No Heaven for Good Boys

by Keisha Bush

  “Mama, people are arriving—” Fatou stops in her tracks. Shock dances across her face before disappearing behind a masked cloud of indifference.

  “Papa said it would be nice if you came out for a moment. People are offering prayers.”

  Maimouna rocks back and forth, humming quietly. She closes her eyes. Fatou’s voice is a soft whisper.

  “I’ll be out soon, my daughter. I’m almost done nursing Aisatu.”

  Maimouna looks down at Ibrahimah.

  “Are you done?”

  He tightens his grip on her breast, increasing the flow of milk. He grunts and closes his eyes.

  “Tell Papa, I’m coming.”

  Fatou nods in response and starts for the door, glancing over her shoulder for another look before leaving the room. A sense of calm envelops Maimouna. Ibrahimah pulls harder on her breast.

  “Come,” she says, motioning him toward her other breast.

  He switches position and latches on. Outside, the carefree winds and melodies of birds float across the room. She looks down at Ibrahimah. Everything will be okay. Life will continue on.

  “You’re mama’s baby again. You’ll never leave me, will you?”

  Ibrahimah shakes his head no and continues to drink the sweet, warm milk.

  “Fatou! Aisha! Binta! Let’s go. It’s almost two-thirty. Your father is already at the mosque and we don’t want to be late!”

  “Na’am!” Fatou calls out from the bedroom she shares with her siblings.

  “Come now, Ibrahimah, we have to go.”

  She pulls her breast from his mouth and nudges him away. Milk dribbles down his chin.

  “I’m not done.”

  Maimouna wipes his face with the hem of his shirt.

  “No, we have to go.”

  The afternoon prayer call fills the village with melody and a feeling of duty, and belonging. Just a few sandy paths away from their home, La Grande Mosquée du Saloulou stands taller than any of the mostly one-story houses populating the small village.

  She enters the mosque and slips off her sandals. “Bismilla-Hir-Rahma-Nir-Rah’im,” she says quietly, before washing her hands and wrists. Next, she washes her face from ear to ear, and then her arms and elbows, passes her damp palms over her covered head, and then rinses her feet last. The pipes are hot from the sun, and so the typically cool water runs warm across her smooth, dark skin. Flanked by her children, they mimic her moves in perfect sequence.

  Inside the large carpeted hall, she greets her neighbors, “Salamalaikum.”

  “Malaikumsalam,” Madame Touré replies, touching her arm with a smile.

  Maimouna’s sister-in-law approaches the two women before Maimouna can begin a conversation with her dear friend in earnest. “Will you make us a batch of your fatayas for tomorrow afternoon?” she asks.

  “Good to see you, sister.” Maimouna smiles. “Of course.”

  With a click of her tongue, her sister-in-law looks down at Ibrahimah. “When are you going to allow him to grow into a man? He should be up front with his father.”

  Madame Touré rolls her eyes and walks away into the main hall.

  “Ibrahimah isn’t feeling well, and I want to keep an eye on him. If he’s in front and gets ill he’d be a distraction,” Maimouna replies, pulling Ibrahimah closer.

  “Hmmm,” her sister-in-law replies, scanning the hall to see who else’s business she can meddle in.

  Maimouna takes a deep breath, and the scent of the traditional incense she and her neighbors burn at home fills her nostrils. She takes her sister-in-law’s silence as the end of the inquiry and ushers Ibrahimah into the main hall behind Madame Touré. Large white cement pillars litter the airy, grandiose space and give way to several skylights.

  She and Ibrahimah hurriedly whisk by several marabouts wearing dark sunglasses, crowding the first row of the men’s section. Only holy men can be trusted to shield their eyes from Allah. In the past week alone, two marabouts have asked to take Ibrahimah on as a student of the Quran; Idrissa staunchly refused both men, against his father’s advice.

  In the women’s section, located behind the men, Maimouna lowers herself onto the floor with Ibrahimah by her side. A sliver of sunlight bathes her covered legs. Fatou sits behind her with Aisha and Binta. When the call to prayer ends, everyone settles down within the large hall, and for a moment a vacuum of silence takes command of the space where so much sound had just been.

