The Lamp at the Evening Market

Awa wove by the lagoon, at the hour the canoes come home. The traveller sat on the bench uninvited, placed a copper lamp on the unrolled cloth and said:

“I have no notes. I pay for your cloth with this.”

The lamp burned without kerosene. Awa looked at the flame, then at the woman.

“It has a law,” the traveller said. “In front of it, if you lie, it goes out. If you speak true, it comes back. That is all.”

“And if I say nothing?”

“It waits. It knows how to wait.”

The traveller rolled the cloth under her arm and walked toward the landing. Awa stayed before the flame. She thought: I owe nobody anything. The lamp went out.

She laughed alone and said aloud: “I owe the attiéké seller two thousand francs.” The flame came back.

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By morning the whole village knew. People came to see the lamp the way they go to see a python at the market. Each one said a sentence, the lamp answered, and they left with a low head or a light heart.

On the third evening a young man in a white shirt stopped at the house. He came from Chief Kouassi.

“The chief will pass tomorrow,” he said. “Prepare your price.”