The Fury and Cries of Women

by Angèle Rawiri

  There is less of a dispute among critics, however, with regard to The Fury. Kassa, for example, does not hesitate to label the work as a feminist novel (30). In her analysis, she posits that in this novel, “man is no longer master. It no longer suffices that man merely possesses the attributes of power to rule, he still needs to exercise it effectively. Thus, Joseph’s wife places him in a situation of inferiority. . . . Just as man defines himself through the phallus, it matters for a woman to possess an attribute that is just as important: having a child. . . . Motherhood for Emilienne is thus a sign of power and achievement. . . . Here, sexual and economic power is no longer masculine but feminine” (34–35).

  Unlike early Western feminism that tended to view motherhood as enslavement for women, based in part on theories brought forth by Simone de Beauvoir in Le deuxième sexe (1949, The Second Sex, 1953, 2012),10 one finds the opposite in Rawiri’s novel—the empowerment of women through motherhood—and this idea is essential to African feminisms and thus is typically found in African women’s writing. These conflicting ideologies provide ample reasons as to why African and Western feminisms have traditionally clashed. It is not surprising that Rawiri accentuates this fundamental difference within feminism through the voice of Emilienne describing what she perceives to be a threat to women’s exclusive power: “If doctors’ laboratory experiments proved successful and if governments gave their okay, in a dozen years or so, men would be able to carry pregnancies to full term and give birth. As if, their reign in politics and business not enough, they were slyly attempting to rob women of their only power” (122).

  Although she does not always see it this way, Emilienne is nearly always in control of her situation within her family and society, and indeed, there are few female protagonists in African literature like her. Admittedly, this does not mean that everything can come without sacrifice or feelings of isolation. One of the few protagonists in African women’s writing worthy of comparison to Emilienne is perhaps Esi found in the novel Changes: A Love Story, written by the celebrated Ghanian author Ama Ata Aidoo. Like Emilienne, Esi is a well-educated and career-oriented woman, in addition to being a wife and mother, who has more than sufficient finances to take care of herself and her family. Emilienne and Esi both earn more than their husbands, and both harbor feelings of guilt at times concerning their daughters, Rékia and Ogyaanowa, respectively, whose affective needs may not have been met because of the time-consuming positions their mothers hold.

  Like Emilienne and Joseph, Esi and her first husband, Oko, have grown distant over the years. In The Fury, Emilienne herself tries to understand this “drifting away” a couple can experience: “How strange it is that people who have such high regard for one another and who love each other cannot live together for long before their relationship starts to deteriorate” (80). In Changes, Esi eventually divorces Oko after he resorts to marital rape in an attempt to show her who is boss, a scene reminiscent of one in The Fury in which Rawiri describes one of Joseph’s rare returns to the house: “He had made love to her like a drunkard throwing himself on a prostitute he’d picked up off some obscure roadside” (28).

  Having always felt that her monogamous marriage takes away too much time from her professional responsibilities, Esi eventually decides to enter into a polygamous marriage as a second wife, reasoning that this might allow her to love a man while simultaneously reserving time for her career and for herself.11 Both Emilienne and Esi realize in the end that marriage and the presence of an extended family offer no guarantee as cures for loneliness. Both women come to the conclusion that it may well be preferable to continue on one’s own in a pursuit of true happiness. Concerning Emilienne in particular but certainly applicable in theory to Esi as well, Odile Cazenave states in her book Femmes rebelles (1996; Rebellious Women, 1999), “Rather than put up with an unhappy marriage and suffer her husband’s infidelities and her mother-in-law’s rebuffs, the young woman opts for a new beginning, alone and without marital constraints, a new life in which she can be committed to her own professional development” (33).

