by Keisha Bush
“Two hundred fifty.”
“I need three hundred for Marabout!”
“I have even less—Marabout won’t be mad if you’re short. You’re the baby. But if I’m short, I’ll get beat. Plus, I’m sure you’ll find more money before we get home, it’s only vingt-un heures.”
Ibrahimah snatches his can and stomps off. During the hour-and-a-half trek back to the two-room shanty Marabout rents in the working-class neighborhood of Ouakam, Ibrahimah contemplates how to get his money back from his cousin. Passing by a boutique, he stops short.
“I want my Coca!”
“Aye! Wait. I promised him Coca,” Étienne calls out to the boys walking up ahead.
The group turns back and gathers in front of the boutique, waiting for the customer at the counter to finish.
“Give me a big coin,” Étienne says, holding his hand out.
“What?” Ibrahimah asks, frowning at Étienne.
“I’m buying you Coca. Give me the money for it.”
“No. You said you were buying me Coca after you took my big coin. Now do it! I can’t give you more money!”
“Well, I don’t have enough to buy you Coca, so I guess nothing for you.”
“You’re a liar. Give me back my coin!” Ibrahimah yells, pushing Étienne.
“No, you already gave it to me.”
“You took it. You lie. No!”
The two cousins stand off like two rams ready for a showdown when the customer ahead of them, a light-skinned black man dressed in a dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a crimson blood-red tie, turns to walk past them. His dark-brown leather shoes are shiny even on the sandy walkway. Étienne rushes up behind the man, leaving Ibrahimah with dried snot crusted on his upper lip and a frown.
“Bonsoir, monsieur, l’argent, s’il vous plaît,” Étienne says.
“I want Coca!” Ibrahimah yells at Étienne.
The man turns around and looks down.
“Bonsoir, petit gars, qu’est-ce que tu veux?” he asks with an American accent.
“L’argent, s’il vous plaît,” Étienne says to the man again.
The man runs his hands over his flat pockets. “Pour manger?”
The other boys have crept in closer to hear the exchange and sing out a unified “Oui!”
“Oh! It’s a group of you,” the man says in English, laughing as the boys circle around him.
“Give the man space! Don’t harass my customers!” the clerk behind the counter scolds in Wolof, though the boys ignore him.
“Okay then, qu’est-ce que tu vas manger?”
“Coca!” the boys yell out in unison.
“Coca-Cola? You all look pretty dehydrated to me.”
The blank expressions on the faces of the boys remind the man to revert back to French.
“Tu ne veux pas de l’eau?” he asks.
“Coca!” they scream out again, giggling.
“Why is this man talking about water? I want Coca,” Ibrahimah grumbles.
“He’ll buy us Coca, don’t worry. He’s nice, I can tell,” Étienne assures, looking the man up and down.
“If he doesn’t buy us Coca, you better give me my money back!” Ibrahimah threatens.
Ibrahimah looks around at the other boys pushing up against his small body. He’s not convinced they’ll get what they want from this man. He inches over to Étienne, who is distracted with the lure of food, and slides his hand into his cousin’s can. Étienne moves before Ibrahimah can grab the money inside.
Laughing, the customer takes several sodas out of the lukewarm refrigerator and hands them over to the boys with the instructions to share. He starts to pull money out of his pocket, then stops and grabs several yogurts, placing them on the counter alongside seven plain madeleines. He pays with a bright crisp ten-thousand-franc note. The clerk smiles at the man and thanks him for his kindness. The boys gather outside by the entrance of the boutique, filling their bellies with Coca-Cola, French pastry, and sweet-flavored yogurt in plastic tubes that they can suck out.
The clerk behind the counter scolds them again about their bad manners. They yell out in thanks after the man, and he turns around in time to see them reciting prayers while cupping their hands in front of their faces. He smiles and waves before turning the corner.
“See, Ibrahimah?” Étienne says between gulps of Coca-Cola. “You shared your money with me and you get more in return. You have Coca, cake, and enough money that Marabout won’t be too mad.”
Ibrahimah’s cheeks are too stuffed with cake to argue. Maybe Étienne is right.
* * *
—
Dingy white walls greet him inside the two-room house. Ibrahimah lines up with the other boys in two rows, his can clasped tight to his chest. His sugar high from the soda and cake is tempered by what is to come next.
“Diatu! Bring me my water,” the woman next door yells at her daughter. The walls are so thin she sounds like she’s standing right next to Marabout Ahmed. Ibrahimah hopes his teacher is in a good mood.
“You’re back early. I assume this means everyone is successful,” Ahmed says.
Ibrahimah stares at the man in front of him and hopes someone else will approach first, but no one budges. He glances at a Quran sitting on the shelf above Marabout’s head. A thick layer of dust blankets the dark-green book.
“Don’t stand there looking stupid. Bring me my money!”
Nine-year-old Abdoulaye steps forward and drops three hundred francs into Marabout Ahmed’s hand. Marabout counts it carefully, and when the amount is confirmed, he grunts in approval. Abdoulaye then hands him four sugar cubes and a packet of raw peanuts. Ahmed motions for the boy to drop the expensive little white cubes in a bowl beside him and waves the peanuts away. Abdoulaye stifles his smile, walking over to the far corner of the room to stuff the raw nuts into his mouth. No other boy in the house dares try to steal them from him with Marabout in the room.
Ibrahimah loathes the evenings. None of the walking or begging he does all day compares to the pain he experiences every time he hands his hard-earned money to the ugly, sweaty man in front of him. His heart races in fear as Marabout counts the dirty coins before placing them in the long black stocking he keeps with him at all times.
“Where is the rest?”
Ibrahimah would never share his extra food with Marabout; the man is fat enough, with his big bloated belly.
“It’s all there,” Ibrahimah says in a small voice, wishing he hadn’t dropped the sugar cubes earlier that morning.
Marabout Ahmed wears the same dull, black boubou every day, the traditional African robe, purposefully designed three times the size of the person wearing it. His boubou has lost its luster after so many washes, yet it never loses the scent of the strong oils he wears to mask the smell of his sweat. Ibrahimah still finds his teacher stinks.
“You’re missing fifty francs,” Marabout Ahmed says, ignoring Ibrahimah’s assurances.
Ibrahimah drops his head.
“I thought I counted right. I’m so stupid. Please have mercy on me, Teacher.”
Ibrahimah sneaks a peek over to Étienne, who is looking down at his feet. Ibrahimah stands there for several moments, his body clenched tight in anticipation of the wooden cane. Without warning Ibrahimah’s stomach gurgles loudly into the quiet room and Marabout laughs out loud.
“Get out of my face,” he says with a wave of his hand.
Ibrahimah does not need to hear him twice. He heads out of the house before any of the other boys. Outside, the streets are pitch-black but for a lantern or candle flickering inside someone’s small shanty. Ibrahimah stands at the bottom of the front stairs while his eyes take a moment to adjust.
“One day I will be a marabout,” Abdoulaye states, bounding down the stairs.
“That’s stupid. Marabout i
s lazy and mean,” Ibrahimah says, turning to look at his friend.
“Lazy, mean, and rich.”
Ibrahimah broods over this a moment. Étienne exits the house with Fatik close on his heels.
“You’d beat your Talibé?” Ibrahimah asks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that,” Abdoulaye says.
“Would Talibé work hard if they didn’t get beat?” Étienne asks, walking past Ibrahimah and motioning them to follow him out onto the road.
“Maybe,” Abdoulaye says.
“Marabout is wicked,” Ibrahimah says.
An awkward silence falls upon the small group.
“I’m going to play football for Senegal!” Fatik interjects.
Eleven-year-old Fatik’s face is hard and weathered and he doesn’t tug the heartstrings of adults as easily as Ibrahimah, the youngest boy in the house. Stepping on a stone, Ibrahimah yells out in pain.
“Be careful!” Étienne says, grabbing his elbow.
“I’m okay.”
“I play football better than you,” Abdoulaye challenges.
“What? You play stupid. I beat you every time!” Fatik exclaims, slapping at Abdoulaye’s shoulder.
“How will you play for Senegal, eh? You’re just a Talibé, nobody cares about you,” Abdoulaye says, pulling a few steps away from Fatik’s reach.
“How will you be a marabout?” Fatik asks, his lips pursed in doubt.
With only a sliver of moonlight present the boys walk in silence down the wide streets of Ouakam, in a loop around their block, as Ibrahimah ponders the major question in their lives. What do Talibé become when they grow up and Marabout no longer wants them? He shakes the thought from his mind. He’s going home soon; his parents want him back.
Back in front of the two-room house they spot the rest of their brothers, the last seven of the houseful of twenty-one boys, entering with hunched silhouettes and tattered clothes. They arrive late every evening and within moments Marabout’s voice can be heard from inside.
“I house you, feed you, and teach you the Quran! All you have to do is bring back money to make this possible. What am I to do with one hundred francs! You play all day, not work!”
The sound of Ahmed’s cane pounding against the body of a boy travels out the front door and into the street where they stand.
“He doesn’t feed us or teach us the Quran. He does nothing,” Fatik grumbles.
Abdoulaye shushes him for fear that Ahmed will hear them.
“He can’t hear us out here, he’s too busy with that stupid boy who eats his money and gets beat every night,” Fatik says, louder this time with more confidence.
An hour after the candles are blown out and the boys are ordered to go to sleep, Ibrahimah stares out into the dark and sinister space before him.
“Ibrahimah!” Ahmed calls again, from the cracked bedroom door. Ibrahimah’s eyes well up with tears of dread. Rising to his feet he starts toward the voice. Fear grips at his stomach and his bare feet skim the cool tiled floor when a thought flashes across his mind and he turns back to his mat.
“Étienne,” he whispers.
“What?”
“You go. It’s your turn.”
“What? No,” Étienne whispers back.
“You took my money today and I didn’t have enough.”
“But he called your name!”
“I’m sick. I poo-poo everywhere,” Ibrahimah says, giving his cousin the lie to convey to their marabout.
“Don’t let me come out there!” Marabout threatens from his bedroom doorway.
Ibrahimah lies back down on his mat, his arms crossed against his tiny chest. “You want me to share my money so you don’t get beat, you go.”
Étienne gets up with a sigh of resignation and maneuvers through the gridlock of bodies on the floor.
“Where’s Ibrahimah?” Ahmed asks, annoyed at the sight of Étienne. “He was short my money so he makes it up to me tonight.”
“He’s sick,” Étienne says. “He poos everywhere.”
“Eck. Leave him then. Shut the door,” Ahmed says, spitting out the shell of a sunflower seed onto the floor. The candle on the nightstand casts dancing shadows across his sweaty face and long white dashiki.
The low rumble of Marabout’s voice can be heard outside the closed door as Étienne’s howls of pain diminish to grunts, then a low whimper. Twenty sets of eyes are open as the boys lie on the ratty pieces of cardboard. No one makes a sound or moves an inch in the mosquito-infested room. One boy throws his hands up to cover his ears, and begins to murmur something under his breath. He receives a frantic jab in the ribs from the boy lying down beside him.
“Shut up!” the boy hisses.
Ibrahimah lies there quiet, too afraid to breathe or blink. He’s filled with relief that it’s not him with Marabout tonight, but knowing that Étienne is inside bearing the pain alone leaves him no peace. With tears in a free-fall down his dirty cheeks, fatigue overtakes his tiny body. He falls into a fitful sleep as he runs from the devil, fast on his heels.
* * *
—
When the five o’clock morning prayer call sings out across the dark sky from the nearby mosque, Ibrahimah notices Étienne sound asleep next to him. The memory of evening rushes back and he touches his cousin’s arm, thinking back to the day he left his village.
“When Ramadan comes again it will have been a year and you will return home to me and your mother. It will come faster than you know,” his father told him that morning as he pulled Ibrahimah into a hug before Marabout Ahmed grabbed his hand and dragged him away, complaining that they were already late.
Ahmed comes into the room with his dark-brown wooden cane and hits at the sleeping bodies. The sun has yet to rise.
“Get up or I’ll beat you awake,” he mutters.
