Free Xala by Ousmane Sembène Page A

he flung the cowries onto the piece of cloth.
    Like a shower of sparks in the dark the buried, ghostly universe of his early childhood rose to the surface of El Hadji’s memory and held him in its grip. A host of spirits, gnomes and jinns paraded through his subconscious.
    The seet-katt counted the cowries. Once. Twice. A third time. What? He raised his tobacco-coloured eyes up to his client. He scrutinized him. El Hadji was suddenly afraid. Why did he stare at him like that? The diviner gathered up the cowries and threw them down once more.
    â€˜Strange,’ he muttered.

    No one spoke
    Before throwing the cowries again the seet-katt took a cock’s spur from a red cloth in which it was wrapped and put it with the other objects. His face clouded over: His gaze became more penetrating. Stiffness? Desire to impress? Ritual gesture? He changed his posture. He leaned forward then. straightened himself again. A smile of satisfaction spread over his face.
    â€˜This xala is strange,’ he announced.
    A feeling of immense joy came over El Hadji. His whole being was filled with a warm, comforting euphoria. He looked happily at his father-in-law. Why had he never heard of this seet-katt before?
    â€˜Who caused this xala ?’ asked old Babacar.
    The seer was lost in contemplation..
    From the distance came the noise of children, from nearby the sound of music – someone was walking past the compound with a transistor radio.
    â€˜I can’t see who it is. Is it a man? A woman? Very hard to say. But I see you very clearly. There you are, as clear as anything.’
    â€˜I want to be cured,’ said El Hadji spontaneously.
    He waited anxiously for the reply.
    â€˜I am not a facc-katt – a healer – but a seet-katt. My job is to “see”.’
    â€˜Who has done this to me?’ asked El Hadji.
    His face had aged so much it had taken on the expression of a Baule mask.
    â€˜Who?’ echoed the seet-katt.
    The fingers held over the fan of cowries seemed to be plucking the strings of a guitar. The seet-katt’s eyes, like his fingers, followed an invisible line. ‘Who?’ he repeated. ‘The shape is indistinct: But I can definitely say it is someone close to you. This xala was carried out during the night.’
    â€˜Tell me who it is and I will give you anything you ask. I want to be cured! Become a man again! Tell me how much you want,’ shouted El Hadji in anguish.
    Suiting the action to the word, he took out his wallet.
    â€˜I only take what is my due,’ replied the seet-katt self-righteously.
    His eyes encountered El Hadji’s and he added: ‘Do you only want to know the name of the person who has made you impotent?’
    â€˜Yes, that is what I blew onto the cowries,’ admitted El Hadji
regretfully. ‘But you can treat me, cure me! Cure me!’ implored El Hadji, waving the bank-notes.
    The seet-katt carefully collected his instruments together and folded the cloth, without paying them any attention. He was completely lacking in deference now.
    â€˜How much do we owe you?’ asked old Babacar.
    â€˜Five hundred francs.’
    El Hadji handed him a thousand-franc note. Since he had no change he made him a gift of the rest.
    Outside the house El Hadji turned over in his mind the sentence: ‘It is someone close to you.’ Just as nature re-imposes its life on ruins with small tufts of grass, the ancestral atavism of fetishism was being re-awakened in El Hadji. Like a torrent, his suspicions carried along names, imprecise silhouettes, faces without shape. He felt himself surrounded by treachery and ill-will. After his visit to the seet-katt he became more reserved, more touchy. Fatigue added its weight to his depression. He was haunted by what the diviner had told him.
    It was Oumi N’Doye’s moomé. He put off the moment when he would have to go to her. He was certain in advance that he would not be able to