  Both Rawiri and Aidoo render very credible accounts to which most women can fundamentally relate regardless of culture. Each author sends a most realistic message—unfortunately, women may not be able to “have it all.” After a particularly trying day with her family, Emilienne recalls a quotation from an article in a women’s magazine that speaks to her: “A woman is never completely satisfied. Whereas some enjoy professional success, others build a solid marriage based on love, and then there are those who have children to feel fulfilled. No woman, however, manages to enjoy all three. And if there are women out there who are perfectly happy, who have brought these three together, they are extremely rare, and, in our opinion, if they have even two of these, that is a great achievement” (100).

  In addition to societal pressures that every woman faces, it is also the human being’s ultimate need to be loved and the fear of living and dying alone that explains why women like Emilienne and Esi feel obliged to make compromises regarding their feminism. Rawiri and Aidoo do not wish to diminish the power of their protagonists by uncovering this truth, but rather do so to paint an accurate picture of what life really holds for the modern African woman, a reality not unlike one lived by any successful, career-oriented woman. In this manner, these examples of African women’s writing continue to be instructive for readers from any culture.

  Rebellion and Disobedience

  Emilienne is more than a rebellious woman; she is disobedient—a protagonist who does an about-face and ultimately does what she wants, disregarding or circumventing reactions from family and society and deciding that she cares little in the end about appearances, for she realizes that the impressions of others have for too long been a determining factor of her behavior. During the most troubled times in their marriage, Emilienne’s general disobedience leads her husband, Joseph, to reevaluate their future together: He reasons, “She is a remarkable homemaker and a perfect mother when all is well. My dream would be for her to raise all the children I have with my lovers. That’s what some wives do in her situation. Only here’s the problem, I fell for an intellectual who refuses to break certain barriers” (103). Emilienne refuses the traditional family of her society—that is, the extended family plus the mistress—even in the context of her infertility, a situation in which even her own mother agrees it would be acceptable for Joseph to find another woman to give him children (96). As Emilienne does not consider her infertility to be the prime source of conflict in their marriage, she refuses to see polygamy as justifiable in this or in any case. She attempts to explain to Joseph just how flawed such reasoning is, shouting in frustration: “Is that it! If I have a child, you will leave your mistress. If I have a child, you will love me again. If I have a child, your mother will embrace me and my family will be satisfied. In a word, everything will be back to normal” (105–6).

  The distinction between a rebellious woman and a disobedient one is indeed intriguing and worth analyzing here. In literature, one can cite countless examples of the rebellious woman who may seem more defiant in thought than in action. In Simone de Beauvoir’s La femme rompue (1967; The Woman Destroyed, 1969), Monique appears to be a subservient housewife, but we see her displeasure with what society dictates for women through notes in her personal diary. Similarly, by means of a series of letters written to a friend in Une si longue lettre (1986; So Long a Letter, 1989), the Senegalese author Mariama Bâ has her protagonist, Ramatoulaye, explain her shock at her husband’s taking on a much younger second wife after twenty-five years of marriage together. Few protagonists, however, can earn the distinction of “disobedient” in the way Rawiri’s Emilienne does. The rebellious woman struggles against certain realities and nearly always gains the respect of the reader in doing so. The disobedient woman goes a step further, setting herself apart from the rebellious woman in that the former ultimately chooses to opt out of the lifestyle that will gain her respect or make her existence in society mor
e comfortable. The disobedient woman is strong, but she is not necessarily a winner. She may not even win over the reader in all cases, he or she who is the ultimate interpreter of her life. Ultimately, readers will not cast negative judgment upon Monique or Ramatoulaye for being devoted mothers. However, the same readers may be disappointed in Emilienne for linking her affection for Rékia to the status of her relationship with Joseph (31), or they may be shocked when Emilienne physically assaults her elderly mother-in-law (63), even though the latter certainly provoked a strong response. The disobedient woman is perceived as aggressive, frank, distant, and unforgiving at times, and while these characteristics may be interpreted as signs of strength and determination in men, history proves that women who exhibit these traits are not seen in the same positive light by society. The Martinican writer Fabienne Kanor gives two important reasons as to why this is so through the words of her protagonist, Louise, in the novel Anticorps (2010; Antibody). First, when it comes to any relationship within the family, woman is simply not allowed to be “fundamentally selfish” (37), and second, even if she manages to be, “only the most terribly courageous of women will be able to find it easy to finish her life alone” (117). Perhaps this is why Rawiri chose to end her novel with the revelation that her protagonist is pregnant (194), as this leaves the reader somewhat relieved that Emilienne no longer risks ultimate loneliness after evicting her husband and extended family from the house. The pregnancy thus spares Emilienne from failure and pity. Odile Cazenave also offers an interesting interpretation of the ending of The Fury. That is, failure lies not with Emilienne but rather with Joseph and Eyang, who are ultimately thrown out of the house (Cazenave 32). Ironically, they will never enjoy the child Emilienne is carrying; she will see to it that they are deprived of this for all the suffering they have imposed upon her. Cazenave also posits that closing the novel with a pregnant Emilienne is indeed significant: “According to tradition, [Emilienne’s] pregnancy means that she has returned to normal” (32).

