No Heaven for Good Boys

by Keisha Bush

  “Étienne, don’t let them kill you! Étienne! Someone, help!”

  Ibrahimah can hear Pape struggling with the padlock inside the front door. He throws another rock through the window in an attempt to hit Lamine, and prepares himself to throw one at Pape the moment he gets outside, but before he can do that, Étienne comes flying out of the first window Ibrahimah broke, and lands on the porch.

  “Run! Run!” Étienne screams.

  Ibrahimah turns and breaks toward the dilapidated wooden fence. When he hits the sandy path, he turns his head and sees Étienne stumbling down the stairs and Pape bursting through the front door. Ibrahimah pumps his legs faster than he has ever worked them. Every ounce of energy, every breath that he possesses, streamlines into his arms and legs and allows his body to fly across the ground as if he has turned into a bird. He can no longer feel his legs; they don’t struggle against the sand. His mind focuses only on the task at hand. He has to trust that his cousin is behind him. He knows that if he turns around, he will lose his focus and momentum, and that is all they need to catch him. Missing one beat would put him back in that room, chained to the floor, his body soon decaying as it gives up and releases itself from the pain and ill that these people hope to exert onto him.

  Once he reaches the main road, he takes a left and does not stop. Up ahead he sees a Car Rapide facing toward Yoff. It’s at the first and last stop, and is about to take off. Ibrahimah jumps onto the back of the van just as it begins to accelerate.

  “Just in time, boy,” the change man in the bright-red T-shirt says as he helps him up onto the seat.

  Ibrahimah turns and looks back as the old Car Rapide gains momentum, its exhaust sputtering and complaining as the driver presses the stubborn vehicle to move.

  Étienne is running toward the van with both Lamine and Pape on his heels.

  “Étienne, run!” Ibrahimah screams, his voice cracking.

  The change man stands on the back of the Car Rapide, holds on to the side of the van with one hand, and leans his body out long to Étienne. Ibrahimah feels the Car Rapide skip a beat before it finally wakes and begins to gain speed; the driver is a world away and disconnected from what is transpiring at the back of his vehicle.

  “Come, boy,” the change man shouts, “you can make it!”

  Lamine stretches his long arms out and touches Étienne’s shirttail, but it slips through his fingers. Étienne pumps his legs harder in a last burst of energy, leans forward, and grabs the change man’s hand. The man hoists Étienne high and swings him toward the van, directly through the open door. Étienne lands on his feet, drops down to his knees, and tumbles along the floor. Lamine slows his run and stares after the Car Rapide, with Pape lingering behind him.

  Étienne flops onto his back, clutches his chest, and heaves for air. Ibrahimah looks down at his cousin, who is bleeding from the side of his head and arm.

  “They were trying to rob you?” the change man asks Ibrahimah.

  He does not know how to explain what just happened, or why there was a dead boy chained to a pipe, or why they were trying to chain him, Étienne, and Demba. He looks back out the door, but Pape and Lamine are gone.

  “Where you boys going?” the change man says.

  “Ouakam,” Ibrahimah says, uncoiling the palm of his hand to reveal the two coins he managed to keep through his escape.

  “What are you doing all the way out here?”

  “The man said he had work and would pay us.”

  Ibrahimah pays the man.

  “You will need one hundred francs more for your brother to get all the way back to Ouakam.”

  That was all Ibrahimah saved from his can.

  “Étienne, you have money?”

  Étienne sits up and hands the man fifty francs. He approaches a woman with her daughter for the rest of his fare and she pays it for him. Étienne thanks her.

  Ibrahimah pats the seat next to him and Étienne sits down. Both boys are quiet.

  “Dakar is a dangerous place. You boys should stay closer to your marabout. What if the Car Rapide was not here? You could have been left there. Take this as a lesson,” the man says.

