No Heaven for Good Boys

by Keisha Bush

  “You remind me of myself when I was a young boy,” Papa Yoro told him one afternoon. “And you look just like I did.”

  Papa Yoro showed Ibrahimah an old, faded photo of a young five-year-old boy. Ibrahimah did not know what he looked like, but he was pleased that his grandfather believed they were much alike. Papa Yoro was wise and smart, and everyone in the family loved him; Ibrahimah wanted the same.

  “Let’s go to the ocean,” Ibrahimah suggests to his cousin Étienne. Their grandfather loves the ocean as much as he does.

  “Later. We have to work first,” Étienne says as they walk a half mile farther, down to Les Voies d’Alternance, until they find a Talibé-free spot on a small island set between east- and westbound traffic, where they play Red Light, Green Light with the cars with the opposite rules of the actual game. Étienne taught Ibrahimah the game months ago. He doesn’t know where his cousin learned how to play, but it’s fun. For all their effort Ibrahimah raises only an additional hundred francs and a chunk of melted cheese, which barely tickles his appetite.

  Ibrahimah’s stomach gurgles loudly.

  “I’m hungry,” Ibrahimah whines. His body is covered in sweat.

  Étienne agrees, “This spot wasn’t so great after all.”

  They abandon the island for the quiet, tree-lined streets of Sacré Coeur Trois, where all the houses are white, multistory, and adorned with colorful flowers, gardens, and expensive cars, and head toward Baobab, where all the NGO employees like to live, when they come upon a group of boys.

  Spotting them from down the road one of the boys yells out, “Aye, boy! Come!”

  Étienne walks up, unsmiling, to the kids standing in the middle of the street. Ibrahimah hangs back two steps and braces himself for a fight.

  “What do you want?” Étienne demands of a clean-cut boy in blue shorts.

  “Play football with us. We need two more for our team,” the boy says.

  A boy from the other team shouts, “You play like old men, now you ask Talibé to help you.”

  His teammates snicker.

  “Our other players went home,” the boy in the blue checkered shorts says. “We’re beating them, don’t listen to him.”

  Étienne turns back and looks at Ibrahimah with raised eyebrows. Ibrahimah’s eyes light up. He’s never been included in a football game with the older boys before, and he hasn’t played with non-Talibé boys since he arrived to Dakar. In his village he was like all the other children; here in Dakar he is something to be ignored and avoided, less than the other kids because he begs all day, the worst anyone can be in life.

  “What’s your name?” Ibrahimah shyly asks the boy in the checkered shorts.

  “Moustapha. And yours?” the boy asks.

  “Ibrahimah.”

  “I’m Étienne.”

  “Cool. We can play a fairer game now. Mohamed will go up front, I play middle, and you two cover the field,” the boy informs his new teammates, pointing to where he wants everyone to go.

  Étienne and Ibrahimah put their tin cans down at the side of the road, within sight.

  “Where’s the ball?” Ibrahimah asks.

  “Over there, see,” Étienne points to the white, black, and gold soccer ball.

  Ibrahimah can’t believe his luck, he’s really playing football. He sticks his chest out a little further; he’s one of the big boys now. The boys in front fight to position the ball on opposite ends of the street. Ibrahimah is caught off guard as the ball cuts across the air, heading directly toward him.

  “Ibrahimah, kick it!” Étienne shouts, catapulting his body toward his cousin.

  “Kick it!” the other two boys on his team scream.

  Jumping into action, Ibrahimah pounces toward the ball. Surprising himself, and everyone else, he blocks the ball with his chest. Étienne jumps in, takes the ball to the front of their offense, and attempts to drive it down the middle of the opposing team. Ibrahimah is basking in his accomplishment when the boy wearing a football jersey with Italy written across the chest yells at Étienne.

  “You fouled me!”

  “No, I didn’t,” Étienne retorts, waving his hand dismissively at Italy.

  “Yes, you did. He fouled me,” the boy screams to the other boys, pointing at Étienne.

  “I didn’t. You whine like a girl!”