  The imam sits in the front of the room and recites the opening prayer. In unison, everyone prostrates head to floor, two times. Sitting back on their heels all heads turn to the right, then to the left. Maimouna smiles as Ibrahimah follows the prayer with ease. When the prayer is complete, the imam rises up from the floor to stand at the podium, and speaking into the microphone, begins to read a passage from the Quran about the evils of pride and ego.

  The sound of the imam’s voice fades and Maimouna ruminates on the anxious feeling that has yet to loosen its grip on her, since the death of Aisatu. Between the marabouts circling like vultures and Idrissa’s father and brother, Maimouna feels like she is battling an all-out attack to take her only son. Ibrahimah’s cousin, Étienne, is currently a student of a marabout at a daara in Dakar, but this happened years before the rumors began circulating throughout the villages. Now it feels as if every week there are new stories of abuse, forced begging, and neglect of children at the hands of these marabouts. Maimouna’s brother-in-law, Idrissa’s older brother, brushes the stories off as false—he believes his son is in God’s hands, but Maimouna questions why anyone would lie about the ill treatment of children.

  Maimouna sighs. It’s been two months since she lost her youngest child. She has to trust that Allah will protect her family. She pulls Ibrahimah closer to her and he snuggles into her side, quietly dozing off to sleep.

  Like every Friday, at four-thirty, the mosque empties its inhabitants out into the world; for Maimouna, each Friday afternoon feels as if the sun shines brighter, the birds sing sweeter, and worries evaporate into the forgotten memories of yesterday. Men meander home in deep discussion amongst themselves as women rush to finish preparing dinner. Children romp and play. Local stores and markets reopen. Maimouna and Idrissa talk quietly as Ibrahimah and his sisters walk up ahead.

  “Do you think it may be time to wean him off the breast?” Idrissa asks quietly.

  “The milk will help keep him strong. Remember when he got sick last winter? I was afraid we would lose them both, and now he is our youngest. I think perhaps one more year. Just to be sure.”

  “My brother thinks he is too old.”

  “Other women have breastfed their children well past six years old, and older,” Maimouna says with reproach.

  “Who?”

  “You men shouldn’t concern yourselves with the affairs of women caring for their children,” Maimouna says curtly.

  “My love, he is my child also, and I am also his caregiver.”

  Ibrahimah stops short, turns around, and tells his mother, “I want to go to the ocean.”

  Binta’s and Aisha’s eyes light up.

  “Can we, Mama?” Binta asks.

  The children encircle their parents with pleading eyes, and Maimouna smiles. “Only if you promise to watch Ibrahimah close.”

  “We promise!” the girls squeal.

  Before Maimouna can say another word, Ibrahimah and his three sisters run off down the sandy path.

  “I run faster than you, Binta!” Ibrahimah shouts.

  “No, you don’t. Follow in my shadow!”

  Ibrahimah pumps his legs hard trying to keep up with his eight-year-old sister.

  “Ibrahimah!”

  He slows his pace at the sight of his friend Moussa, letting Binta tire herself out as she continues sprinting down the hill.

  “Where are you going?” as
ks Moussa.

  “Down to the beach. You want to come?” Ibrahimah says, catching his breath.

  “Look at what I got.” Moussa pulls a five-hundred-franc coin from his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  “Money, my uncle gave it to me. I’m rich.”

  “Really? I want to see.”

  “Here, take it. It’s nice. I can buy anything.”

  Ibrahimah smiles approvingly and hands the money back to Moussa. He thinks about what he would buy if he had money. For a brief moment he cannot think of anything he wants. Then he remembers, Coca! Soda is a treat, and Coca is the most expensive treat of them all.

  “Ibrahimah, come on!” Fatou calls out, now several yards ahead of them.

  “Come, Moussa, let’s go,” Ibrahimah says.