  Ibrahimah knows being out on the streets is dangerous, but he thought Marabout was worse than anything else the world could ever offer and that if they ran away, they would be able to keep their money for themselves; that they did not need Marabout. Perhaps this is why Étienne never ran away, and why his cousin believes Marabout is not so bad. Maybe he is not.

  “What about Demba?” Ibrahimah says.

  Étienne doesn’t respond.

  “We’ll get new cans from Marabout,” Ibrahimah says.

  “Sure.”

  “You saved us, Étienne.”

  “No, I didn’t. You did. If you didn’t break that window, I wouldn’t have had a way out.”

  “I love you, cousin,” Ibrahimah says, his eyes wet.

  “I love you too.”

  That evening when they tell Marabout’s associate Imam Farad what happened that afternoon, he does not believe them. But they insist they are telling the truth and show him the cuts on Étienne’s head and arm from the broken window. In the morning Farad calls the police. Étienne and Ibrahimah relay their story again.

  “Would you remember the house?” the heavier cop, Officer Ba, asks.

  “Yes,” the boys say in unison.

  The two officers, Ibrahimah, Étienne, and Imam Farad drive in the police car to Pikine.

  “We know the way from the last stop on the Car Rapide,” Étienne says.

  Thirty minutes later, Ibrahimah finds himself retracing his steps from the day before, but this time with the security of men who are not trying to hurt him or Étienne.

  “There.” Ibrahimah points at the window he broke.

  They lead the men through the wooden gate, its resident cat missing. Étienne pushes the front door open and the smell of the dead boy’s body meets them at the door this time.

  “You boys, stand back,” Officer Ba says, stepping inside the house.

  “They tried to keep us in the room there.” Étienne points. “That’s where the dead boy is, and the other boy.”

  “Stay outside,” the skinny officer says as he follows his partner.

  Moments later, Officer Ba runs outside and rummages through the trunk of the police car until he finds what he is searching for, then rushes back inside with a large metal object in his hand. Moments later Officer Ba carries Demba outside. The boy is dehydrated and exhausted, but alive. When he sees Étienne and Ibrahimah on the porch, he begins to cry.

  “I thought you had left me,” Demba says.

  Imam Farad ushers Étienne and Ibrahimah through the gate and to the street.

  Officer Ba exits with them and goes to his car to radio for backup and the coroner.

  “Are the boys finished here?” Farad asks.

  “Yes, we took their statements at the daara. If we need anything more, we’ll reach out.” Officer Ba looks down at Étienne and Ibrahimah. “You boys were very brave to escape and then report what happened to you and the other boy; you should be proud of yourselves. Allah smiles down on you.”

  Ibrahimah does not feel particularly proud of himself. He cannot put into words the terror he felt when he realized there was a dead body in the corner of the room, and that Pape and Lamine had tricked them into entering the house. He doesn’t understand what they wanted. His mind struggles to make sense of it all.

  “Were they going to cut out my organs like they did to Abdoulaye?” Ibrahimah asks.

  “You are safe now, Ibrahimah. There is no need to think about that,” Farad says.

  Ibrahimah looks over at Étienne, who does not look so convinced.

  “Young Talibé, you have to be careful and pay attention out here,” the officer says.

  Imam Fara
d takes them down the road and they catch a Car Rapide back down to Ouakam. There is a different change man on the Car Rapide today; he wears a navy-blue shirt and brown rust-colored pants and is not as chatty as the younger man was yesterday. When they reach Ouakam, they get out of the van and stand looking up at Farad, but he sends them on their way. They have a lot of work to do to make up for the lost day of income yesterday.

  “Maimouna!”

  “Yes, Idrissa?” Maimouna asks, looking up from studying the fine cracks on the tile floor.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Marabout Ahmed lost one of his Talibé to murder in Dakar,” Idrissa says a little too loud, his eyes filled with worry.

  Madame Touré says, “I would bring my child home. Dakar is not as safe as it used to be. Before you could leave your rams to walk themselves in the evenings for exercise. Try that now and someone will steal them!”

