by Keisha Bush
“Perhaps it was a fast-moving bacterium,” Maimouna says, climbing out of bed, her hunger pains strong and commanding at the moment.
She moves through the day slowly and methodically. The girls clean the house while she starts lunch, and by noon she needs a nap, leaving the girls to eat alone. When Idrissa arrives home at six-thirty that evening Maimouna is feeling refreshed again. She and the girls lay dinner out and the family of five gathers around the platter of steaming-hot food. A few moments later the same thing as the night before begins again. Maimouna sits bent over the platter of food, swaying and seeming to lose her awareness of everything around her. Idrissa touches her forehead to find it hot to the touch and rushes her to bed. Fatou brings an empty pail and sets it nearby in case Maimouna vomits again; at least this time they can catch it. Aisha boils water and brings the tea the doctor left for Maimouna to drink throughout the day.
Maimouna writhes in pain as her stomach spasms. Fatou rushes to the bedside with the pail. A cool rag is pressed to Maimouna’s forehead and Idrissa sits her up in an attempt to get her to sip the tea. Maimouna eventually falls into a deep sleep and the rest of the family goes back to finish eating dinner.
“Is Mama going to die?” Binta asks before stuffing millet into her mouth.
“I think your mama is just sick right now, Binta. We will get through this,” Idrissa says.
“I hope so,” Fatou says.
The next morning, Maimouna wakes as normal again to find Fatou next to her in bed. Fatou recounts the events of the evening again, as Maimouna has no recollection of her fever, the painful stomach spasms, or vomiting.
“The same exact thing, Mama, and at the same exact time as the night before,” Fatou says.
Maimouna has never heard of a sickness that arrives in the evening only, and so on the fifth consecutive day of the mysterious illness Idrissa returns home early in the afternoon with a lamb. The lamb cries with fear at its change in environment and tries to pull away from Idrissa as he ties it to a post in the yard. The animal calms down once Binta and Aisha go out to pet it.
“Can we afford this right now?” Maimouna asks.
“Can we not, my love?” Idrissa asks, walking out the door to meet the halal butcher who will slaughter the animal.
The two men go out back and Maimouna watches from the kitchen window. Idrissa claps his hands to catch the attention of Binta and Aisha and they scurry out of the way. The man takes the lamb by the rope sitting loosely around its neck and leads it over to the large tree at the far end of the small yard. He digs a shallow hole beneath the strongest branch and then takes out a machete. With Idrissa’s help they hold the animal down, who by now knows the best of its days are about to come to an end. The lamb bleats in protest, but with the deftness of a man who can do this in his sleep, the man slices its throat in one smooth motion over the hole. Idrissa helps adjust the body of the animal and the majority of the blood is allowed to pour out into the small grave. After a time, the carcass is hoisted up by its hind legs so that it can continue to bleed out before being skinned and cut.
At five o’clock the girls are sent out to their neighbors’ homes with cuts of the sacrificial meat. The poorest families are offered the most meat. Maimouna prepares what the family plans to keep for dinner but like the previous evenings, right before the family is set to start eating, Maimouna’s affliction arrives again. Once they put Maimouna to bed, Idrissa and his three daughters sit down to eat.
“I love lamb,” Aisha says, sucking on a rib bone.
Binta is too focused on rolling the perfect ball of rice to plop into her mouth to pay her sister any attention.
Fatou looks at her father, who is quiet as he eats.
“Maybe the sacrifice needs a couple of days before it can take effect, Papa,” Fatou says.
“Only Allah knows,” Idrissa says, looking toward their bedroom.
The morning is slow and the boredom of not having anything to do threatens to put Ibrahimah back to sleep. It’s nowhere near lunchtime yet, when he and Étienne will go visit Moustapha; now that their friend has returned to Dakar, and school is on summer recess, they can visit for the entire afternoon, watching television, playing video games, learning to skateboard, eating good food, and practicing their English. All before Moustapha’s father comes home from work, of course, which is when they take their leave so that he doesn’t find them there.