  Although Emilienne’s disobedience is most apparent at the end of the novel, she has from the beginning exhibited signs of intolerance of family and societal values that she has deemed oppressive and archaic. Emilienne imposes the same standards of behavior for in-laws as for her own parents, as all were initially against her interethnic marriage with Joseph. Of course, she is the most disappointed in her own mother’s reaction, and she insists, “I am saddened to have to go against you, Mother. I don’t expect Father will approve either. When you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me, if I haven’t gone back to France. Good-bye!” (16). Emilienne’s relationship with her parents improves only because they come to accept and respect her choice of husband, something that her mother-in-law, Eyang, at no time is sincerely willing to do.

  According to Jean-Marie Volet, Emilienne chose the man whom she was to marry and would have continued to love him unconditionally if only he had continued to treat her with respect and dignity (135). Likewise, Emilienne’s abysmal relationship with her mother-in-law, Eyang, has at its core the elder woman’s disappointment that Emilienne does not conform to her vision of a suitable wife for her son. Emilienne remains unapologetic for this, however, and refuses to treat her mother-in-law with respect if the respect is not reciprocated. The only time this happens is when Eyang decides on a brief truce with her daughter-in-law, one that ironically becomes threatening to Joseph, who fears for his power in the household if his wife and his mother join forces in solidarity against him (83). His fear is short-lived, however, as Eyang’s dislike for Emilienne soon resurfaces as before.

  At the end of The Fury, Emilienne overhears a conversation between Joseph and Eyang during which she is made aware of just how much her mother-in-law has been involved in the couple’s private affairs. Although Joseph defends his decision to stay with Emilienne instead of conceding to his mother’s wishes (that is, living exclusively with his mistress and their two children), this conversation proves more than Emilienne can tolerate (192–93)—the proverbial last straw. As a final act of ultimate disobedience, Emilienne gives the entire family (Joseph, his mother, and her nephews) until that same evening to vacate her home (193). After all, it is her home, purchased with her salary from a coveted government position as director of administrative affairs. Her earnings far exceed Joseph’s meager salary as a civil servant. Emilienne has financially supported not only Joseph and their daughter, Rékia (that is, until her tragic murder), but also his mother and two nephews, who live with her as well. African literature has provided many portraits of women in vulnerable positions, especially widows who stand to lose their home and belongings to the family of their deceased husband, or worse yet, face being “inherited” by a brother-in-law as if they were a possession, as is the case for Awu in Justine Mintsa’s Histoire d’Awu (2000; Story of Awu). But relatively early in African women’s writing, The Fury provided us with the rare example of a female protagonist who makes the decision to “repudiate” her husband (Kassa 135). The novel ends with a triumphal image of Emilienne returning home that evening after the departure of the family: “There, in the distance, was a house, her house, which now sat empty” (194).

