The Price of the Night

The lamp's fame soon travelled past the lagoon.

One evening, a 4x4 stopped in front of the house. Out stepped a big merchant from the city, perfumed, hurried, with hands that had never carried anything.

"I have been told about your lamp," he said. "I will give you the price of ten houses for it. New roofing sheets included."

"It is not for sale."

"Everything is for sale. Knowing that is my trade."

Awa set down her shuttle and looked at him calmly.

"It does not belong to me. It is here, that is all. One does not sell a stranger one is hosting."

The merchant smiled, bowed too low, and climbed back into his 4x4.

That night, the wind shook the mango trees, and the village dogs barked once — only once.

In the morning, the bench was bare.

The lamp was gone.

In its place, squared neatly under a stone, a thick wad of banknotes.

The thief had paid.

Awa looked at the money for a long time without touching it. Then she sat down at her loom, as she did every morning, and went back to weaving.

The neighbours came running, protested, swore, offered to fetch the gendarmes, the chief, the pastor.

"Something must be done!"

"I am doing something," said Awa without looking up. "I am weaving."

"But the lamp!"

"It has a law," said Awa. "You have all seen it. It goes out before a lie, and it waits for the truth."

She knotted a thread and cut it with her nail.

"A man who steals such a lamp carries it into a house full of lies. I would not want to sleep in his house."

That very evening, in the city, the merchant set the copper lamp in the middle of his big air-conditioned sitting room, among the carpets and the trophies.

He struck a match and held it to the wick.

The flame caught, trembled, seemed almost to look at him —

and went out.