No Heaven for Good Boys

by Keisha Bush

  This is the best day he’s had since leaving his family. He looks around the room. The sofa is soft against his skin and bigger than any piece of furniture he’s ever sat on. Ten boys could sleep on it and have more than enough room to move around. No mosquitoes or flies are buzzing around his head. Cool air blows into the room from the air conditioners mounted high up on the walls.

  “Étienne, we found Paradise.”

  Étienne looks over at his cousin and then turns his attention back to the cartoons. After an hour Aria comes to deliver the bad news.

  “No! Let them stay a while longer. Mom!” Moustapha yells, running out of the living room in search of his mother.

  “We have to go?”

  “I think so,” Étienne says.

  A few moments later a somber Moustapha returns.

  “I have to finish my homework, but come back tomorrow, same time.”

  “Okay.”

  Étienne and Ibrahimah get up. Ibrahimah stretches his arms wide and heaves a sigh. He feels different. Better than before.

  “Where’s my can?” Ibrahimah asks.

  Aria appears with the two oversized red tin tomato cans, scrubbed clean. The outer red color shines like the day they left the manufacturing plant. Inside each can is a piece of fruit, some cookies, and an extra five hundred francs.

  Étienne’s and Ibrahimah’s eyes light up when they discover the money. The boys wave goodbye before turning and walking down the road.

  “We have so much money,” Ibrahimah says, shocked at his good luck today.

  “Life is easy like for Marabout today. No work. Sit, eat, get money,” Étienne says.

  Ibrahimah falls into a fit of laughter. He laughs so hard his stomach hurts, and he bends over to lessen the pain. That is the funniest thing he’s heard in a long time. Étienne joins in the laughter for a bit, but then stops abruptly, his face serious. He puts his can down, takes Ibrahimah by the shoulders, and looks him straight in the eyes.

  “Ibrahimah. We can’t tell anyone about the money, the food, or where we find the clothes. Understand?”

  Ibrahimah grins from ear to ear.

  “Cousin, if anyone ever finds out about Moustapha, we can never come again. Too many Talibé to share. Not even Fatik or Abdoulaye.”

  Ibrahimah stops smiling and looks at his cousin’s face. No money means beatings. No food means hunger.

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “Promise you do what I say? These are rich people. They don’t want lots of Talibé in their house, eating their food, wearing Moustapha’s rich clothes.”

  “I promise, Étienne.”

  “Okay. If the others ask, say Christians gave us the clothes. Marabout doesn’t care what Christians do.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that evening in front of the pizza shop, their house brothers are shocked to see them.

  “Look at you!”

  The group encircles Ibrahimah and Étienne like a swarm of bees to a hive. Dirty little hands reach out and touch Ibrahimah’s arm.

  “Allah brings us good fortune, alhamdulillah,” Étienne replies.

  “Allah gives to you?”

  “Yes,” Ibrahimah says.

  “Why Allah bring good for you and not me?” Scarface demands. He pushes the other boys out of his way and stands in front of Étienne with a scowl on his face.

  “I’m a miracle!” Ibrahimah says, smiling.

  Étienne steps around the boy and hands Fatik the packet of vanilla cream cookies Aria gave him. Fatik takes two cookies and then hands them off to the other boys.

  “Thanks,” Fatik says, patting Étienne on the back.

  Étienne grabs Ibrahimah by the arm and they lean up against the lamppost, watching the others perform the routine evening dance: run up to foreigner, get ignored, turn to chase the other customer leaving with hot food, get swatted away, turn back to start again from the beginning. Like Tiki from the zoo, they dance for food and money. Scurrying across the parking lot, trying to get what they can get, as fast as possible. Worry begs at the back of Étienne’s neck.

  It was when Étienne first came to Dakar with Marabout Ahmed, while walking the streets alone beneath the scorching-hot sun one day, that he came upon an old man drinking tea beneath a large shady tree.

  “Boy, why are you beaten so bad? Where are your pants? Your shoes?”

  “Someone took them from me.”

  The man spit the remnants of chewed-up bark onto the ground.

  “Boy, remember what I’m about to tell you. It will save you grief one day. If a man claims to be a true Muslim and he tries to take something Allah has given you, he is damned to hell. No man has the right to take anything that Allah has not given him directly. You understand what I say?”

  Étienne stood there with his head hung low. What did this old man know about being seven years old and losing one’s family, clothes, money, food, and happiness?

  “Listen to me, boy. You suffer because you don’t listen. Who gives you that red tomato can?”

  “My marabout.”

  “Allah willed your marabout to give you that can. Meaning, Allah has given you that can. If someone comes to you and says, ‘This can is mine!’ you immediately state in a loud, clear voice that Allah himself gave you that can. A true Muslim has no argument against you. Allah is almighty. If he wants a can, he now has to wait for Allah to give him one. If his heart is true, he won’t take your tomato can. If his heart has no truth, make sure you have witnesses to influence his behavior. Take this advice and you will see.

  “Do you want some tea?”

  So, Étienne sat with the old man, drank tea, and listened. He instructed Étienne to return the next day, and when Étienne arrived, the man gave him a new pair of shoes. Week after week Étienne would stop by the large shady tree, bringing the old man sugar cubes and listening to him talk about life, the Quran, and Allah. He taught Étienne prayers and passages from the Quran and how to read. As the years passed Étienne grew stronger, taller, and more poised. One day he arrived only to find several men in the old man’s spot beneath the tree.

  “Where is the man that sits here each day?”

  “He died last night. What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing,” Étienne replied, kicking the sand up to hide his approaching tears as he walked away, the familiar pain of loneliness creeping up into his chest. The next day Ibrahimah arrived in Dakar with Marabout Ahmed.

  Étienne looks over at Ibrahimah, posturing in his new clothes, an easy grin on his face as he talks with Fatik. Night spreads across the sky in the absence of sun. Ibrahimah reassures Fatik that he and Étienne received everything from Allah. But Étienne knows the real challenge will be convincing Marabout of this.

  Suspicious of his good mood and fancy clothes, Marabout slaps Ibrahimah across the back of his head, accusing him of cockiness. Ibrahimah’s hand shoots up to the spot that now stings in pain, and turns around to face Marabout, his mouth in a defiant pout, but before the situation can escalate, Étienne grabs his cousin by the arm and drags Ibrahimah out the front door. When they get down to the main road, the cousins ditch their Talibé brothers as they have been doing, and spend the morning working, before heading to Moustapha’s house for lunch and play.

  “Maybe they’re not home,” Étienne says, ringing the bell again.

  Ibrahimah shifts from one foot to the other with impatience. He has never visited a house where no one was home—but rich people like Moustapha are different. He imagines his friend off doing something fanciful, like eating in a restaurant or enjoying the rides at Magic Land, the only amusement park in Senegal.

  “Let’s go,” Étienne mutters.

  “But I want to eat real food and watch Tom and Jerry!” Ibrahimah whines, slapping the metal gate door with his open palm.

 
Étienne starts to walk away, leaving Ibrahimah pouting at the door. This is not how Ibrahimah imagined spending his afternoon. He stomps in protest but Étienne doesn’t turn back. Realizing he has no other choice, Ibrahimah follows, turning back every second step in case Aria would appear and beckon them inside with a wave of her hand, and a smile.

  “Étienne,” Ibrahimah says, catching up with his cousin after a half mile of lagging behind him, “what is cockiness?”

  Étienne rubs his chin in thought and then smiles when he remembers. “It means you think you are rich and important like the president or a foreigner.”

  “Like Moustapha?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong with being like Moustapha?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, we’re born poor and Moustapha is not. He doesn’t have to stay with a marabout. Instead, his marabout comes to him for weekly lessons.”

  Ibrahimah looks down into his empty red tin can. He would like to leave Marabout and live with Moustapha. A twinge of guilt rises up in his throat; he still loves his mother and father. They turn off of Rue Deux and walk down toward On the Run, even though the gas station and food outlet are normally dead during the afternoon.

  “Talibé! I haven’t seen you in a long time. Namanala trop! Oy! Look at you. All fancy and rich,” the manager of the computer shop says, coming out of the store.

  Ibrahimah’s face lights up at the recognition of his new clothes and status. “Yes.”

  “Allah has brought you fortune. You continue to be good boys and he will bring you more.”

  Ibrahimah sits down on the curb, shielding his eyes from the sun. Étienne stands with a hint of impatience in his movements.

  “Where are your Talibé brothers?”

  “We make more money when it’s just the two of us,” Étienne replies, looking across the street at the empty shaded porch of On the Run.

  “But it’s better to be with the group, yes?”

  “Look at that car!” Ibrahimah exclaims, pointing to a large yellow Hummer, changing the subject to Étienne’s relief.

  The vehicle lurches forward, dwarfing all the other cars around it. The driver wears dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. Gold chains lace his neck and wrist. The windows are tinted dark but the driver’s window is down, so everyone can see. Begging from that guy would be impossible, Étienne decides, he sits too high up from the ground.

  “Sometimes,” Étienne says to the computer-shop man, “but we’re okay.”

  “I’ll have a car like that one day when I have lots of money,” Ibrahimah declares.

  “You think you’ll be rich enough to buy a car like that?” Étienne asks.

  “Yes,” Ibrahimah says.

  The computer-shop guy laughs.

  “Well, if Allah gives you one, little Talibé,” he says, turning back to the entrance of his shop, “then I want one too!”

  A customer approaches the salesman and they fall into a conversation about setting up a home Wi-Fi network as he ushers the guest inside.

  “Why will Allah give you a car like that?” Étienne asks.

  “ ’Cause I’m good. Moustapha is good and he gets everything. Why not me? You said before that Allah loves me.”

  If God is supposed to love him, and it seems like God loves Moustapha, then he should be able to have nice things and comfort like his friend. His eye catches a boy waving his arm back and forth at them from down the road.

  “It’s Abdoulaye and Fatik. Let’s go see what they’re doing,” Étienne says.

  Ibrahimah follows, still thinking of the yellow Hummer. His yellow crayon has gone missing; if he still had it, he would draw a picture of the Hummer, and himself inside the car. Surely he can get another crayon from Moustapha; he’ll ask his friend the next time they visit him.

  “There’s a football match at the stadium,” Fatik says as they catch up to their friends.

  Ibrahimah looks up at the stocky boy. Fatik reaches out and tickles Ibrahimah’s belly, sending him into a fit of giggles. Ibrahimah scoots behind Abdoulaye, using his wide-faced doe-eyed friend as a shield. They meet up with the rest of the boys from their house in front of the supermarché, Casino Sahm. It’s been weeks since Étienne and Ibrahimah have linked up with the larger group of boys during the day, and today they’re a rare mass of fourteen bodies—the other seven boys who arrive home late every evening rarely ever link up with the main group during the day. Excited chatter about the football match is lost beneath the noise of the busy intersection. Ibrahimah and Étienne haven’t been through here since the car accident. Ibrahimah looks down at his ankle-length pants and the shoes on his feet. He is a miracle. Nothing is impossible for him. He is sure of it.

  Avenue Blaise Diagne is crowded with scores of people all the way down to the rough slum, Medina, where the large football field, Stade Iba Mar Diop, encompasses three-quarters of a mile. As they thread through the street, Ibrahimah watches the group of boys from his house and other Talibé boys hit up cars trapped in traffic behind red lights, masses of pedestrians, and moving street vendors. A Senegalese man calls Ibrahimah over to his car and offers him a hundred francs; the child in the backseat hands him a banana. Ibrahimah offers them a prayer and thanks, but does not scarf down the fruit immediately as he would’ve done not long ago. Instead, he chews the fruit slowly like Moustapha, confidence lacing each step he takes.

  They can hear the cheers of the crowd from outside the stadium entrance. Tickets cost two hundred francs each, but the guards slip the boys in free when no one is looking. Inside, they walk toward the farthest end of the stadium to sit apart from the other attendees. Older boys and men will rob them of their money if they are not careful.

  “Wow! Étienne! Look at how big the field is!”

  He’s never seen such a big football field. The match is an amateur junior league of high school graduated boys. Senegal is playing against a team from Mali. The crowd in the stadium is thick and raucous.

  “You hungry?” Fatik asks Étienne, holding up a packet of nuts.

  Étienne opens his palm and Fatik hands him four peanuts. A Talibé never refuses food. Étienne gives Ibrahimah two. Ibrahimah opens one of the peanuts, dropping the shell on the floor. He looks over at Abdoulaye, sitting next to him, and offers his friend the other peanut.

  “You’re a good man, Ibrahimah,” Abdoulaye says, taking the peanut.

  Looking out onto the field, Ibrahimah imagines himself down there in white shorts and a green short-sleeve jersey. He moves the ball expertly from one foot to the other, dodging his opponents with the ease and agility of Thierry Henry or Patrick Vieira. Ibrahimah, the famous football player! People smile at him when he and Étienne walk by. No longer ignored, kicked, or beaten. He is rich and happy, living in a big house, with his own television. His mother brings him as much mango as he wants, along with plates full of mafé and great big jugs of Coca. The sun shines bright through the windows. His sister Fatou tells a funny joke and they all laugh. His father offers him a big piece of meat.

  “Ibrahimah!”

  Ibrahimah opens his eyes. Étienne, Abdoulaye, and Fatik are looking at him. Ibrahimah looks out onto the football field; nothing has changed. The crowd screams for the Senegalese team to win. Ibrahimah shakes his head to clear it.

  “I will be a football player one day and be rich.”

  Étienne pats him on the back and turns to Fatik. Abdoulaye gets up and says, “I’ll be right back,” then walks down the bleachers to talk to another boy. The football is kicked up, down, and across the field. The players work hard to score, yet the game sits stagnant at zero to zero. A light-skinned boy trips and clings to his shin in pain. A timeout is called. Someone comes out, talks to him, and then two players help him to his feet and lead him off the field. The crowd screams in support of the fallen teammate. After two hours of neither team scoring a goal, Ibrahi
mah and the boys grab their cans and make for the exit. It’s time to go back to work.

  “Where’s Abdoulaye?” Ibrahimah asks once they get to the front gate.

  Étienne and Fatik look around.

  “Maybe he’ll meet us later?” Fatik asks.

  “Let’s wait to see if he comes,” Ibrahimah suggests.

  The group of thirteen loiters around the entrance of the stadium. Hanging around outside the venue proves to be not such a bad idea, as the traffic builds with tired drivers trying to get home for dinner.

  “We have to go,” Étienne says at the sound of the bleachers shifting beneath the feet of the crowd inside.

  “What about Abdoulaye?” Ibrahimah asks.

  “He’ll find us. We need to go before the crowd gets out here,” Fatik says.

  Everyone agrees to head back up, and together they move as one.

  * * *

  —

  Marabout Ahmed’s boubou is damp with sweat, he frowns at the boys; most of them made their quota, but that is not the reason for his displeasure. He towers over the children, their heads lowered to the floor. He counts the dirty bodies before him and comes up short.

  “Who is missing?”

  Silence.

  “Someone is missing. Who is it?” Ahmed growls in a low, menacing tone.

  “Abdoulaye.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We don’t know,” Fatik says.

  “Who was he with today?”

  Étienne, Ibrahimah, and the others look at one another from bowed heads.

  “When is the last time you see him?”

  “At the stadium after lunch,” Caca offers from the back of the group.

  “What was happening at the stadium?”

  Another bout of silence sits in the room.