Segu

  Maryse Condé

  * * *

  SEGU

  Translated from the French by BARBARA BRAY

  Contents

  Maps

  Traore Family Tree

  PART ONE

  The Word That Descends by Night

  PART TWO

  The Wind Scatters the Grains of Millet

  PART THREE

  A Fruitless Death

  PART FOUR

  The Fertile Blood

  PART FIVE

  And The Gods Trembled

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS

  SEGU

  Maryse Condé was born at Pointe-à-Pitre, Guadeloupe, in 1937. After studying in Paris, she lived and taught in West Africa (Guinea, Ghana and Senegal) for more than a decade, before returning to France and then moving to the US where she taught at the universities of California at Berkley, Virginia, Maryland, Harvard and Columbia University in the City of New York. Condé’s first novel Hérémakhonon (1976) was inspired by her own life in Guinea, followed by A Season in Rihata (1981) and the bestselling Segu (1984), which established her pre-eminent position among Caribbean writers. Her other novels include I, Tituba: Black Witch of Salem (1986), Tree of Life (1992), Windward Heights (1998), The Story of the Cannibal Woman (2007) and Victoire, My Mother’s Mother (2010). Her latest autobiography of her years in Africa, What is Africa to Me?, is forthcoming in 2017. She won Le Grand Prix Littéraire de la Femme in 1986 as well as Le Prix de L’Académie Française in 1988 and was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize in 2015.

  For my Bambara ancestress

  Traore Family Tree

  Part One

  * * *

  THE WORD THAT DESCENDS BY NIGHT

  Chapter One

  Segu is a garden where cunning grows. Segu is built on treachery.

  Speak of Segu outside Segu, but do not speak of Segu in Segu.

  Why couldn’t Dousika get the song of the griots out of his head, the song he’d heard so often without paying any special attention? Why this fear, persistent as the sickness of a pregnant woman? Why this dread on the brink of day? Dousika went over his dreams for a sign, a clue to what might lie ahead. But there was nothing. He’d slept soundly and been visited by none of his ancestors. As he sat on a mat in the entrance to his hut, Dousika swallowed a mouthful of degue, the millet gruel mixed with curds and honey that was his favorite breakfast. It was too runny, and he shouted crossly for Nya, his first wife, to scold her about it. As he waited he inserted his tooth twig between his fine filed teeth: the sap from the wood, mixed with his saliva, would increase his physical strength and sexual potency.

  As Nya didn’t answer he rose, left the hut, and went into the first courtyard of the compound where his wives lived.

  It was deserted. Deserted?

  Only a few millet sieves and some little wooden stools lay there on the spotless sand.

  Dousika was a nobleman or yerewolo, a member of the royal council, a personal friend of the king and the father of ten legitimate sons, ruling as fa or patriarch over five families, his own and those of his younger brothers. His compound reflected his standing in Segu society. Its tall facade overlooking the street was ornamented with sculptures as well as triangular patterns carved into the clay, and surmounted by turrets of varying height and pleasing effect. Within were a number of flat-roofed huts, also of mud, connected by a series of courtyards. The first contained a magnificent dubale tree whose foliage formed a dome of greenery, supported by some fifty columns, roots grown down from the main trunk.

  The dubale might be called the witness and guardian of the life of the Traores. Beneath its powerful roots the placentas of many of their ancestors had been buried after a safe delivery. In its shade the women and children sat to tell stories, the men to make family decisions. In the dry season it gave protection from the sun. In the rainy season it provided firewood. At night the spirits of the ancestors hid in its branches and watched over the sleep of the living. When they were displeased they showed it by making faint sounds, at once mysterious and as clear as a code. Then those experienced enough to decipher them shook their heads and said: ‘Beware – tonight our fathers have spoken!’

  Anyone who crossed the threshold of the Traore compound knew at once what sort of people they were, guessed that they owned plenty of good land planted with millet, cotton and fonio, worked by hundreds of slaves – house slaves and captives. There were storerooms crammed with bags full of cowrie shells and gold dust lavishly bestowed by the king, the Mansa. In a paddock behind the huts were Arab steeds, purchased from the Moors. Signs of wealth were everywhere.