  The two boys run down to the shore, passing Ibrahimah’s three sisters as they charge into the froth. The salty breeze hits his face, slips through his parted lips, and lands on his tongue. There is nothing in the world better than the ocean. Unable to resist, Ibrahimah kicks at the water, splashing Moussa along with his three sisters.

  “You better not wet me! If you do, I’m taking you home!” Fatou screams.

  “I’ll tell Mama it was you who ruined our clothes,” Aisha adds, folding her arms across her chest.

  Ibrahimah shoots a look of defiance at his sisters. Binta stifles her laughter. She wants to be taken seriously by her older sisters. The boys race up ahead. Once a safe distance away, they continue their water fight.

  “Let’s find treasure,” Moussa says, suddenly switching interest.

  Ibrahimah kicks up one last great splash. The water is so warm and inviting, he’s tempted to immerse himself, fully clothed, into the sea. He glances down the shoreline and sees his sisters talking and giggling.

  “What kind?” he asks Moussa, returning to the beach.

  “Pirates from far away buried their stolen treasure on the beaches here in Africa long ago. My brother tells me no one has found them yet.”

  “How much?” Ibrahimah asks, his interest piqued.

  “A lot. In big trunks.”

  “What’s that?” Ibrahimah asks, pointing toward the sand.

  “It’s a shell, nothing good,” Moussa says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

  Ibrahimah picks up the broken shell and flips it over in his hands. The two boys walk along slowly, their eyes scouring the dry, sandy beach. Ibrahimah’s stomach grumbles with hunger, but the thought of treasure compels them to scour more of the shoreline.

  “Look!” Ibrahimah says, scrambling over, with Moussa in tow, to an object sparkling in the sand. The girls have caught up and peer over their shoulders.

  “What did you find?” Aisha asks.

  “It’s a key,” Fatou says, plucking it from Ibrahimah’s hands.

  Ibrahimah grabs for the shiny bronze object. “Maybe it can open a treasure?”

  “The key to a treasure chest would be old and rusty,” Fatou says. “This one is new. I bet it opens nothing important.”

  Ibrahimah, satisfied by this logic, hands the key to Moussa and walks off in search of something better. Passing by a small hill of sharp black rocks that are hugging a sand dune, he sees a patch of tall grass growing on the rear of the beach. He can hear Binta and Aisha talking to Moussa, and looks over his shoulder to see an older boy walk up to Fatou. The boy says something that makes her laugh. Looking back at the grassy patch of beach, Ibrahimah is convinced he will find something more interesting than seashells.

  A mélange of orange, yellow, and purple hues reflect off big cumulus clouds as the sun rests on the horizon. The small crab Ibrahimah has been toying with turns to him, its claws set to attack. He calls out to Moussa to come see, but gets no response. He looks up. His friend is nowhere in sight. When he looks back down, the crab is gone. He could hear them all talking just a while ago off in the distance, but all that fills his ears now is the incoming tide. He stands up to see if Moussa is crouching down somewhere, but the beach is empty. The path in front of the rocks and the dune he had crossed earlier is now completely swallowed up by the sea. He is the only one there.

  “Moussa!”

  Nothing.

  “Aisha!”

  Silence.

  “Fatou! Binta!”

  The tide is coming in fast. He looks up at the sky and frowns. His body begins to sweat even as the cool ocean breeze washes over him. Being on the beach at night brings bad luck, and it’s getting dark. The beach is the only place evil spirits can sneak onto land without being seen; they can walk right along beside you without you even knowing it, his father once told him.

  Ibrahimah looks to his left. The dune looms high above him. He looks to his right. The coast stretches on for what seems like eternity. If he goes in that direction, he would be walking farther away from his village, and he’s never been down that end of the beach before. In front of him lies the rocky wall that encases the coast. The tide slaps at the back of his ankles. He walks forward and tries to climb the dune, but his feet sink into the soft sand and he slides down the steep incline. Trying again, he drops down to his knees in an attempt to crawl, but he ends up facedown, clutching handfuls of soft earth. He lies sprawled out on his stomach in defeat.

