by Keisha Bush
“Marabout Ahmed is a man of the highest esteem. How could you even imagine he does not care for the children as you?”
“Because no one will love and care for my children in the same manner as Maimouna and myself. No one can replace a father’s love for his son,” Idrissa retorts, harsher than he expected.
“Your children do not belong to you; they belong to Allah, and Marabout Ahmed is a man of God. Giving our sons to him is the same as giving them to God himself!”
Maimouna looks at her brother-in-law, whose face is now contorted in anger, with the same distrust she learned in her youth. Year after year she worked day and night as her uncle’s unpaid servant. Cooking, cleaning, washing their laundry, and taking care of the ever-increasing number of children her aunt continued to birth, trapped in the house all day with the miserable woman while her uncle traveled through Mauritania and Mali looking for work in construction. In an attempt to save her sanity, Maimouna concocted a plan to get out of the house, at seventeen years old.
“You work? Ha! I have more use for you here in the house,” her fat aunt snorted.
“I will still come home and cook afterwards. You always complain Uncle doesn’t send enough money to cover the monthly expenses. I can help.”
Her aunt was silent, as if she had not heard Maimouna.
“I’ll give you everything I make.”
Her aunt turned away from her favorite soap opera, Dynasty, and looked at Maimouna with soft eyes for the first time in nine years.
“You’re a good girl,” she cooed before her eyes hardened again. “If you can find work, then you can do it.”
Maimouna looks around the room with disgust. Idrissa is still in deep conversation with his brother and Marabout Ahmed. Her sister-in-law is now talking to whoever will listen to her. Nothing about this is right. The dread she felt creeping up her spine yesterday morning rises up, wrapping its tentacles around her neck. She looks at Marabout Ahmed sitting without expression, his eyes hidden behind those stupid sunglasses. Ibrahimah is a sheep about to be devoured by a wolf, and there is nothing she can do about it. She looks to Idrissa, her eyes wide with fright.
The conversation continues to circle around her when a commotion rises up from outside the living room. The groom has arrived, having left the festivities in his family’s village home more than two hours away in Casamance, to claim his bride. The older man, dressed in a slim knee-length sage tunic with gold embroidery on the torso, saunters into the room and hands Marabout Ahmed a wad of cash. Ahmed, quite finished with the conversation about Ibrahimah, welcomes the gentleman and beckons him to sit. Understanding the meeting has come to a close, Idrissa ushers Maimouna from the room. The festivities have calmed, the drums having come to a close now that the groom has arrived, and a slow trickle of guests begin to leave.
Back at home she and Idrissa prepare for bed in silence. She pulls back the sheets. Idrissa lights the mosquito-repellent coil and places it on the floor at the foot of their bed. The flame from the candle on the dresser casts dancing shadows across the dark room. The spirits are restless.
“We don’t have to send him.”
“It’s not in our control.”
Idrissa sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched over.
“But it is. We don’t have to follow the lead of what everyone else thinks.”
Idrissa does not respond.
“Will we allow pride to overshadow the well-being of our children? No one will care in a year. We can go back to Guinea with my mother.”
“We can’t leave. Our life is here. My inheritance. If my brother disowns me, we have nothing. I already pushed him much harder than I should. I couldn’t live if you and the girls had to work in someone else’s house just to make ends meet. I said I would take care of you.”
“Husband, please, I beg you.”
“Faith in Allah will lead us down the righteous path, my wife. Marabout Ahmed has agreed to keep him only a year and then Ibrahimah will come home. The time will go by quickly, I promise.”
The next morning Maimouna wakes to find Idrissa and Ibrahimah gone. Marabout Ahmed left for Dakar before sunrise.
Étienne turns around to a panoramic view of the calamity. Several cars have crashed. The front end of a yellow taxi sits on the trunk of a black car, which is sandwiched into the rear end of a green hatchback, which has flipped on its side.
“Whoa! Look at that!”
“Étienne!”
