Free Xala by Ousmane Sembène

Adja Awa Astou, getting to her feet.
    The book fell to the floor. She went on furiously:

    â€˜How can you talk. about such things to your father?’
    She left the room, banging the door behind her.
    Rama stared at the closed door in astonishment.

    El Hadji Abdou Kader Beye followed the marabouts’ instructions: he drank their concoctions, rubbed himself with their ointments and wore their xatim round his waist. In spite of all this – or perhaps because of it – there was no sign of improvement. He went back to the psychiatric hospital. Without restraint he opened his heart to the registrar, his voice full of emotion. He wanted ‘to go to bed’ but his nerves betrayed him. Yet he carried out the treatment prescribed. The registrar made some notes and asked him to come again later. Day after day, night after night, his torment ate into his professional life. Like a waterlogged silk-cotton tree on the river bank he sank deeper into the mud. Because of his condition he avoided the company of his fellow businessmen, among whom transactions were made and sealed. He was weighed down by worry and lost his skill and his ability to do business. Imperceptibly his affairs began to go to pieces.
    He had to maintain his high standard of living: three villas, several cars, his . wives, children, servants and employees. Accustomed to settling everything by cheque, he continued to pay his accounts and his household expenses in this way. He went on spending. Soon his liabilities outstripped his credit.
    Old Babacar, his father-in-law, knew a seet-katt – a seer – who lived in an outlying district.
    They went there.
    The Mercedes could not reach the seer’s house. Nothing but sandy alleys. They clambered across the sand on foot. The houses were part wood, part brick, with roofs made of corrugated iron, canvas. or cardboard, held in place by stones, steel bars, car axles and the rims of all kinds of wheels. Small children were playing barefoot with a football of their own concoction. On the slope opposite the wasteland a long line of women carrying basins and plastic buckets on their heads were returning from the communal tap on the other side of the shanty town, where the real town lay.
    The seet-katt was a big fellow with an awkward manner. His skin
was rough and wrinkled. He had brown eyes and unkempt hair and wore only a pair of shorts cut in the Turkish style. He led them to the enclosure where he held his consultations. A sack served as the door. On the inside of the enclosure the ‘door’ had been dyed red and animal teeth, cats’ paws, birds’ beaks, shrivelled skins and amulets had been sewn onto it. An assortment of bizarre-shaped animal horns lay in a circle around the sides of the enclosure. The ground was covered with fine, clean sand.
    The seet-katt enjoyed a certain renown as a hermit mystic. His serious activities extended beyond the limits of his own neighbourhood. With a wave of a skinny arm he invited them to sit on a goatskin. Because of his European clothes El Hadji hesitated for a moment, then seated himself as best he could on the ground. Old Babacar sat cross-legged. The seet-katt spread a piece of bright red cloth between them and took some cowrie shells from a small bag. First he said some incantations, then with a sharp gesture threw the cowries. He quickly collected them up again with one hand. Holding himself stiffly erect he looked his clients up and down. Abruptly he held out his clenched fist. Slowly the ball of fingers at the end of his skinny arm opened, like a sea anemone.
    Deferentially old Babacar pointed to El Hadji.
    â€˜Take these and breathe over them,’ ordered the seet-katt, addressing them for the first time.
    El Hadji held the cowries in the palm of his hand and murmured a few words. He breathed over the cowries and gave them back to the seet-katt. The latter closed his eyes, muttering to himself in concentration. Then with a gutteral roar