  “You cheat, Talibé! You fouled me. My brother plays for Italy! I know!” The boy yells, shoving him. Étienne pushes the boy back.

  “No fighting. We’re friends,” a boy from team Italy says, coming between the two angry players.

  “I’m no friend of dirty Talibé!”

  “Étienne!” Ibrahimah yells, running up to his cousin and pulling on his arm.

  “Who cares about Italy? This is Dakar, stupid,” Étienne says, rushing toward the boy to punch him.

  “Be cool,” Moustapha says.

  Étienne’s teammates pull him away.

  “Ignore him. His brother doesn’t play for Italy, he carries their water.” Moustapha snickers.

  Étienne laughs. Tempers calm as the boys on the other team talk Italy down, and in a few moments the game continues on until, one by one, each of the boys is called for lunch as a different maid appears from the row of beautiful multistory houses on the tree-lined street.

  “Hey, Talibé,” Moustapha calls, “come eat with me,” he offers, grabbing his soccer ball.

  Étienne and Ibrahimah hang back.

  “I’m hungry,” Ibrahimah mumbles, eyeing Moustapha as he heads in the direction of the big house.

  “Bring us the food. We’ll eat out here,” Étienne replies.

  “Okay,” the boy says.

  Moustapha’s house is behind a high cement wall and he disappears through a white metal door. Tomato cans under their arms, Étienne and Ibrahimah wait out on the street.

  “Look at my teeth now.”

  “It looks good. You get a wish when you lose a tooth.”

  “I want to go back to my village.”

  “One day, maybe. But right now, you were hungry and now we get food.”

  “Oh.” Ibrahimah’s face falls in disappointment.

  “Don’t be ungratitude. When you’re unthankful Allah takes away the good stuff you have.”

  “But Allah doesn’t give me anything I want. What do I have that’s good?”

  “We’re about to eat!” Étienne whacks Ibrahimah.

  The boys are horsing around when the large oversized door groans open. A neatly dressed young maid appears.

  “Get over here,” she says with impatience.

  They scramble over obediently. She yawns, steps to the side, and waves them in. The boys move quietly onto the manicured lawn. The heavy door closes on its own, locking automatically. Ibrahimah looks around the space. It reminds him of the zoo, but instead of animals there are trees and flowers everywhere. The young woman spreads a vinyl tablecloth onto the grass, placing a heaping platter of thieboudienne. Ibrahimah is overcome with joy at the sight of the flavorful fish, rice, cabbage, and onions.

  “Don’t steal the plate, eh! These people are being nice to you!”

  “Yes, madame,” Étienne says.

  “Mademoiselle,” she says, cutting her eyes.

  With large fearful eyes, Ibrahimah looks up at the woman, who is more than twice his height. Being around adults for more than a few seconds makes him uneasy.

  “And what do you say?” she demands.

  “Thank you,” Ibrahimah mumbles.

  The maid grunts, turns on her heels, and bounces her hips in that slow I-don’t-have-anywhere-to-go-in-this-lifetime gait of a Senegalese woman.

  Ibrahimah sets his can down and kneels in front of the food, shoving the oily rice into his mouth with fervor. Étienne breaks apart the perfectly grilled fish, placing an equal amount on bo
th sides of the plate. They eat in silence. Speaking would take up too much precious time. They could be kicked out of paradise at any moment, the food gone forever. Handful after handful, the rice and fish disappear.

  With the bowl wiped clean Ibrahimah stands up first. Grains of rice drop from his chest to the tablecloth. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing additional oil and rice across his cheek. His small protruding belly is full of gas and food. His tongue probes around his mouth for any stray bits lodged away.

  “Let’s go. We need money.”

  Étienne looks up at him.

  “Wait. We should give the plate back first.”

  Étienne hands the platter to Ibrahimah to hold as he folds the tablecloth as best he can. They walk toward the back of the house, where most second kitchens reside, and Étienne points to a large blue basin where there are several dishes immersed in the water. The basins remind Ibrahimah of his mother and sisters.