Étienne looks back at Fatik who stands frozen in his steps and then back at the woman screaming with her hands clutching her chest. The taxi driver, visibly shaken, looks around in confusion from his car, suspended in the air. Where is Ibrahimah?
“Fatik. Ibrahimah? Have you seen—”
“Étienne!” Fatik yells, pointing to the accident.
Étienne drops his tomato can and takes off running toward the mangled cars.
“Ibrahimah!” Étienne yells, running into the mass of spectators forming around the plumes of smoke and wreckage.
“The boy is dead!” the woman on the side of the road screams.
The crowd swells with curious onlookers. The driver of the black car walks in small circles with his hands cupping his ears. The inhabitants of the hatchback remain inside the car, motionless. The taxi driver swings his car door open and the crowd swoops back as two men run forward, urging him to sit still and wait for the police.
Étienne fights his way to the front of the crowd, his eyes darting around the cars’ edges.
“Ibrahimah!”
He looks at the cars but sees nothing. Someone tries to hold him back by the shoulders but he shrugs them off and reaches the wreckage.
“Ibrahimah! Where are you?”
“Help!”
“Ibrahimah! I’m coming!” Étienne drops to his stomach, crawling within the small space beneath the taxi that sits atop the trunk of the black car.
“I lost my can,” Ibrahimah says.
“It’s okay. You hurt? Are you bleeding?”
“I—I think I’m okay.”
“The boy is alive!” a man shouts out from behind Étienne.
“Give me your hands! I’m going to pull you out.”
Étienne grabs his cousin by the wrists and pulls him a bit, then scoots back while trying to pull Ibrahimah with him. Ibrahimah calmly waits for Étienne to free him. Hearing their exchange, a man slowly begins to drag Étienne out from beneath the wreck by his legs. Another man joins in. Ibrahimah is free.
A joyous shout rises up from the crowd.
“He’s a prophet!”
“Alhamdulillah!”
“Touch the boy; he’ll bring you good luck and fortune!”
Ibrahimah squints up at the people touching his face, arms, and back. Several policemen push the crowd away so that they can talk to Ibrahimah.
“Talibé, you get hit by the car?”
Ibrahimah looks up at the officer, still in a daze.
“Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
The officer lifts up Ibrahimah’s arms and touches his back in search of any lacerations or broken bones.
“Who is your marabout? What’s your name?”
“Marabout Ahmed. His name is Ibrahimah,” Étienne interjects.
The officer writes the names down. A petite woman approaches them and hands Ibrahimah his red tin tomato can, miraculously unscathed; it had merely rolled to the curb in the ensuing chaos. When he grabs it, she caresses his arm and smiles.
“Well, tell your marabout if anything goes wrong with the boy, he should bring him to the hospital right away.”
Étienne cradles his arm across Ibrahimah’s shoulder and leads him away. People stare and whisper before turning their attention to the wreckage.
The officers turn to the driver, still pacing around the
scene as the paramedics arrive and begin extracting the unconscious driver and passenger from the hatchback.
Étienne and Ibrahimah walk back over to the other boys.
“Am I dead?” Ibrahimah says, assessing his body.
“Ibrahimah! You’re a miracle. You got hit by a car, and you’re alive. You’ll be rich one day!” Fatik says, running up and patting him on the shoulders.
“Come, I touch you for good fortune!” Abdoulaye says, rushing forward.
Abdoulaye tickles Ibrahimah, sending him into a fit of giggles. Ibrahimah runs behind Étienne, even as he enjoys the attention.
“What happened?” Fatik asks.
“The car comes, brrrrrrr, like that, and I see it come right at me! I scream, ‘Ah!’ and I go to sleep. Then I hear Étienne say, ‘Ibrahimah! Ibrahimah!’ When I wake up, I’m under the car and people yell! Then Étienne saved me!” He does not know why he omits the fact that he saw the red bird again, but he does.
Ibrahimah’s adrenaline rushes forward again and he kicks his leg out. “Ouch!”