  And why was the outer courtyard empty now, which was usually swarming with people? With girls and boys, all naked, the first with a string of beads or cowrie shells around their waists, the second with only a cotton string. With women pounding or sieving millet, or spinning cotton as they listened to the jokes of a jester or the epics of a griot singing for a dish of gruel. With men chatting together as they sharpened arrows for hunting or whetted farming implements. Dousika, getting more and more vexed, went on into the second courtyard, overlooked by the huts of his three wives and of Sira, his concubine.

  He found the latter lying prostrate on a mat, her beautiful face gleaming with sweat and distorted with suffering.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he barked.

  She made an effort to sit up, and said in her imperfect Bambara, ‘By the river, koke.’

  ‘By the river?’ he almost yelled. ‘What are they all doing there?’

  ‘A white man!’ she managed to murmur. ‘There’s a white man on the bank of the Joliba!’fn1

  A white man? Was the woman delirious? Dousika looked down at her belly, which was enormous under the loosely tied pagne,fn2 then up, apprehensively, at the clay walls of the hut. Alone with a woman about to give birth!

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked roughly, to hide his fear.

  ‘I think my time has come,’ she stammered apologetically.

  For several months, out of regard for the life she bore within her, Dousika hadn’t been near Sira, now pregnant for the second time. Similarly he was supposed, throughout the birth, to stay away from her, and only put in an appearance after the delivery, with the fetish priest, when she was already holding the baby in her arms. Might it not vex the ancestors if he were there while she was in labor? He was just hesitating about retreating and leaving her alone when Nya appeared, with one child on her back and two more clinging to her indigo cotton skirts.

  ‘Where were you?’ he exploded. ‘I can understand everyone else here losing their heads. But not you!’

  Without a word of explanation, still less one of apology, Nya moved past him and bent over Sira.

  ‘Have you had the pains for long?’

  ‘No,’ whispered the other. ‘They started just now.’

  From anyone else but Nya, Dousika wouldn’t have put up with such offhandedness, verging on impertinence. But she was his first wife, his bara muso, to whom he had delegated part of his authority and who could therefore address him as an equal. Moreover she’d been born a Kulibaly, related to the ancient ruling family of Segu, and noble though he himself was, Dousika couldn’t boast of such distinguished origins. It was Nya’s ancestors who had founded this city on the banks of the Joliba, which soon became the heart of a vast empire. It was the brothers of her ancestors who ruled over Kaarta. So the love Dousika bore her contained a large element of respect, almost fear. He withdrew, and in the outer courtyard ran into a messenger from the palace. The man threw himself down in the dust as a sign of respect, and from there saluted him.

  ‘You and the light!’

  Then came the motto of the T
raores: ‘Traore, Traore, Traore – the long-named man need not pay to cross the river.’

  Finally he delivered his message. ‘Traore, the Mansa wants you to come to the palace as quickly as possible!’

  Dousika was surprised.

  ‘The palace? But it’s not the day for the council!’

  The man looked up.

  ‘It’s not for the council. There’s a white man by the river, asking to see the Mansa …’

  ‘A white man?’

  So Sira wasn’t delirious! And Dousika had already heard of this white man. Some horsemen coming from Kaarta had said they’d met him riding a horse as exhausted as himself. But Dousika had thought it must be one of the stories women amuse children with in the evening, and had taken no notice. Now, putting on his conical hat, for the sun was beginning to rise in the sky, Dousika left his compound.

  In 1797, Segu, the city with 1,444 sacred balanza trees, each an earthly avatar of Pemba, god of creation – Segu, capital of the Bambara kingdom of the same name, was a vast place made up of four residential quarters built along the banks of the Joliba, which at this point was a good three hundred yards wide. The quarter known as Segu Korro contained the tomb of Biton Kulibaly, the founding father, while Segu See Korro could boast the palace of Mansa Monzon Diarra. A livelier place was not to be found within a radius of several days’ march. The main market was held in a big square surrounded with mud-roofed sheds divided by partitions of wood or woven matting. Here, women sold everything that could be sold: millet, onions, rice, sweet potatoes, smoked fish, fresh fish, peppers, shea butter and chickens, while craftsmen hung the products of their trade on strings: strips of woven cotton, sandals, saddles and finely decorated gourds. To the left was the slave market, where prisoners of war were crammed together, attached to one another by means of branches torn from saplings. Dousika disregarded this all-too-familiar sight. At the risk of lowering his dignity he hurried along, waving away the griots always lurking in the streets ready to sing the praises of well-born men.