  “Dakar is fine! Our boys are fine. Allah will protect them,” Maimouna’s brother-in-law says.

  “Humph, like that young Talibé whose organs were stolen? Do you even know it wasn’t your son? I hear the marabout is passing this way in a few days,” says Madame Touré.

  “It wasn’t either of our sons,” Idrissa says. “Ahmed has already brought the boy to his family and buried him. Allah is protecting my son.”

  “What do you mean? You believe Allah protects only certain children? I thought all Talibé were sacrificing for Allah. Why should one be more protected than the other? It could have well been Ibrahimah,” Madame Touré’s husband says.

  “Please, please. Everyone, calm down. This isn’t the time for argument,” Idrissa says.

  Maimouna wishes she were not present for this discussion. If she closes her eyes and allows her body to become very still, she can feel his small body leaning up against her thigh, his big almond eyes inquiring for more milk. It was a horrible idea to send him away. They should have never done it.

  Later that evening, after the last of their guests have gone and the gunpowder tea is finished, Maimouna gets in bed beside Idrissa.

  “Husband, what if it was Ibrahimah?”

  “Ibrahimah is still too small. His organs would never support an adult. It’s usually adult organs needed.”

  “Everything in this world is for sale. The wicked would steal their grandmother’s heart and put it up for sale,” Maimouna says.

  “Allah will protect Ibrahimah. I know it in my heart. Have faith, my love.”

  “I want him back. The safety and well-being of our son comes before anything else in this life. Marabout Ahmed said he’d teach Ibrahimah for a year and then bring him home. The year is almost done.”

  “I know, my love. My heart is with our son, and I pray for his speedy return just as you do.” Idrissa rolls over and wraps his arms around her. Neither of them sleeps well.

  * * *

  —

  Fatou enters her parents’ bedroom at first light, Idrissa’s side of the bed cool to the touch, as he has left for work more than an hour before dawn. “Mama, I saw Madame N’Diaye this morning while fetching water and she needs an order of fifty patties for this afternoon,” Fatou says.

  “We’ll need more water,” Maimouna says.

  Fatou grabs two pails and heads down the hill; her sisters are nowhere to be found at the moment.

  Maimouna catches a glimpse of a woman walking toward her; the woman is a shadow with the sun sitting behind her tall hourglass figure. She drags her sandaled feet through the hot sand; a platter filled with peanuts, dates, and fruit lies on top of her head. Maimouna has all but lost her motivation to breathe the fresh morning air. Puffy bags cup her eyes and the thought of food makes her nauseous.

  When the woman arrives at her door, Maimouna sees an infant is tied to her back.

  “Did you hear about the Talibé who tried to return to his village?” the woman asks.

  In a small village everyone knows which families have Talibé in Dakar.

  “You mean the boy who was murdered?” Maimouna corrects her.

  “No, this is after. An older boy ran away from his marabout and returned to his village. He was from Rufisque, just a few hours away from Dakar. He was able to get himself home.”

  “Well, what about it?”

  “This boy was so afraid after the news of the dead Talibé that he returned to his village. His marabout searched all over for him and quickly went to the police for fear it might be another kidnapping. The marabout called his family to report him missing, but instead learned the boy was home.”

  “What happened?” Maimouna asks, her interest piqued.

  “The marabout demanded the boy back, said the code of the Talibé brotherhood demands the boy to remain with the marabout until he is fifteen, if a marabout deems so. The boy refused to return.”

  “And?”

  “The boy’s father brought him back to Dakar, of course, and whipped him in front of his marabout for being a coward.”

  The woman’s story seeps down deep into the pit of Maimouna’s stomach.

  “The boy only has two more years until he turns fifteen and then he can leave his marabout. It made no sense to run away,” the woman says with a slight shrug.

  The woman takes her leave and continues down the sandy path looking for customers. A dark fog descends upon Maimouna. She moves blindly through the morning and when the patties are done, instead of having Fatou deliver them, she cleans herself up and walks them over. While Madame N’Diaye quickly fetches the money to pay her, Maimouna offers a graceful smile and inquires about the occasion.