“How much is Magic Land?” he asks his cousin. That would be a good way to fill the morning, and with all the money they have been collecting during the last two weeks of Ramadan, surely they can afford it.
“Too expensive; it’s two thousand five hundred francs.”
“How much is that?”
Étienne ponders the question for several moments, counting silently on his fingers.
“A week’s pay.”
Ibrahimah’s shoulders drop in defeat; he could justify one day’s worth of Marabout’s money, but not an entire week. But he deserves to spend a day at Magic Land after all he has had to endure over the last few weeks.
“Are you sure? Maybe we should just try,” Ibrahimah says, hope still alive in the pit of his stomach.
“Why you think no Talibé ever goes to Magic Land? Those rich people don’t want to be anywhere near us, even if we could afford it. They keep the price high to keep us out.”
Ibrahimah knows his cousin is right. He rarely ever steers them wrong.
“Magic Land is stupid anyways,” Étienne says.
“No, it’s not,” Ibrahimah says.
Étienne rolls his eyes and leaves Ibrahimah to sulk alone. Even if he could earn that much money, he knows spending it on Magic Land would be a waste. Food and paying Marabout are his two priorities. He scratches at his arm and discovers a mosquito bite. His dirty fingernails scrape the bump until his skin burns. When he realizes Étienne is walking away, he jumps up to follow him. Ibrahimah drags his can alongside his body, the empty canister bumping into his thigh.
“Where are we going?” Ibrahimah asks.
“We meet the others, over there,” Étienne says, pointing to the larger group of boys from their house, “and then we go to the lighthouse.”
“What’s up there?”
“Doctors who will fix our feet.”
Ibrahimah looks down at his feet housed in the blue plastic jelly sandals Aria bought him.
“Why haven’t we gone before?”
“We never have the time.”
“Are you going to get your feet fixed?” Ibrahimah says.
“I don’t know,” Étienne says, tilting his head to the side, “it depends.”
“On what?”
“On how long they say it takes to heal.”
They catch up with the group and Étienne slaps hands with Fatik and the two boys fall into an easy gait. Ibrahimah frowns. His feet were a constant thing of suffering for months. Étienne would try and soothe him with the advice that one day, once his toes healed and got hard, they wouldn’t hurt and bleed so badly again. He didn’t think the day would ever come, but it did. He would rather not do anything to cause that kind of pain again.
A young girl walks past, dragging her feet in a gait of slow suffering beneath the scorching African sun and the effects of fasting. The ends of her cornrows stick up, haphazardly, around the crown of her head, offering no protection. She wears an old T-shirt tucked into her traditional Senegalese ankle-length wrap skirt and twirls a small black plastic bag that dangles from her wrist.
Ibrahimah would never think to ask her for money, as she is but a maid, a young girl pulled out of school to go live with a family and work seven days a week, with a day and a half off once a month to visit her family in the village. Her entire salary of thirty dollars a month is given to her family back in the village. So, even if she had a five-franc piece to spare, she could not afford to give it to a Talib
é.
The older boys at the front of the group push one another in jest and turn around, their eyes watching her narrow hips sashay by like an older woman with curves. A boy clicks his tongue at her but with her chin jutting out she continues on as if she had not heard. The boy’s antics fall flat with Ibrahimah. A girl with no money to spare, he does not see the fun in harassing her.
“Have you gone to the lighthouse before?” Ibrahimah asks Fatik.
Fatik shakes his head no. He turns around and glances at the retreating girl.
“Why do they bother the girl? She has no money.”
“They’re not interested in her money,” Étienne says.
“Then why do they tease her?”
“Because they want her to be their girlfriend!” Fatik laughs.
Ibrahimah scrunches his face up in disgust.
“Yuck! I don’t want a girlfriend.”
Fatik shakes his head. “You’re young. Wait till you get older.”
“No. I’m fine. I don’t need a girl. I just want my mama.”