  The power that Emilienne exhibits at the end of The Fury has many dimensions, and therefore it is difficult to define. Emilienne’s professional and financial success automatically accord Rawiri’s protagonist some power, even though it may not be exactly what Emilienne had hoped for after so many years of work and marriage. As Jean-Marie Volet explains, “If one considers power to be not only the simple ability to impose one’s will to achieve a predetermined goal, but rather the ability to challenge others and their limited vision of numerous and contradicting forces that influence and justify exchanges and social behaviors, Rawiri’s heroines in this case have considerable impact” (145). Volet continues to explain in the chapter on Rawiri in his book La parole aux Africaines (1993; African women speak out) that Emilienne’s power is a defensive one that protects her from her husband’s selfishness and from his need to dominate (149). Volet states, “Her power represents rather her right to speak: her capacity not only to be heard but to be listened to; and also to withdraw and to pull out of the game when the other players try to lock her into a discourse that works to their advantage alone” (149).

  So the question remains, is The Fury and Cries of Women pessimistic or is Rawiri’s novel quite simply an example of African realism? If a self-declared feminist in words and actions cannot manage to have a near-perfect life despite her financial and intellectual advantages, what hope is there for women of lower classes who will never enjoy such a status? Why does Rawiri exhibit this desire to remind us, as Volet explains it, that “even at the top of the pyramid, the possibilities are limited” (133)?

  Presenting an interesting comparison, Phil Powrie emphasizes in his essay “Rereading between the Lines: A Postscript on La femme rompue” that feminists had criticized Simone de Beauvoir for giving “such a pessimistic view of women’s situation” (328). In Tout compte fait (1972; All Said and Done, 1974), Simone de Beauvoir responds to this criticism by explaining, “I did not feel compelled to choose exemplary heroines. To describe failure, error, insincerity, this, as it seems to me, does not betray anyone” (145). Powrie continues by saying that Beauvoir “could not have done other than present a pessimistic view, given the absence of a strongly articulated tradition of women’s writing” (328), a context that can certainly apply to Angèle Rawiri as the first female novelist of Gabon. Powrie then explains how contemporary fiction is problematic and therefore doubly so for the woman writer, making her “no less entombed than her heroines” (329).

  Innovations and Questions

  The Fury and Cries of Women is a gem not only of African literature but of women’s writing in general. Rawiri raises important questions and speaks frankly about issues that had never been touched on before in African writing, especially by a female author. Even when Rawiri does raise subjects that have been commonly discussed, such as in
fertility, she comes at these from new angles, adding to the innovativeness of the novel.

  The consequences of infertility for an African woman regardless of her social class was a subject first presented in Kuoh-Moukoury’s Rencontres essentielles in 1969. The fact that Rawiri also chose to contribute to that discussion some thirty years later shows how timely and urgent the matter has remained.12 Indeed, there are some similarities in the handling of the subject by these two authors. Both Kuoh-Moukoury’s Flo and Rawiri’s Emilienne are highly educated, progressive, and urban-dwelling African women. Yet all these advantages do not necessarily prevent these contemporary women from perceiving their infertility as catastrophic. By all appearances, Flo and Emilienne have abandoned traditional roles and thinking. Yet their desperation causes them to pursue every possible avenue of traditional and modern medicine. Flo and Emilienne are persuaded by family members to seek out traditional healers, although both women are embarrassed by this decision in the end. The rituals associated with these consultations are described in great detail in both novels, and readers may wonder what these two authors had to gain by reinforcing stereotypes that make African practices appear “primitive.” However, it must be pointed out that Kuoh-Moukoury and Rawiri also show the repeated failures of modern medicine in each protagonist’s individual case. In fact, at the end of The Fury, Emilienne’s sister, Eva, dies in labor because of the incompetence of the hospital staff and her doctor. Although the novel closes with the revelation that Emilienne is pregnant, the reader is not so certain that this is to the credit of the expertise of her renowned gynecologist, who has also advised her to consult a hypnotist—a suggestion that provokes a predictable reaction from Emilienne’s sister: “He advised you to go see a hypnotist so you can have children? I didn’t think there were any in this country. And how can a doctor ask a patient to go see a hypnotist! It’s like asking you to go see a witch doctor!” (133).