  Segu was at the height of its glory. Its power stretched as far as the outskirts of Jenne, the great trading center on the banks of the Bani, and it was feared as far away as Timbuktu on the edge of the desert. The Fulani of Macina were Segu’s vassals and paid a heavy yearly tribute of cattle and gold. Admittedly, things had not always been like this. A hundred or a hundred and fifty years earlier, Segu was not numbered among the cities of the Sudan.fn3 It was only a village where Ngolo Kulibaly took refuge, while his brother Barangolo settled further north. Then Biton, his son, made friends with the god Faro, master of water and knowledge, and with his protection transformed a collection of daub huts into a proud city at whose name the Somono, Bozo, Dogon, Tuareg, Fulani and Sarakole people all trembled. Segu made war on them all, thus acquiring slaves who were either sold in its markets or made to work in its fields. War was the essence of Segu’s power and glory.

  If Dousika was hurrying it was because the Mansa’s summons reassured him, made him think he hadn’t fallen from favor as he’d feared. There were plenty of people at court who were envious of his closeness to Monzon Diarra and of the special relationship of jesting, friendship and mutual aid that existed between them. These people had taken advantage of Dousika’s attitude to war to whisper in Monzon’s ear, ‘Dousika Traore is the only one who opposes your glory. He says the Bambara have had enough of fighting. And it’s because, deep down, he’s jealous of you and your success. Don’t forget that his wife is a Kulibaly!’

  And gradually Dousika had seen mistrust dawn in Monzon’s eyes. Every time they looked at him they seemed to be asking, ‘Is he my friend or my enemy?’

  Dousika entered the palace courtyard. The palace was a magnificent building, the work of masons from Jenne, surrounded by a mud-brick wall as thick as the walls of a town. The wall had just one gate, watched over by a permanent guard armed with guns brought from the coast by the slave traders. Dousika passed through seven antechambers full of tondyonsfn4 to the council chamber, outside of which fetish priests were predicting the future by means of kola nuts and cowrie shells, while courtiers had to wait to be allowed into the Mansa’s presence.

  Monzon Diarra lay on an oxhide spread upon a dais, his left elbow propped on a goatskin pillow decorated with arabesques. He looked worried. With one hand he was stroking one of the two long braids that started on the top of his head and crossed under his chin. With the other he was toying with the ring in his left ear. Three slaves were fanning him. Two more crouched nearby, preparing snuff in little mortars and offering it to him in golden boxes.

  The council members were all present, and Dousika was furious to think he was the last arrival. Following the customary procedure he beat his breast and bowed low, then moved on his knees to his place beside his mortal enemy, Samake.

  Monzon Diarra had inherited the beauty of his mother Makoro, whose memory the griots still celebrated. His entire being inspired respect and terror, as if the kingship which his father Ngolo had usurped from Biton Kulibaly’s descendants had become legitimate in him. He wore a white cotton tunic woven on Segu’s finest looms, and white trousers held in at the waist with a wide belt. There was a strip of cotton around his head. His muscular arms were adorned not only with animal horns and teeth, supposedly for protection, but also with amulets confected by priests – finely worked little leather pouches containing verses from the Koran. He looked down at Dousika.

  ‘Well, Dousika,’ he laughed, ‘which of your wives has been keeping you?’

  All the fawning courtiers burst out laughing, while Dousika, restraining his anger, made his apology.