Ibrahimah pokes Étienne awake and the two boys hop to their feet before Ahmed can make his way over to them. Having already performed his ablutions out back, Ahmed returns to his room and lays his prayer rug down on the floor. The boys scuttle out to the back of the house to the basin, filled with day-old water, pushing and shoving one another as they try to scoop out enough water to splash onto their heads, hands, and feet. They quickly return to the room and fall into formation, following Ahmed’s lead through prayer. Afterward, Ibrahimah lies back down; he’s not ready to be awake.
“Meet me out back,” Ahmed instructs them.
The line of boys begins at the basin, stretches through the house and out the front door. One by one Ahmed shaves each of their heads with a razor. Bald heads lessen the risk of fleas and lice.
With the sun fast on its ascent, the twenty-one boys prepare to go out. They stack their cardboard mats up against the back wall and grab their red tin tomato cans. And by seven o’clock in the morning they spill out of the house wearing the same dirty clothes they had on the day before. Maids, mechanics, errand boys, security guards, and other faceless strangers join the large gang of Talibé in their morning commute. Ibrahimah lags behind everyone and notices that Étienne is walking with a slight limp.
“Étienne, you okay?”
Étienne doesn’t reply.
“I’ll find us mango for breakfast,” Ibrahimah says, trying to sound hopeful for his cousin.
Once they make it to the Rue de Ouakam the large group splits into three packs of seven, and Ibrahimah and Étienne break off from their group in search of breakfast. They work better alone.
A week has passed since Marabout has called either Ibrahimah or Étienne into his room, but as life would have it though, when one thing is going well for a Talibé, something else goes wrong.
The boy who jumped him punched him several times in the face and chest before Étienne could come to his rescue. And now in the palm of his hand was a bloodied tooth covered in dirt. Ibrahimah sta
res down at the lone tooth, torn from his body. If he loses any more teeth in another fight, he could be left with none at all, and won’t be able to chew. The aroma of pizza from Le Régal, across the street, fills his nostrils. Without teeth he’ll starve to death.
“What’s wrong?” Étienne asks as he assesses the damage.
“My teeth fell out!” Ibrahimah sobs.
“Let me see.” Étienne pushes his head back to get a better look at the gaping hole in the front of his mouth, bloody and raw.
“You lose all your teeth already?”
“What? I don’t know. No. I want to keep my teeth!”
“You’ll grow new teeth. Stop crying.”
“Really?”
“Yes. When you’re small all your teeth come out one by one, then new ones come,” Étienne says.
“How do you know?” Ibrahimah challenges, his bottom lip no longer quivering.
“Because I do! You’re a baby, you know nothing. All of my teeth fell out before and look.”
Étienne opens his jaw wide. Ibrahimah stands on the tips of his toes to get a good look.
“Wait, I’m still looking!” Ibrahimah protests when Étienne closes his mouth.
“They’re all there. Don’t question me.”
Étienne puts his hands on his hips the way grown-ups do. Ibrahimah inspects the lonely tooth in the palm of his hand.
“But what about old people? Old people have no teeth.”
“You lose your teeth again before you die, but when you’re young they grow back. Like hair,” Étienne says.
The sand billows up around them as they walk across the dirt road like miniature soldiers. It’s only noon, their energy hasn’t abandoned them yet.
“You lost your tooth but you still have your money. When your tooth falls out the fairy brings you luck,” Étienne adds.
Ibrahimah places the tooth inside his red tin tomato can; it dances about, making a dull clanking sound against the coins and sugar cubes at the bottom. The same sound his grandfather’s mutton would make when walking around their village right before sunset. The rope around its neck had an old rusty bell and Ibrahimah would sometimes follow the animal, petting it or poking it with sticks until it ran away from him. Binta, who is only two years older than him, would tell on him, and his grandfather, Papa Yoro, would scold him for being so naughty, then give him Laughing Cow cheese because it was Ibrahimah’s favorite. Ibrahimah would sit on his grandfather’s lap and listen to stories about his grandfather’s early days of growing up in the village, how Papa Yoro would work on the farm with his father and how he built his house, the one he stills lives in, with his own two hands.