A man dressed in a worn T-shirt and dusty workman’s pants, both too large for his thin, angular frame, brushes by Ibrahimah as if he were not there. Some people are not worth the time it takes to ask for money; he knows who will say no from several blocks away. People are not aware that the way they move, the manner in which they regard their surroundings, and their facial expressions say more about them than the words that come out of their mouths or the clothes they wear.
There are some days, though, when his feet hurt, his belly aches, and his skin is so hot from the merciless sun that he would approach a ram for food or money. But today, during the slow but abundant month of Ramadan, he can take a moment and look up at the faces and shoulders of the world around him. He always thought what he really needed was a lot of money, but he has come to realize that what it is he truly needs is time. Time to find food to fill his belly. Time to work. Time to find his way back home. Time to be a boy.
Phare des Mamelles sits in front of the boys. The lighthouse is atop one of two looming hills covered in grass. The story told by the elders is that the twin hills are the remnants of a woman who threw herself into the sea off the coast of Dakar only to be rejected by the sea gods, who tossed her back onto the land, which then grew over and around her. The lasting proof of her existence are the two hills, said to be her breasts, which mark the beginning of the low-key residential neighborhood of Mamelles.
The group starts up the steep and winding hill, but Ibrahimah finds his small chest has trouble catching enough wind to conquer the hill with ease. He stops for a moment, leans over and coughs phlegm, then spits it out onto the ground in front of him.
“Are you okay?” Fatik asks, hitting him on the back.
Étienne is beside him a moment later.
“Cousin, what’s wrong?”
Ibrahimah stands up and catches his breath. “I don’t know. I’m fine.”
“Perhaps you need to drink.”
He is quite thirsty now that Étienne mentions it. A Coca-Cola would soothe his cough for sure.
“Come,” Étienne says, taking his tomato can and leading him up the hill, “we’re almost there.”
Seagulls circle above the tall white lighthouse that looms above the city. Ibrahimah shades his eyes against the glare of the sun to get a clear look at the structure.
“The doctors are here?” Ibrahimah asks.
“That is what the others told me,” Étienne says.
“How would they fix our feet?”
“They cut the stuff that makes your toes connect and then bandage them separately. When you take the bandage off, your feet will be like normal again.”
“I don’t want anyone cutting my feet!”
The idea of someone cutting his toes causes the same fear he feels for Marabout to take hold of his body. Étienne touches his shoulder.
“Don’t worry; you don’t have to get it done.”
“Will you do it?” Ibrahimah asks.
“Maybe. I think they give you special shoes so that you can walk. If I get new shoes, I will do it.”
Ibrahimah is not excited about the idea of knives and feet but before he is able to communicate his doubt, they are approached by a young Senegalese boy Étienne’s height.
“Talibé, what you looking for?”
“The doctor that fixes Talibé feet. We heard they’re here at the lighthouse,” Fatik says.
“Doctors Without Borders? You’re too late. The doctors are gone.”
The group comes to a sudden halt.
“How do you know?” Étienne asks.
“I live here. My father is one of the lighthouse watchers.”
“Where did the doctors go?”
“They went to Niger, to help with the famine.”
“Will they come back?” Fatik asks.
“I don’t know. They left right before Ramadan,” the boy says, then runs off behind them down the hill.
Étienne plops down on the ground, kicks off his sandals, and stares at his bare feet, toes fused together beneath years’ worth of calluses and ingrown toenails. Ibrahimah sits down next to him and lies back onto the grass. The wind atop the hill brings him relief and he plucks a blade of grass, covered in sea salt carried along the ocean breeze, and chews on it. They were too late to get their feet fixed, but that is fine with Ibrahimah, since he would rather spend the rest of his day thinking of all the things he would do if he had enough time.
It’s been four days since Idrissa sacrificed the lamb for the health and safety of their family and last night was the first night Maimouna did not fall ill with fever and spasms. Instead, Maimouna wakes with a deep fatigue within the pit of her stomach. Fatou tried to comb her hair this morning, but she pushed her away, preferring to sleep until noon. And so now with her braids fuzzy and her dress on backward Maimouna finally emerges from her room and makes her way to the kitchen, to start breakfast.