  “Put it there,” Étienne says, pointing while he lays the tablecloth on the back of a white plastic chair.

  “Ramadan will be here soon,” Ibrahimah says.

  Étienne is quiet.

  “Maybe Marabout will let you go back to the village with me. I can ask my papa for you.”

  A look of pain flashes across Étienne’s face before he turns away. Ibrahimah drops the platter into the basin, causing the water to splash up against his ashy legs. He’s about to step his foot into the basin to make an even bigger splash when a different, older maid walks out of the house.

  “What are you doing?” she demands.

  “Returning the plate,” Étienne replies. “Thank you, ta-ta.”

  “Finish already?”

  “Yes,” they say in unison.

  “Okay, good,” she says, leading them back toward the front yard.

  The woman looks up and down the street to see if anyone is watching. The street quiet and deserted, Ibrahimah and Étienne leave the premises with a wave; she returns it.

  The late-afternoon sun burns Ibrahimah’s skin. He has just enough money to meet his quota tonight, but, once again, Étienne does not. They make their way over to Casino Sahm, the supermarché on the Rue de Ouakam, where a box of American cereal costs five thousand francs and they find exactly what they need for success—traffic, foreigners, and lots of pedestrians. The busy intersection houses a small open-air market of vendors selling cheap goods along the Boulevard de la Gueule Tapee. It’s here that the Rue de Ouakam ends and the continuing road becomes Avenue Blaise Diagne leading into downtown Dakar, drawing scores of Car Rapides, sept-place taxis, and other forms of transport for passengers traveling to the numerous villages outside of the capital. They also find, as they walk up, Fatik, Abdoulaye, and several other boys from their house. The boys have been out there for a few hours already hitting up the wealthy locals and Western shoppers who prefer the supermarché over the local open-air markets.

  “Étienne, let’s go. Lots of cars!” Ibrahimah calls, looking toward the exit of the lot, where cars are waiting to merge back into traffic.

  “No, Ibrahimah, wait,” Étienne calls out as he approaches Fatik.

  “You all find good money?”

  “Yeah,” Fatik says. “Where did you and Ibrahimah go?”

  “Just working.” Étienne casually brushes his mouth to make sure there’s no rice stuck to it. “We didn’t find much.”

  “Foreigners are greedy.” Fatik shades his eyes, searching for his next mark. “They never give easy. It’s why they’re so fat and ugly!”

  Ibrahimah starts off toward the busy intersection; he doesn’t have time to stand around talking. If he gets any more money, he’ll give it to Étienne. He doesn’t want his cousin to have to deal with Marabout’s wrath tonight.

  A woman screams at the sound of tires screeching across hot asphalt. Bang! Metal crumples as two cars collide. As a taxi swerves to avoid the wreck it races toward him and a flame of red appears before his eyes. The red bird screams and flaps its wings wildly. Ibrahimah reaches out to touch it. Brakes screech. Tires skid across hot pavement. The ground trembles. There’s no place to hide.

  I’m going to die.

  Images of his family flash before his eyes; the times they spent on his father’s farm harvesting the crops; the days of laughing together; his mother planting kisses on his forehead before bed; his father reading the stories of Moses and Noah after dinner.

  Just before the yellow taxi crashes into his body, the sunlight fades and everything turns black.

  Maimouna stares at the warped image in the mirror. Her eyes are red and puffy, the pain in her chest undeniable. She looks out of the window. The world beyond the village continues as if nothing has happened. No tragedy has passed. Life is nothing but joy and carefree winds.

  Maimouna clutches the sides of the dresser for support. No woman should have to experience the death of a child. A piece of her has been removed by force. Neighbors whisper outside her bedroom, clucking their tongues. Shaking their heads in pity. Have another child, her sister-in-law suggested. She and Idrissa can barely make ends meet to feed their five children now. Tears well up in her eyes. Her shoulders slump forward. Their four children.