  ‘Master of energies,’ he said, ‘it is not long since your messenger reached me. See – I’ve come so fast I’m still perspiring …’

  After this interruption Tietiguiba Dante, the head griot, who conveyed the Mansa’s words to the assembly, rose and said: ‘The master of gods and men, he who sits on the royal hide, the great Mansa Monzon, has brought you here for a reason. There is a white man, white, with two red ears like embers, on the other bank of the river, asking to be received in audience. What does he want?’

  Then Tietiguiba sat down, and in accordance with the usual ceremony another griot rose. Everyone was in awe of Tietiguiba because of his intimacy with the king. His appearance was imposing. He wore a white and indigo cotton tunic, and on his head a crest trimmed with fur and cowrie shells. As he also acted as a spy, he let his eyes rest on each member of the council in turn, as if to appraise and then report on them. When the second griot had finished speaking, he stood up again.

  ‘The white man says he is not like a Moor. He does not want to buy or sell. He says he has come to look at the Joliba …’

  There was a shout of laughter. Were there no rivers in the white man’s country? And isn’t one river like another? No, it must be a trap – the white man didn’t want to reveal the true object of his visit.

  Dousika asked leave to speak.

  ‘Have the buguridalas and the morisfn5 been questioned?’ he said.

  ‘We didn’t wait for you to do that …’ murmured Samake.

  Once again Dousika got the better of his wrath and repeated his question. Tietiguiba answered.

  ‘They haven’t given any answer.’

  They’d given no answer? That showed how serious the situation was!

  ‘They say,’ Tietiguiba went on, ‘that whatever we do with this white man, others like him will come and multiply amongst us.’

  The members of the council stared at one another in amazement. White men come and live in Segu among the Bambara? It seemed impossible, whether they were friends or enemies! Dousika leaned forward and spoke to his friend Kone, sitting a little way off.

  ‘Have you seen this white man?’

  Unfortunately, in the silence, everyone could hear this rather childish question. The Mansa sat up.

  ‘If you want to see him,’ he said ironically, ‘he’s on the other side of the Joliba. With the women and children a
nd outcasts.’

  Once again the assembly burst into obsequious laughter, and again Dousika was the object of jokes and sarcastic remarks. But what did they really have against him? He was accused of speaking with a forked tongue. Of professing to hate war while taking his share of the booty; of getting rich without effort, since he seldom took part in any campaigns; of letting his familiarity with the Mansa and his wife’s royal origins go to his head, and looking down on everyone else; in short, of growing arrogant and vain. Some said he took after his father Fale, the haughtiest yerewolo who’d ever trod the streets of Segu, and who was punished by the gods with an ignominious death. His horse had thrown him in the middle of a swamp, where he’d struggled for hours before drowning.

  No one went so far as to wish such a fate on Dousika. But everyone at court thought a good lesson wouldn’t do him any harm.

  Meanwhile, Nya had been tending Sira.

  The two women were no longer alone. Because so many people had wanted to see the white man, the dugout canoes crossing the river had been crowded out, and many slaves, after hours of waiting, had been obliged to return disappointed to their tasks in the compound.

  Nya had sent in haste for Souka the midwife, who had delivered all Dousika’s wives and with her skillful hands revived more than one infant reluctant to enter the visible world. As she waited for Souka to arrive, Nya gave orders for certain plants to be burned to drive away evil spirits and help the milk to come. Then she returned to Sira, who was squatting in order to facilitate the birth.

  Sira occupied a special position in the compound. She was a Fulani, not a Bambara. Mansa Monzon, during an expedition against his Fulani vassals in Macina whose ardofn6 were always slow to pay their taxes, had, by way of reprisal, taken captive a dozen or so boys and girls selected from among the best families in the capital, Tenenkou. It was his intention to give them back as soon as the money was paid. But one day Dousika, crossing the palace courtyards on the way to a meeting of the council, had caught a glimpse of Sira and wanted her as his concubine. Because of the bonds between them, Monzon, though unwilling, had not been able to refuse. In due course the tax was paid and Sira’s family sent a delegation to get her back. But Dousika refused to let her go. Besides, it was too late: Sira was already pregnant. As she was both foreign and a captive, Dousika hadn’t been able to marry her, but it was plain that he preferred her to his legitimate partners, those who had the same language and the same gods as he.