by Keisha Bush
“Étienne! You come?” Fatik asks, stepping outside the house.
“No, later,” Étienne says, waving the boy away without turning around. The morning sun is still cool and so he needs to figure out the best plan for the day because Ibrahimah is not well enough to work like he normally does.
Étienne holds Ibrahimah’s can as the two boys walk down the street toward the main road. The open wound on his forehead oozes a mixture of blood and clear liquid that keeps running into his eyes. The morning air is crisp, but his body feels hot. The sun is bright but distant, the sky a cool azure. Étienne motions for him to sit down on the ground and approaches the fruit vendor whose stand sits outside of the embassy of Burkina Faso.
“What happened to the little one?”
Étienne barely shrugs. The man searches out two small overripe mangoes and hands them to Étienne.
“Thank you, ton-ton, may God be with you.”
Étienne walks over and hands Ibrahimah the larger fruit.
“You should have helped me tell Marabout,” Ibrahimah whines.
“I tried. You don’t listen to me.”
Ibrahimah takes the fruit. The mango is heavy. The taste of sweet juice on his tongue perks him up, thinning the fog in his brain, but his body refuses to cooperate. He lies down and watches Étienne weave in and out of the morning rush-hour traffic like a football player. The memory of last night’s beating repeats itself over and over again in his mind. Every once in a while, he’ll bang his can on the sidewalk when someone walks by. He’s gotten two coins so far. Étienne is talking to a man in a car and then turns to point at Ibrahimah. The man hands Étienne money before driving away.
“Ibrahimah,” Étienne says, running over to him, smiling, “I make good money! Try to look like you’re almost dead!”
Ibrahimah attempts to frown, but it’s too painful. He doesn’t find Étienne very funny at all.
“Perfect!” Étienne says before running back into the street.
High noon approaches, and the sun is too much to bear. In a slow two-man procession they walk down a quiet street off the main road. Ibrahimah spots a group of children his age playing in a schoolyard, walks up to the gate, and stares through the white metal fence. Inside, children laugh and play with one another. A boy in a blue shirt kicks a red ball across the yard and a girl picks it up and throws it back to him. Ibrahimah grips the fence. He could throw like that if he had a ball. A girl in a pink shirt and two pigtails runs up to the gate and stops short in front of Ibrahimah.
“Hi!” she says.
“Hi,” Ibrahimah says.
The girl frowns. “What happened to you?”
Ibrahimah lets go of the gate and steps back. He glances over at his cousin, who is talking to a foreigner who is shaking his head no.
“Wait! Don’t go. Here. Take this,” she says.
She thrusts her hand through the gate. A yellow crayon sits in her open palm. He hesitates. If he’s not asking for money, he really doesn’t know what to say.
“Take it. You can draw the sun,” the girl says, pointing up at the sky.
“Fanta! Come back over here,” a woman calls out from across the yard.
“Na’am,” she replies, flashing Ibrahimah a big toothy smile before running off.
Ibrahimah flips the yellow crayon around in his hand and looks up toward the fiery orange ball of gas until his eyes begin to burn. He drops the yellow Crayola crayon into his red tin can and follows after Étienne, turning back every few seconds to glance at the children behind the metal fence.
They turn the corner and find a tall, light-skinned Mauritanian woman dressed in expensive clothes exiting a silver Mercedes Benz. A grandiose house looms above, with a spray of purple and pink flowers, and dark-green plants adorning its second-floor terrace.
“Fancy car,” Étienne says, looking up and down the deserted street.
The woman needs no coaxing; she gives them a bounty of eight hundred francs. They duck down behind a parked car to rest.
“We each have enough for Marabout. Pay attention, so you don’t lose out like yesterday. You have to listen to me!”
Regret sits heavy across Ibrahimah’s shoulders.
“You hungry?”
His hunger is not a priority. Never again does he want to be without enough money for Marabout.
“I want to work.”
“We’ll look for lunch first, okay? Then find more money after.”
It hurts too much to argue. But after twenty minutes of walking around with no success Ibrahimah has to sit down. Étienne’s stomach grumbles with hunger but Ibrahimah only cares to close his eyes. Everything from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet hurts.
“Let’s go see the boy from before. He lives just over there,” Étienne says, pointing in the direction of the neighborhood of Baobab. Ibrahimah scrunches up his face at the thought of walking another step, but the memory of him blocking the goal during the last game motivates him and he gets up. The gash across his forehead has stopped oozing and a soft thin scab is attempting to form.
“There he is,” Ibrahimah says, pointing as they turn down the street.
“Aye, boy!” Étienne calls out.
Moustapha looks up from his conversation with two other boys. He raises his hand and waves them over. Étienne runs up ahead and he and Moustapha slap hands in greeting. Moustapha introduces him to the other boys and a game of football is suggested. Étienne and Moustapha form a team; the two other boys are the opposing team. Étienne turns around when Ibrahimah finally catches up.
“Ibrahimah! I almost forgot. You want to play?” Étienne asks.
“No,” Ibrahimah says, pouting. He limps over to the curb and sits down.
Étienne and the other boys yell, laugh, and push, likening themselves to the professional players of France and Spain, champions of the World Cup Title. Ibrahimah’s mouth sits in a pout. Marabout beats him, the bigger boys steal his money, and he’s in too much pain to play football. He hates Dakar.
A gray car honks at the boys for blocking the road. Ibrahimah strains his neck to see who’s inside and notices Moustapha doesn’t look at the driver at all. Reaching into his red tin tomato can, Ibrahimah grabs the yellow crayon and draws circles on the sidewalk. He’ll make lots of suns. That way night will never come and he’ll never have to go back to Marabout. He draws arms and legs onto one of the circles. He likes the girl who gave him the crayon. She can live in his world with all of the suns and they can be friends. He looks up toward the sky and squints against the light. It is the same sun his mother and father see. He wonders if his mother is looking up at the sun that very moment and thinking of him.
“Ibrahimah! Watch out!” Moustapha yells.
Ibrahimah looks up to see the ball fly through the air with fire behind it. Before he can react, the ball makes direct contact with his chest, knocking him flat on his back.
Étienne and Moustapha run over to him with wide, fearful eyes.
“Ibrahimah!” Étienne yells, casting a shadow over a prone Ibrahimah as he leans in to see.
“Is he okay?”
With the wind knocked clear out of his body, Ibrahimah struggles to purchase a gulp of air.
“I’m a-alive,” Ibrahimah says.
“Thank Allah!” Étienne exclaims, jumping up now.
“We would have been in big trouble if we killed you!” Moustapha jokes.
“I’m a miracle. I don’t die,” Ibrahimah says, “just hurt.”
Étienne helps him sit up. The rest of the boys stand around with arms akimbo, kicking rocks while Moustapha retrieves the ball for them. Just then, a pretty foreign woman comes to the gate and calls Moustapha over to her. After a brief conversation he returns and bids the other boys goodbye.
“I have to go home. My mom wants me to start my homework.”
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br /> They give the white-and-gold-and-black ball back over to Moustapha and then disband, moving down the street.
“Talibé!”
Étienne and Ibrahimah turn back to Moustapha.
“My mother wants to know if you’re hungry.”
“Yes,” Étienne says, speaking for both of them before Ibrahimah can respond.
“Come in. My mom will have Aria get you something to eat.”
They follow Moustapha and his mother inside the gate like last time, but stop short at the doorway leading into the house. There are very few places Talibé are welcome, and Étienne knows that Moustapha’s house is not one of those places.
“It’s okay. Come in,” Moustapha says.
Inside the house the floors are cool against Ibrahimah’s bare feet. He lags behind Étienne, his eyes perusing the magnificent foyer. Everything is four times his size; the large vases with flowers; the potted plants; the big chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, its crystals glistening with the sunlight dancing through the skylight. The walls are decorated with gold trim and weird designs. Moustapha is so rich he has trees inside his house. Ibrahimah’s mouth forms a circle and his eyes open nearly as wide.
“Aria, viens ici s’il te plaît,” Moustapha’s mother calls out over her shoulder.
The older woman comes into the foyer and looks at the scene in front of her with raised eyebrows.
“My husband does not need to know,” she says in English, looking the boys over.
“Monsieur n’aimerait pas, madame,” Aria says, recognizing Étienne and Ibrahimah.
“I don’t care if my husband doesn’t like it, this is my house too and they need a bath. The little one has wounds that need care. Afterward, give them something to eat.”
“Oui, madame.”
A tall, slim woman walks into the foyer and places herself directly in front of Ibrahimah and Étienne, blocking their path to Aria.
“Dear, are these little wretches Talibé?”
Moustapha’s mother does not respond. Aria rolls her eyes and looks to her employer for direction.
“Your Senegalese husband would kill you if he knew. You know the locals don’t play. They don’t mix with the lower classes unless it’s to employ them.” The foreign woman tilts her head to the side to get a better look at Ibrahimah and Étienne.
Ibrahimah is tempted to ask this woman for money but questions whether that would be a good thing or not. Something tells him it would not be okay. He looks over at Étienne, who is staring down at his feet. Whatever the tall woman in her fancy dress and sparkling bijoux is saying, it seems asking her for money is not the thing to do right at this moment in his friend Moustapha’s house.
“They’re children, how can anyone leave children in the street to beg, no shoes, dirty, and hungry. It’s child abuse,” Moustapha’s mother says.
Aria cuts in front of the friend and takes the hands of Ibrahimah and Étienne and guides them over to the stairs.
“One of my mother’s friends she has tea with every morning while I’m at school. I think they knew each other when they were in college back in America,” Moustapha whispers to Ibrahimah and Étienne.
“My dear, every society survives by its rules.”
“You sound like a hypocrite right now,” Moustapha’s mother says.
“Some rules, of course, are to be broken, but you can’t go around breaking them all! You follow some rules to cover the ones you break. Did your mother not ever teach you that one?”
“No,” Moustapha’s mother says, holding the door open for her friend.
“C’est la vie, ma belle petite.”
Her friend plants a kiss on the corner of her mouth and takes her exit.
“Moustapha, go start your homework, once the boys are cleaned up you can have a snack with them,” his mother says.
“Yes, Mom,” Moustapha replies, running upstairs to his room with Aria and the boys coming up behind him.
Everything in the bathroom is new, like downstairs. Aria runs water in a large white shiny tub. The water rushes out fast and impatient. Ibrahimah can see his reflection in the chrome faucet. He moves around, watching his reflection change shape. First his face is wide, and then it is long. Aria drops sweet-smelling oils into the rising water. At her command Ibrahimah takes his T-shirt off and is ready. He stands there naked and dirty, his small penis shriveled and raw from abuse suffered at the hands of his Marabout.
After big rainstorms, pockets of water can be found throughout the city where the streets and sidewalks are uneven. When Ibrahimah and Étienne can find a pool of water that does not smell like sewage, they will bathe themselves in it, along with the other boys. It’s their only option for keeping clean. But since it is the dry season it hasn’t rained in months. Ibrahimah looks at his naked cousin standing opposite him and giggles.
“What’s so funny?” Étienne asks.
Ibrahimah fills him in on the joke.
“That’s stupid. I don’t look like caca! Take it back!”
“Now, now, boys, that’s enough,” Aria interjects, “nobody looks like caca; you are both very handsome. Step inside; I’ll leave the water running until the bathtub has filled.”
Ibrahimah climbs inside. He oohs and ahs at the first sting of hot water against his feet and legs. Étienne joins him and they sit down opposite each other. Aria takes a washcloth and rubs soap onto it before softly wiping his back. She cups her hands and scoops water up onto his scalp. The water runs down his face, making haphazard paths along the contours of his body and eczema-ridden skin, side-stepping open wounds and fresh welts on its journey back down into the tub.
The last time Ibrahimah was given a bath with such care was by his mother after Marabout had helped him find his way home from the beach. Just like Aria, his mother would run the rag over his back and wash him in all his “stinky places” as she would call them, teasing him. He misses her.
Aria rinses his feet gently. His soft baby feet, callused with clumps of damaged tissue and skin, ingrown nails, fungi, and dirt. The sight of them causes her to turn away a moment before she can continue.
When he gets out of the tub Aria pats him dry with a big soft towel and slathers him down with pure shea butter mixed with fresh lime. Eczema medicine is applied to Étienne’s skin. Ibrahimah wiggles with annoyance as alcohol is applied to the gash on his forehead. Once the burning calms, Aria applies two bandages to cover the area, hands him two white pills with a cup of water, and tells him to swallow.
“This is a shame,” she mumbles to herself.
“Thank you, ta-ta,” Étienne says, his head hanging low.
Ibrahimah follows his cousin’s lead and thanks Aria. He hugs her thigh in the same manner he would cling to his mother, his head arched back, gazing up into her eyes. Aria clears her throat, her eyes glistening like the chandelier downstairs. She looks away a moment and tells them to follow her into the guest bedroom, where Moustapha’s mother has laid out clothes.
“Slow down, the clothes are not going anywhere,” Aria says to Ibrahimah, laughing, as she pulls the shirt over his head.
Ibrahimah cannot believe it, new clothes. He walks around in a pair of underwear with cartoon characters on them, imitating an airplane before Aria grabs ahold of him and slips him into a pair of pants. The clothes feel foreign and strange, constricting, but warm. He can’t remember what happened to the clothes he was wearing when he first arrived to Dakar from his village. The throbbing on his forehead has dulled to a whisper.
“You boys look great!” Moustapha’s mother says.
Ibrahimah stops and looks up at the woman with hesitation. Maybe she’s upset and wants him to take the clothes off. He grabs Aria’s hand.
“Don’t worry, little one, the madame thinks you look very nice,” Aria says in Wolof, patting his cheek.
“You speak
English?” Étienne asks.
“I understand it from working with Americans, but the madame prefers I speak French to help her learn.” Aria turns to Moustapha’s mother. “Oui, madame, les vêtements leur vont bien, mais ils n’ont pas de chaussures.”
“Oh! I forgot about shoes. I don’t know if Moustapha has any old shoes around here.”
“Les chaussures en plastique qu’ils vendent à la boutique sont très bien pour eux.”
“Oh, yes. In America we call those sandals jellies.”
Moustapha’s mother hands Aria a five-thousand-franc note.
Decked out in a green short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and a light blue sweater tied around his waist, Ibrahimah saunters around the kitchen downstairs like a king.
“Étienne, look at me. Look at you! We dress rich.”
Étienne smiles at his cousin, touching the fabric against his skin.
“You boys look like models in a Ralph Lauren ad,” Moustapha’s mother says.
Why doesn’t this woman speak Wolof to him so he can understand what she wants? Ibrahimah stops playing and sits down. Aria walks into the kitchen with a black plastic bag and reminds her employer the boys don’t understand English.
“Oh, I keep forgetting,” she says, throwing her hands up in the air. “Désolée, mes petits chéris! Vous êtes très beaux!”
“Merci, madame,” Étienne replies.
“Merci,” Ibrahimah says, smiling. No one in Dakar has ever called him handsome.
Aria shows Moustapha’s mother the shoes she found.
“Those are fine.”
Moustapha’s mother starts to leave, then turns on her heels.
“Aria, how old are the boys?”
“Le grand a douze ans. Le petit a environ six ans, je crois.”
“Six years old. Who would send their baby out in the streets begging at such a young age?”
“C’est notre tradition,” Aria whispers.
Ibrahimah looks down at his feet, pretending not to understand. Étienne seems occupied with his own thoughts.
Moustapha comes down from his room and the boys snack on cookies while they watch television. Tom & Jerry is on. Ibrahimah cracks up laughing as the colorful characters run across the screen torturing one another. They jump, flip, slide, and do all the things he would like to do. When something is said in French that he doesn’t understand, Étienne or Moustapha translates it into Wolof for him.