  “What are you doing?” A voice rings out through the noise of the crashing waves.

  Ibrahimah rolls over to find a man standing behind him. He had just looked down the coast and hadn’t seen anyone before.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” The man shifts his weight. “Answer up, boy.”

  Ibrahimah stands and looks up at the man wearing a black boubou, his head wrapped in a matching turban.

  “I’m trying to get back home.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Ibrahimah points toward the dune.

  “Come with me. I’ll show you the way back.”

  The man turns to head down the coast, away from his village. Ibrahimah doesn’t move. He doesn’t trust the stranger.

  “If you stay here, the tide will gobble you up and you’ll live out the rest of your life as a fish, running from the fisherman who wants to eat you.”

  The swelling tide, angry and aggressive, crashes against Ibrahimah’s legs. He looks toward the dune one more time, hoping to see Moussa or his sisters, but he knows they are gone, so then turns and follows the man down the beach.

  “What’s your name?” the man asks.

  “Ibrahimah.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Six.” Ibrahimah holds his hands up, fingers spread wide.

  “That’s a good age.”

  They walk for what feels like a long time before reaching a set of deteriorating cement steps leading to the top of the cliff.

  “Be careful,” the stranger says, standing aside for Ibrahimah to ascend first.

  Ibrahimah uses both hands to climb the tall stairs, relieved to see the crest of roofs in the distance. The two of them walk toward the unfamiliar small village of quiet, tin-roofed shanties to the main road.

  “I’m sure your family must be worried about you by now. Let’s find a taxi to get you back faster, huh?”

  The man hails a horse-drawn wagon. He lifts Ibrahimah onto the back and then hoists himself up. Ibrahimah’s body bounces to the rhythm of the horse trotting across the dirt road, the smell of manure lingering from the day’s errands. Hay scratches at the backs of his legs. He looks up at the man, but with the evening settling in he can only make out the silhouette of his face. His eyelids hang heavy but are shocked open with every rock the wagon stumbles over. Ibrahimah jumps to attention at the sight of the mosque his family attends.

  “I live here!”

  The man shouts to the driver to stop. Once his feet are planted firmly back on the ground, Ibrahimah runs down the sandy path all the way to his house. Barrel
ing through the front door, he’s greeted by a chorus of relieved voices.

  “Ibrahimah! Alhamdulillah! My baby, where have you been?” his mother exclaims.

  “Where did you run off to?” his sisters ask over one another.

  “We thought you were with us. Moussa said you were together and then when he looked up you were gone. Don’t do that again!”

  “The water got really high, I couldn’t get to you,” Ibrahimah says, on the verge of tears.

  “Fatou! Don’t yell at your brother. You should have kept a closer eye on him! The one thing I ask you to do. Just one thing. Watch your brother!”

  “But, Mama, I was watching him,” Fatou says with a pout.

  Maimouna rushes over to Ibrahimah and scoops him up into her arms before he can respond. Binta wraps her arms around him and their mother. Aisha joins in, roping in a begrudging Fatou.

  “I was so frightened, I thought you had drowned!” Binta exclaims, ever the drama queen.

  “Don’t talk like that, Binta!” Maimouna says.

  Idrissa walks into the house then, and his face lights up at the scene before him. The stranger from the beach trails behind.

  “Ibrahimah!”

  “Papa!” Ibrahimah says, reaching out to his father from the hive of women enveloping him.

  “That’s who brings me home,” Ibrahimah says, pointing to the man behind his father.

  “Your father was searching all over for you, my baby,” Maimouna says.

  “Well, we have this gentleman to thank,” Idrissa says.

  “Oh, monsieur, thank you! We owe you everything we have for bringing our only son back to us. Please, join us for dinner. It’s the least we can do. Fatou, my love, get our guest something to drink, quick.”

  Fatou sighs and exits the room.

  Maimouna sets Ibrahimah down and the family ushers the stranger into the living room, offering him the best chair in the room. Fatou brings a cup of bissap and sets it on the coffee table in front of their guest, chastened.