SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

Chapter 3: Mothers, mirrors and whispers

In the living room of the Sow house, the scent of incense burned slowly in a corner, tracing lazy arabesques in the air. Sokhna Aïssatou, Sarata's mother, was sitting on the carpet, back straight, knees tucked under her cream basin loincloth embroidered with gold thread. She had just finished the Asr prayer. Hands still raised, she uttered a final invocation, eyelids closed, before slowly turning her head towards her husband.

- Sheikh... you have something to tell me.

It wasn't a question. It was an affirmation. The certainty of a woman who knows her man like the breath she takes.

Cheikh Sow cleared his throat gently. He sat down beside her, but kept a cautious distance. He knew it was a minefield.

- I met Moustapha Fall earlier," he murmured.

Aïssatou's eyes crinkled. Just a little. A blink, but it spoke volumes.

- And what is this heritage thief doing here, under my roof?

Sheikh inhaled slowly. He placed his rosary beside him.

- He wants Sarata to be married to his son. Abdoul Kabir.

The silence was immediate. And icy.

Aïssatou didn't answer immediately. She lowered her eyes slowly, as if trying to understand a foreign language. Then she raised her gaze, straight and piercing.

- The same Abdoul Kabir who was expelled from a hotel in Abidjan for throwing a bottle at a DJ? The same guy who changes his girlfriend like his shirt? You mean to tell me that's who you want to give Sarata? Our Sarata?

Sheikh straightened up a little, defensively.

- He has his faults, yes. But he runs one of the country's largest distribution groups. He's stable. Rich. He just needs...

- He just needs a miracle," corrected Aïssatou, her voice as sharp as a fine blade. And you want this miracle to be called Sarata? My daughter? The one who spends her days between the mosque, her classes and the orphanage? You want to take this flower away from me and plant it in a rubbish dump?

Sheikh opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn't seen that image coming. Nor the silent anger burning in his wife's eyes.

- I understand your fear. But this marriage can solidify our position. Restore balance between our families. And Sarata, she's a strong woman.

Aïssatou looked at him for a long time. Then she whispered, lowering her eyes:

- Even strong women drown when the water is too dirty.

A few miles away, in the Fall house, the contrast was striking. The living room was vast, air-conditioned and modern. Multicoloured cushions dotted the ivory leather sofas. The TV was on, without sound, on a clip channel. And in this luxurious setting, the queen of the house, Daba Fall, clapped her hands in delight.

- Sarata? Sarata Sow? "But this is a gift from heaven, Moustapha!" she exclaimed, turning to her husband, her eyes shining.

Moustapha, sitting back in his armchair, smiled. He'd been expecting this reaction.

- How well do you know her?

- The whole town knows her. Serious, pious, well-educated, never a scandal. A girl you'd think came out of a hadith! Just what our Abdoul Kabir needs.

Moustapha nodded.

- I told myself the same thing.

But Daba stood up, waving her scarf in all directions, as if seized by a sudden euphoria.

- Allah is Great! Because if we let him choose, this boy will end up bringing home a stripper! Look at him: always out, always surrounded, always in trouble. I swear, even his driver doesn't know where he sleeps sometimes.

Moustapha smiled, amused.

- Do you think she can channel it?

- If she can't, no one can. That girl is rock. And we need a rock. Because our son... our son is a firefighter.

She paused, put her hand on his chest, and added more quietly:

- And sometimes, only a rock can stop a fire.

Two women. Two visions. Two worlds.