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The False Prophet 1
Mahmoud Fall, with his bronze countenance, aquiline nose
and his rapid walk -- though not so rapid as the hawk-like
glance of his eyes -- came of a line of Senegalese Muslims,
faithfully abiding by his ancestors' motto, 'What is mine
belongs to me, but there is nothing to stop us sharing what is
yours', he did no work. Or to be exact, he did not like killing
himself with work. When children slyly asked him,
'Mahmoud, why aren't there any cats where you come from?'
he would answer, 'I don't really know.'
It was his way of avoiding saying that cats, like him, liked to
be fed without doing anything -- which is why there are none
to be seen in Upper Senegal. The land there is arid, and the
inhabitants erect their tents at nightfall and strike them at
dawn. An animal cannot live at man's expense when man is a
nomad. Like clings to like, it is said. But these two shun each
other. And any cat seen perchance in that country is a pitiful
sight.
Mahmoud Fall, tired of doing nothing, with his pockets
empty, had decided to journey towards the sunset and the
country of the Bilals. In his view these ebony-skinned men
were his inferiors, only good for guarding the harem, after
having been castrated which eliminates disputes over the
paternity of the children.
When he reached Senegal, Mahmoud Fall changed his
name. He called himself Aidra, a name which opened all doors
to him. He was received everywhere with the respect due to
his rank. Having studied the Koran in Mauretania --
something that the Senegalese always regard with respect -- he
profited from his knowledge of the Holy Book, presiding over
prayers and sinking into interminable genuflexions. The local people were awestruck; they considered it a very great honour
to have a descendant of the noble Aidra as their Imam.
Like his counterpart the cat, Mahmoud arched his back
under all these praises. As nature had endowed him with a
fine singing voice he was able to delight those around him,
making every effort to modulate the syllables before flattening
them at the end of each verse. He spent the time between each
of the five daily prayers squatting on a sheepskin and telling
his beads.
When mealtime came, Mahmoud insisted upon being served
apart from the others. The only thanks he gave was to
sprinkle children and adults with his abundant spittle. They
all rubbed this over their faces, saying 'Amen, amen'. One
wonders what Mahmoud thought of all this in the secrecy of his
conscience and when he was alone with God.
Being used to moving around, he went from compound to
compound and was always received according to the traditional code: 'To each stranger his bowl.' The guest did not refuse
anything at first, but as the days went by he became more and
more fastidious. According to him, couscous prevented him
from sleeping and he complained of indigestion. As his hosts
were anxious to remain on the path which leads to Paradise,
they cooked special dishes likely to appeal to such a discerning
palate as his. But to make certain he did not hesitate at times to
go into the kitchen to order what he fancied. That was the
brotherly aspect.
Besides being well fed, Mahmoud Fall was amassing small
coins, though he never considered there were enough of them
for the trouble he was taking. These blacks definitely had a low
regard for the value of prayer. And there was another thing-
why did they persist in keeping cats? Each time he saw one in a
house he felt his hair stand on end, just like the fur of an angry
tom-cat. He pulled a face and chased the cat out. Sometimes he
preached on the uselessness of cats.
Despite these trifling annoyances, Mahmoud Fall felt that
over the months his reputation as a preacher was growing.
Learned and holy men everywhere, the talebs, marabouts and
tafsirs, had but one phrase on their lips: 'Souma Narr, Souma
Narr (My Moor, My Moor).' Mahmoud secretly thought they
were mad. 'Souma Narr! My Moor. Why my? Has anyone ever
To be continued |