“Mama!”
Binta runs up to her mother in the kitchen.
“Mama?”
“Get away from me, child.”
Binta pauses, stares into her mother’s face for several moments, then runs out of the room.
“Aisha! Something’s wrong with Mama!”
She needs to get to Dakar. That’s what she needs to do. Find Marabout Ahmed, kill him, and bring her son home. Maimouna goes into her room and grabs her change purse, shoving it into her brassiere. Back in the kitchen she grabs the largest blade she can find and hides it in the fold of her ankle-length wrap skirt.
“Mama, are you okay? Is your fever back?” Aisha asks from the doorway.
Maimouna turns around quickly, searching Aisha’s face to see if she saw her.
“Go find your sister and help her prepare dinner, my love. I’m fine,” she says in a gentle and kind voice.
The sun is blinding and the heat causes her crankiness to rise. The world around her feels foreign and strange. She looks down the sandy path to ensure no one is outside. Her mind is racing, playing out different scenarios of what could happen when she arrives to Dakar. A flood of nausea and dizziness takes hold of her and she holds on to the side of a house for support. Deep breath. Think. Get to Dakar. Find Ahmed. Kill him. Bring Ibrahimah home. But first, she needs to get there. Find transport out of this suffocating little village.
She walks to the main road and hails a horse-drawn wagon. Several trees line the wide road on both sides, creating a shady corridor. The driver slows down for her; the dark-brown horse neighs at the disruption of his gentle gallop. She scrambles up onto the back next to several large bundles of hay, manure, and farm tools. Her shoulders sit hunched over, her eyes blank as she reimagines a scene where she rescues her son from the devil. With the knife in his belly Ahmed will be too slow to catch them. The wagon passes by Fatou walkin
g along the side of the road, carrying a bucket of water.
“Mama!” Fatou yells at the departing wagon.
Maimouna looks past her eldest daughter, who looks at her with confusion and shock.
The wagon stops on several occasions with passengers getting on and off. After the last customer disembarks, the driver parks the wagon, leaves, and comes back to load it with several more bushels of hay. He works around her, never once asking Maimouna where she is going. By now, the high afternoon sun has calmed itself and is setting comfortably on the horizon.
“Maimouna?”
She looks up.
“My love, what are you doing here?”
She looks around at her surroundings. How did she end up at Idrissa’s farm, barely an hour from their house? She looks at her husband with accusing eyes. He is trying to trick her. She is supposed to be heading north, toward the Gambia. She frowns as she searches for the driver of the wagon, who has conveniently disappeared. Did he know what she was planning? Idrissa approaches her with his arms open and confusion on his face.
“Leave me,” she growls, turning away from him.
“Leave you? Has something happened at home? Are the girls okay? Why are you here?”
“I am going to Dakar,” she said, “to bring home our son. Ahmed will pay.”
“Maimouna, you will come with me now. Come, we take leave.”
He grabs her by the arm and tries to get her down from the wagon.
“No! Leave me. You do trickery to get me here. I’m going to get our son, since you are too much of a coward to do it!”
“Woman, you are burning up with fever again. How are you even here?”
“I don’t have a fever!” Maimouna yells.
“Woman, if you don’t get down from there and stop this nonsense, this talk of—of foolishness, Allah only knows what I will do to you. Get down, now!”
She tries to scoot back onto the wagon, but Idrissa grabs her by the ankles and pulls her toward him. She tries to kick him away but he’s too fast, his grip strong and steady. No amount of strength she attempts to muster can push him away. Her fists fall light against his arms and chest. He half drags, half carries her over to the sept-place that is waiting to fill up with passengers. The knife falls from inside her skirt, just missing her foot. Idrissa shoves her into a taxi, climbing in beside her. As the car pulls away, he spots the kitchen knife, lying discarded on the ground. He turns and looks at Maimouna in disbelief. She cuts her eyes at him before staring off into the space before her.