  “You didn’t hear? Marabout Ahmed is passing through sometime this evening and we’ve requested a special audience with him. You should come with an offering and receive blessings.”

  Maimouna offers a curt smile. “How are your daughter and her husband?”

  “Oh, they are wonderful. She loves being a wife. She and the first wife get along just fine. She’s hoping to be pregnant soon.”

  “That’s wonderful. I wish them many blessings,” Maimouna says, folding her hands in front of her.

  “Thank you! Look here, my daughter sent me a new flat-screen television!”

  “Did you hear about the Talibé that ran away back to his village?”

  “Oh, yes! What an ungrateful child! In the name of Allah, what a disgrace.” She clucks her tongue.

  Maimouna remains silent as her neighbor flails her arms in the air to emphasize her point.

  “People say his mother allowed him to stay with his grandmother without her husband even knowing! What a wicked woman; her husband should beat her for the deception. Some people cannot be taught righteousness and virtue. They will behave like fools even with Allah looking right at them.”

  Maimouna clears her throat. “I have to go now, but will pay a visit later.”

  Back at home, Maimouna begins preparing dinner but anxiety grips at her chest. Ibrahimah’s situation is different from these other boys. It was one of Marabout Ahmed’s Talibé that was murdered! She lights a fire to boil the potatoes. Would Ahmed go back on his promise to return Ibrahimah?

  “Mama! Watch out, your arm!” Fatou screams from the doorway.

  Maimouna’s body jerks at the disruption, the sleeve of her shirt on fire. The flames lick at the air, trying to catch anything else within their vicinity. She snatches her arm back and Fatou, moving quickly, douses several cups of water on her mother’s arm while Maimouna smacks at the flames with the dishrag. Overpowered, the small fire dies.

  “Mama, are you okay?”

  Fatou comes closer to her, arms outstretched in an attempt to view the wound without touching her mother.

  Maimouna stares down at her arm, blinking several times before she can find her words.

  “I’m okay, it’s just a surface burn,” Mai
mouna says. She walks out of the kitchen to her room.

  Fatou follows.

  “Mama, is there anything I can get you?”

  Maimouna sits down on the edge of her bed and shakes her head no.

  “Mama, we need to take care of your arm.”

  “Daughter, I worry only about Ibrahimah.”

  Fatou sits down beside her.

  “Will he be able to come back home like the marabout promised?”

  “I should hope so. Marabout Ahmed said one year,” Maimouna says, looking out the window.

  “Well, me, Binta, and Aisha have been praying every night for Ibrahimah to return home safely.”

  Maimouna looks at her daughter.

  “I have the best children in the world,” she says, touching Fatou’s cheek with her wounded hand.

  “Stay here, I will get a bandage,” Fatou says, hopping off the bed.

  Her eldest reminds her of herself; mature and responsible beyond her years; smart, loving, and resilient. Fatou treats her siblings with the same care Maimouna treated her younger cousins, but instead of being the family workhorse, Fatou is full of pride and loves her role as the big sister.

  “You constantly remind me of myself,” Maimouna says when Fatou returns.

  “I want to be like you,” Fatou says, dropping her head.

  “Like me? No. You will be better. You will finish school, go to college, and become a doctor or lawyer.”

  “I want to be a schoolteacher,” Fatou says as she wraps her mother’s forearm.

  “You’ll be the best teacher in America.”

  “Africa,” Fatou corrects her mother. “I want to live close to you and Papa. You mean too much to me to ever go so far away.”

  Maimouna smiles and thinks of her own mother and how little time they have spent together over the span of her life. She runs her fingers across the bandaged arm. The pain doesn’t compare to the agony she feels in her heart for Ibrahimah.

  “We will get Ibrahimah back, don’t worry. I feel it in my heart,” Fatou says, getting up and leaving the room after planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek.