asking for charity any more?’
‘What shall we do? Must we be left without any resources? It’s true that things aren’t easy for us, but we still manage to take a bit of money here and there.’
‘Nguirane, your suggestion just isn’t feasible. Don’t get carried away by anger. Life is full of pitfalls. We must be brave; one day they’ll leave use alone. But if we don’t go out looking for charity, where shall we go? If we stay at home sulking, we’ll just be cutting off our own noses to spite our faces.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ Nguirane thunders.
Backs that had stooped beneath the sun’s heat are straightened. In Nguirane’s voice are undercurrents of hostility, contempt, anger.
‘That’s where you are wrong! I’ve told you before: it’s not because of our rags, nor our physical disabilities, nor for the pleasure of performing a disinterested good deed that people deign to throw us the money we get as donations. First of all they have whispered their dearest and most secret desires to the alms they tender: "I make you this offering so that God may grant me long life, prosperity and happiness…" "This donation is so that the Creator may remove all the difficulties I might encounter on my path…" "In exchange for this contribution may the Master of heaven and earth help me to climb to the top of the ladder, make me the Head of Department…" "Thanks to this offering, may the Almighty drive away all my cares as well as those of my family, protect me from Satan, from man-eating sorcerers and all the spells that might be cast upon me…" That’s what they say when they drop a coin or a little gift in the palm of your out-stretched hand. And when they are kind enough to invite you to share their steaming, odorous calabashes of millet porridge and curdled milk, do you imagine it’s because they thought you might be hungry? No, my friends, that’s the least of their worries! Our hunger doesn’t worry them. They need to give in order to survive, and if we didn’t exist, who would they give to? How could they ensure their own peace of mind? They don’t give for our sake; they give for their own sake! They need us so that they can live in peace!’
Salla Niang, who was cooking the midday meal at the other end of the courtyard, had been listening to everything Nguirane had been saying. She now moves deliberately forward, pushing her way through the dense throng till she stands in front of Nguirane. She is wearing a camisole that is pulled in at the waist and shows off the curves of her hips. Tiny beads of sweat stand out on her forehead and nose. Gorgui Diop’s death has affected her deeply; she had known him in her native village, where everyone was unanimous in saying that he had been her father’s best friend. As she had scarcely known her father, she had transferred all her affection to this man who was the friend of all the children in the village. Every evening they crowded round him and he used to tell them marvellous stories about the origin of the world. Later, when Salla saw him turn up in the City, she hastened to offer him her hospitality.
Her features became drawn with sorrow. She reached out to the assembled crowd a hand stained with henna arabesques.
‘Now, my friends, the hour has come to make our choice: to live like dogs, pursued, hunted, tracked down, rough-handled, or to live like men. Gorgui Diop’s reason for living was always to bring a little cheer to men’s hearts. But these madmen have forgotten the meaning of cheer. Since Gorgui Diop has not been spared – Gorgui Diop who made people laugh – no one will be spared. So now, let’s have no more of this stealing in and out on the sly; let’s have no more of this running away like mad; let’s have no more distress and fear. Let’s all stay here! Do you hear, we’ll stay here! In a very short time you’ll see that we are as necessary to them as the air they breathe. Where will you find a man who’s the boss and who doesn’t give to charity so that he can stay the boss? Where will you find a man who’s suffering from a real or imaginary illness and who doesn’t believe that his troubles will disappear the moment a donation leaves his hands? Where will you find an ambitious man who doesn’t think that the magic effects of charity can open all doors? Everyone gives for one reason or another. Even the parents of a man who’s awaiting judgement, expecting to be condemned, have recourse to charity, to blur the judge’s reasoning, in the hope of an acquittal.’
Everything that Salla Niang has said is based on what she saw during her experiences as a maid-of-all-work. She lived in houses where everyone stuffed themselves fit to burst; the left-overs that they threw in the dustbin could have fed ten paupers, but paupers were never invited to share the meal; paupers are dirty, a nuisance, they don’t know how to behave. But, in these same houses, when the marabout recommended them to feed seven, ten or twelve paupers on delicacies for three days, they went to seek out these same paupers, invited them to their homes, welcomed them, pressed dishes upon them that they would never have dreamed of: rice with fish, swimming in a rich, red sauce; white rice with plenty of tender meat; a delicious couscous with raisins, mixed vegetables, dates and prunes; and after every meal, fresh cola-nuts to aid the digestion.
What Salla Niang has just said is not the result of a sudden inspiration. It derives, among other experiences, from a painful scene which she witnessed at a time when she worked for some people who were not exactly rolling in money. As she made the beds, swept the rooms, scoured the saucepans, she kept her ears and eyes open and so was able to reconstitute the drama in which the family was involved. The husband, Galaye, was leader of the workers’ union in a small metalworks, whose owner didn’t look very favourably on the union’s demands, which he said, were ‘an obstacle to good working conditions and liable to have disastrous consequences for the financial situation of the firm’. The owner’s motto was ‘The output first, foremost and all the time’ and this motto had become a sort of regular prayer recited at all times of the day, accompanying the showers of sparks given off from the welders’ oxyacetylene lamps. To justify his obsession, he invoked the heavy taxes he had to meet, although all his employees knew that he enjoyed the enormous facilities and tax concessions granted to foreign investors. The workers’ rights and the most elementary safety regulations no longer counted, and it became Galaye’s duty to remind him that there were bye-laws relating to the employees’ conditions of work. The owner did not appreciate Galaye’s submissions and gave him to understand that under no circumstances was his firm – which had been set up to help the State and the workers – to be transformed into a political forum.
‘You’re here to get on with your work and not to create trouble! If you don’t want to work, you can bugger off! There are hundreds waiting for your job!’
‘If anyone here ought to bugger off, it’s you! This is our country, and that’s what you seem to forget! You just comply with the regulations laid down in the bye-laws; just pay us the overtime you owe us; and see that there’s soap in the washrooms after work! And we must ask you again to install at least two fire extinguishers. In a firm like this, it’s inconceivable that there isn’t a single one!’
While these exchanges were being shouted above the shrill hiss of the oxyacetylene lamps in the workshop, most of the welders remained bent over their jobs.
‘That’s right, Mister Galaye, go on! And while you’re at it, why don’t you demand air-conditioners to diminish the effects of the heat!’
That had been the end of the argument that day. But Galaye had no idea how far his employer would go in double-dealing. The latter had got the impression that the factory ran the risk of being at the mercy of a wave of rebellion which would seriously impair his profits. To enable him to sack Galaye without paying him any compensation, he got some of the latter’s compatriots to aid and abet him by dazzling them with wild promises of advancement. One day he pointed out to the storeman that the chit authorising the removal of ten wrought-iron gates from the workshop was a forgery. The storeman submitted that the chit had been given to him by Galaye. The owner brought a charge against Galaye who denied his guilt, but the storeman persisted in his accusation. Finally Galaye was condemned to three months’ imprisonment, with suspended sentence, plus costs and the repayment of the value of the ten gates, estimated at sixty thousand francs each.
Galaye was out of work for a long time. While Salla Niang took care of the housework, his wife made pagnes and prepared fritters which she sold to meet the family’s expenses.
One morning, very early, Salla saw Galaye take a bench and place it in front of the entrance to the house. He sat there, holding a sheet of white paper in his hand. Salla watched him out of the corner of her eye as she lit the stove, and could not explain his apparent nervousness. As usual beggars streamed past but Galaye remained deaf to their pleas for alms.
This intrigued Salla all the more. Finally an old beggar-woman came past; she was tiny, wrinkled, but bright-eyed. On her head she carried two little calabashes placed one on top of the other, and ash-grey strands of hair escaped from her tightly knotted head-scarf. As soon as Galaye caught sight of her he ran up to her and offered her the white paper saying, ‘Take this, lady, it’s a gift from God!’
The old beggar-woman, who presumably found this a rather odd gift, showed her surprise; she frowned and looked carefully to make sure there was nothing in the paper. Galaye’s hand trembled as he held it out. Salla watched, her broom in her hand.
‘It’s charity, Grandma! I’m giving it you out of charity!’
‘Eh, son! What can I do with a piece of paper? I can’t read or write!’
She continued to hold her two calabashes on her head with both hands. She seemed to have no inclination to take the paper.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers! That’s a divine law! It says you mustn’t pick and choose and you mustn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth!’
‘Perhaps you’re right, my son. But a piece of paper…’
She was about to turn away. Salla saw Galaye pleading with her, imploring, beseeching with burning eyes and parched throat. The old beggar-woman remained unmoved and tried to go on her way. Then Galaye caught hold of her camisole, dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a shining coin which he waved under the woman’s nose.
‘Take the paper and take this money too.’
Salla thought to herself that Galaye was certainly parting with the last money he had left. She felt quite heart-sore. Later, as she listened to conversations through the wall, she learned that Galaye had been told by a marabout that it was essential for him to give this sheet of paper to an old woman in order to obtain a job.