“What’s wrong?” Étienne asks.
“I’m okay; just my leg hurts a little bit.”
“You were scared?” Fatik asks.
“Me? No!”
“Yeah, you were!” Fatik challenges.
“I wasn’t!”
“You went to sleep?” Abdoulaye asks.
“He fainted,” Étienne says.
Ibrahimah laughs as he grabs Étienne’s arm. “Étienne saved me like this!” Ibrahimah sticks his hands up in the air.
“Étienne the hero!” Abdoulaye jokes.
Étienne kicks at the dirt on the ground.
* * *
—
That evening Étienne counts the coins several times to make certain they both have enough before heading to Ouakam with the others. The moonless sky kisses the city as rolling power outages leave the streets void of color. The large group of boys traipse through the vast darkness. Ibrahimah drags his feet. He’s exhausted.
“Ibrahimah,” Étienne whispers.
Ibrahimah’s feet fall hard against the ground as his pace doubles to keep up with Étienne’s voice.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Ibrahimah nods, although Étienne cannot see. They approach a lit section of the road sandwiched between black sheets of night. Sisqó’s “Thong Song” bumps from behind the entrance door of a club as the motor of the generator growls nearby. Instant chatter rises up from the group of boys.
A Senegalese woman approaches the entrance dressed in tight jeans and a silky shirt that exposes her smooth, taut back. Her big ass and curvaceous hips strain the seams of her jeans, her dark chocolate skin is hidden behind layers of makeup and a stiff multicolored weave. The eyes of the men in front of the club ogle her body from head to foot. The white Frenchman with her walks with his chest poked out and a swagger in his step. The other men look at him with envy; women like her don’t bother with poor men.
Several boys run up to the woman, bombarding her with demands for money. Waving the woman and the Frenchman inside, the bouncer shouts at the boys for crowding the entrance of the club. Before disappearing behind the curtain, the woman reaches into her small knock-off Gucci bag and throws a handful of coins in the direction of her hungry audience. Like an angry coastal wave, the boys dive for the fallen coins. Ibrahimah starts forward to join the chaotic fury, but Étienne holds him back.
“We have enough. Leave them.”
“No! I want more money.”
“No, leave them!”
The mass of boys tussle on the ground for the change.
“They look like tigers fighting in the wild!” a bouncer yells out, laughing.
Another patron follows suit and a shower of one-hundred- and five-hundred-franc coins floats across the night air onto the sand, chiming right at their toes as if inviting them to join the scrum, upping the stakes. Ibrahimah is unable to resist the bounty landing within inches of his feet. Two boys see Ibrahimah picking up coins and lay their hungry eyes on him, sniffing out an easy kill. Étienne stands in front of Ibrahimah shielding him from the threatening duo.
“Leave him,” Étienne says.
“Get out of the way, boy,” Caca threatens. His real name is Abba, but after an embarrassing bout of diarrhea the nickname stuck.
Étienne stands his ground as Ibrahimah cowers behind him. Caca swings at Étienne and the two of them go to blows. The boy with the scar running down his face, from temple to chin, steps to the side and grabs Ibrahimah.
“Leave me alone!”
“Give me that money. You think you’re special after a stupid car crash. I’m going to take what you got. Now I’m the miracle.”
“No!”
He catches a glimpse of Étienne fighting with the other boy. The bouncers do nothing to stop the fray. Scarface pushes Ibrahimah down to the ground. Ibrahimah flails his arms in the air, but he is no match for the stocky ten-year-old boy. He tries to curl up into a ball, but the boy throws sand in his face and rips the money from his hands. Ibrahimah yells out for help, but no one comes.
“Don’t just watch them. Break it up! They’re not animals,” a man approaching the club says in Wolof.
Ibrahimah can hear feet scraping against the dirt, grunts, and yells.
He tries to open his eyes but sand cuts at them, the pain unbearable.
“I’m blind! Étienne! I can’t see!”