  She picks up the baby rattle, a gift from the American girl who had lived in their village years ago. A sweet girl from the Peace Corps. The purple-and-white toy, with stripes on the bottom half and stars above. Each of her children enjoyed this toy as a baby. At night, she dreams of them growing up to be important doctors and lawyers, living in America or Europe. The American toy had been just the beginning, handed down to each new baby in the family, from her eldest, Fatou, to Aisha, to Binta, to Ibrahimah, and finally to Aisatu. She clutches the rattle to her chest and moans a low howl.

  “Mama.”

  Butterflies flutter about in her stomach, rising up into her chest. She holds her breath, turning toward the bundle of innocence barreling toward her. Ibrahimah wraps his small arms around her legs and clings tight. The pressure of his six-year-old grip brings her back to the present.

  “Do you remember this toy?” Maimouna wipes her cheeks.

  “Yes, it’s mine,” he says, reaching for it. She holds it up out of his reach.

  “No, it belongs to your sis—” Her voice trails off.

  Ibrahimah looks up at her, waiting. Maimouna sits down on the edge of the bed, holding the rattle.

  “Yes, my chou-chou, the rattle belongs to you.”

  Ibrahimah leans up against her.

  “Mama.”

  “Yes, Ibrahimah.”

  “I’m sad Aisatu die.”

  Maimouna wraps her arm around Ibrahimah’s small frame, pulling him closer. Maybe if she had paid more attention she could have picked up on some sign. She thought it a blessing that the child was quieter and slept more than her other four children. She got so much done with such a peaceful toddler. This was all her fault.

  “Mama! I can’t breathe!”

  Ibrahimah wiggles to get out of her death grip.

  “Ya Allah, Ibrahimah, I’m sorry, my baby.”

  She strokes his cheek.

  “Please, forgive your mama. It was an accident; Mama would never hurt you.”

  “It’s okay. I still love you, Mama.” Ibrahimah cocks his head to the side. “Will I die too?”

  “What? Of course not! Don’t talk like that!”

  Ibrahimah’s eyes well up with tears.

  “No, no, my baby, don’t cry. Mama didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry. Nothing in this world will ever take you away from me. You hear? You’ll always be with me.”

  She strokes the back of his head, kissing his cheeks until he calms down. She hands him the rattle. The baby of the family again, he’s barely six years old. Healthy and vibrant. If she gets it right with him, then perhaps, perhaps all can be good again. Ibrahimah turns his a
ttention back to her.

  “Why so many people visit us?” Ibrahimah shakes the rattle.

  “To pay respect for Aisatu. They pray her soul goes to Paradise.”

  “I’ll pray too. Papa said Aisatu is in Paradise.” Ibrahimah shakes the rattle again.

  “Ibrahimah, give it to me,” she says, reaching for the toy.

  “But it’s mine!” he whines as he jumps back, out of her reach.

  “I’ll give it back to you. Come sit next to your mama first. Please, my baby, just come back to Mama.”

  Ibrahimah climbs up onto the bed. Maimouna takes him onto her lap and cradles him in her arms like a baby. She hums a tune she learned from her grandmother, who learned the tune from her great-grandmother, and so on.

  Maimouna fed Aisatu for the last time twenty-four hours ago and the pressure hurts so much it feels like it will burst through her engorged breast. The leaking milk has soaked yet another shirt. It was when she went to nurse Aisatu that she found the toddler cool to the touch and unresponsive.

  Maimouna closes her eyes in an attempt to clear the image from her head. This is just a bad daydream. She forgot to feed Aisatu. That’s what this is all about; the pain, the pressure, the sadness. She’ll feed Aisatu and the pain will subside, like it always does. She reaches into her shirt, lifts her tender breast out, and places the nipple at Ibrahimah’s mouth. He looks up with surprise, studying his mother’s face for a moment before grasping her breast in a familiar manner, only his grip is stronger now, his hand bigger. Parting his lips, he takes the nipple into his mouth. Maimouna looks across the room and waits with distracted patience. He begins to suck and sweet milk rushes through her ducts into his mouth. Her face contorts in pain then relaxes after several moments. The fury of the day morphs into the remnants of her bad dream. Fatou walks into the bedroom.