“You have sand in your eyes,” Étienne says.
Someone pulls him to his feet. Ibrahimah rubs his eyes hard, making matters worse, and cries out in pain.
“Lean back, boy,” an adult instructs.
Ibrahimah begins sputtering and gurgling as fresh water runs up his nose and everywhere else. He wipes his hand at his eyes and then opens them. Standing next to the man, Étienne is looking down at him with worried eyes, as if he hadn’t just been brawling himself.
“He’ll be fine,” the older Senegalese man says.
“My money!” Ibrahimah cries, his eyes burning as he searches the ground.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” the man scolds the bouncers.
“They’re only Talibé, but they fight meaner than a pack of mad hens in a chicken coop!”
The man sucks his teeth in disgust and enters the club.
“Get out of here, you little pieces of shit! You’re bothering the customers.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. We’re working for our marabout!” Fatik shouts.
“Fuck your marabout. I could care less. Get, before I beat your dirty little asses straight back to the village!”
Fatik and some of the others throw sand at the men. The bouncers start after them, but the boys’ small feet run fast into the shadows of the night.
Sore and bruised, Ibrahimah limps alongside Étienne while they slowly walk up the dark road. His entire body hurts. What is he going to do? He has no money. So much has happened today it feels like a week has passed by since just this morning.
“I’m so sleepy I can lay down right here,” Ibrahimah says.
Étienne pushes him on; if they are not accounted for tonight it will be hell to pay once they finally do show up. Before entering the house, Étienne hands Ibrahimah the extra money he has.
“You are slow tonight,” Ahmed says when they walk through the door. “Come give me my money.”
Still sore from the night before, Étienne hands Ahmed his money. Shaken and afraid, Ibrahimah hands Ahmed one hundred fifty francs.
“Where is the rest?”
“Ibrahimah got hit by a car today. Then Cheikh and Abba stole his money,” Étienne says, pointing.
“Cheikh and Abba stole your money?” Ahmed asks.
“Yes,” Ibrahimah says in a small voice.
“You w
ere hit by a car?”
“Yes.”
Ahmed stares at Ibrahimah. A flash of concern disappears behind the squaring of his jawline.
“You need to learn to be a man and protect my money. How am I to teach you and give you shelter if you return empty-handed?”
“But I had the money. Talibé brothers beat me up and took it.”
“Well, then perhaps if I beat you well enough, you’ll know next time to fight harder.”
“But Marabout, I try. He throws sand in my face.”
Ibrahimah backs away from the man looming over him, and his bladder gives. Hot urine trickles down his naked legs. Ahmed grabs the stick from beside his chair and brings it down heavy. Ibrahimah’s cries fill every corner of the house.
“But Teacher—” Étienne steps forward.
“If you have something to say, you can share his fate,” Ahmed growls.
Ibrahimah stiffens his body against the blows of the cane. Pain sears from the initial impact and reverberates down through the muscle to his bones. His mother’s face flashes before his eyes and the smell of ocean air fills his nostrils. The cane lands on the middle of his back and he buckles to the floor. Rolling onto his back he gets a glimpse of Marabout’s face. The monster is in a blind rage. He wonders if he can die from a beating. He turns and scratches at the floor in an attempt to crawl away, but he’s dragged back by his leg. Again, and again the cane comes down on him. The cane whines under the pressure, threatening to crack with the force of each swing, but he can no longer feel the blows. If he stops crying out, it will probably make Marabout angrier than he already is, so every time the wood slams into his body, Ibrahimah cries out on cue. His voice becomes hoarser with every blow.
The pain is everywhere. A large gash sits across his forehead. Raised welts zigzag his face, back, and arms. Marabout didn’t emerge from his room this morning, so they did their prayers alone, facing the closed bedroom door. Étienne left Ibrahimah to sleep until the moment before they had to leave the house.
“Don’t cry,” Étienne consoles, staring at his cousin.
“Mama!”
“Next time listen to me! Do what I say. I will protect you!”