by Keisha Bush
Ibrahimah looks up at the sky, the sun forcing him to squint hard. He looks for his mother in the clouds, hoping to see her smile, but is met only with blue skies and a blazing orange sun. Since his accident, Ibrahimah has not seen the red bird again. Next to him, Étienne sits on the ground, his legs stretched out. Ibrahimah rests his hand on his hip a moment before joining his cousin against the base of the tree. His skin is sticky with sweat.
“How much money do we have?”
“We did good: five thousand francs.”
Ibrahimah’s small mouth breaks into a smile; his new teeth are fighting to come in.
“We’re rich!”
Ibrahimah has never been that close to that much money before. Étienne says nothing as he sits staring at their bounty.
“Let’s buy lots of food! I’m hungry.”
“No, we have to save this. Ramadan will end soon. Then it will be hard to get people to give us money. No one gives after Ramadan ends.”
A flashback of Marabout thrashing him with that wretched cane pops into his head, followed by the terror of Pape lying about giving them money for a day’s work, only to try to kidnap them. Goosebumps crawl up his arms and he shivers while nodding.
“Let’s go to Moustapha’s house and put it there,” Ibrahimah suggests.
Étienne is quiet a moment.
“Moustapha is rich; he won’t ever steal our money,” Ibrahimah says, standing up.
When they arrive at Moustapha’s house, they find their friend quiet and somber.
“What’s wrong, Moustapha?”
“Nothing.”
Ibrahimah cocks his head to the side. “You look sad.”
Étienne is over on the other side of the yard, looking around at the grounds.
“My father is being transferred for work.”
Ibrahimah raises his eyebrows, not sure what transferred means.
“My dad is moving, leaving Dakar for work.”
“He’ll come back.”
“Yeah, I guess. What is Étienne doing?”
“He looks for a place to hide our money.”
“Put it in my safe. If he puts it in the ground, it will sink. He’ll never find it again.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Not a good idea. Étienne!” Moustapha waves at Étienne to come over. “I can stash your money inside my safe. My dad bought me one to keep my things secure from the maids. Come, I’ll show you.”
The boys trample up the stairs to Moustapha’s bedroom. Ibrahimah has never been in his friend’s room before, just the bathroom, the guest bedroom, and downstairs. Moustapha’s room is bigger than the guest room and is brightly lit with a large tall bed abundant with blankets and pillows. A shelf filled with books takes up an entire wall, and he has a flat-screen television with a videogame console below it.
“Is that an Xbox like downstairs?” Ibrahimah asks.
“No, that’s my PlayStation. I like the games on it better.”
“I want to play,” Ibrahimah says, though he’s never played such a thing in his life.
“Okay. First come look at this.”
Moustapha opens the door to an oversized dark mahogany wardrobe. A mirror sits on the inside of the door and Ibrahimah looks at the reflection of the three of them. Étienne and Moustapha are about the same height, but he is much shorter than the two older boys. Moustapha’s light-brown skin is clear and bright in comparison to their dry, dark skin, and his round face is plumper than their drawn, skinny cheeks. Ibrahimah would like to be light and handsome like Moustapha, but he never will be. Étienne is quiet as he waits to see what Moustapha has to show them.
Their friend pulls out a black box from the back of the shelf.
“This is what I wanted to show you.”
He presses some buttons, a beeping sound goes off, a click happens, and Moustapha opens the small door. Inside, Ibrahimah spots cards, money, and other pieces of paper.
“I hold my passport and birth certificate, money, and jewelry like my watch in here. You can store your money and come get it when you need. No one will ever have access to it but me.”
Ibrahimah is impressed. Étienne hands Moustapha the money they have saved up over the course of Ramadan. Traveling with that much money is not safe. Moustapha counts the money.
“Five thousand francs.”
“Yes.” Étienne confirms.
Moustapha puts the money on one of the shelves inside the safe and then locks the door. He pulls on the door to make sure it’s locked.
“The code is 44-33-22. In case you come by and need to get your money and I’m not home.”
The boys stand around a moment before Ibrahimah remembers what was on his mind.
“I want to use the PlayStation.”
That evening everything is quiet, like it has been for the last few weeks. Ahmed is slow to swing his cane on any of the boys in the evening, his hunger too intense after fasting all day. On the television, the evening news advertises sunset down to the minute. Ahmed goes out and buys himself a pack of dried dates. He then dives into bowls of rice and fish, rice and meat, bread and eggs, eating his way into a food coma. By the time Ibrahimah and the other boys return, the only thing on Ahmed’s mind is sleep and more food.
Ibrahimah and Étienne sit and watch the other boys giving Marabout extra money, gifts, food, soap, peanuts, and more. Ibrahimah is thankful he and Étienne have Moustapha as a friend. Hiding their extra money is the best idea Étienne has ever had. Marabout deserves nothing extra from him. If the man was not so quick to beat them, Ibrahimah wouldn’t give him the four hundred francs every night, either. He scowls at the foolishness of the other boys, lies down on his mat, and goes to sleep.
At four-thirty the next morning, Ibrahimah stirs at the sound of Marabout up and about before the morning prayer call rings out across the city. He’s getting breakfast before the sun comes up. Ibrahimah closes his eyes for a bit more sleep, but Marabout jostles him awake. Ibrahimah sits up, afraid of what his teacher wants. He motions for Ibrahimah to follow him into his room, where there is another, older, man waiting.
“Come here, boy,” the man says.
Ibrahimah stumbles over to the stranger; his fear of what Marabout wants subsides. He has met the stranger before, although he does not know his name. The man only seems to arrive in the early hours of the morning, when all of the other boys are asleep. Ibrahimah gives his hand over to the man, who clips several of his fingernails and makes him spit into a basket where there lie several cowrie shells. The last time the man came, Marabout shaved his head and put his hair in the basket, along with the brushed skin on his arm. Ibrahimah finds it odd but does not mind the attention; he is aware that this is a secret that he shares with his teacher, and Marabout is nice to him when the man is there because the man is helping Marabout Ahmed make the person who gave him the scars on his face pay for hurting him. Ibrahimah looks over at Marabout Ahmed, wanting to ask him what this is all for, but the man dismisses him with a swift movement of his head.
“Shut the door behind you,” Ahmed instructs.
Ibrahimah starts toward the door, but his curiosity stops him and he turns around.
“What, boy?”
“What is all this for, Marabout?” Ibrahimah asks.
“For your mother,” Marabout says, grinning.
“For my mama in Paradise?” Ibrahimah asks in a small voice.
“Yes, child, for your mother. This is to help ensure she makes it to heaven.”
The thought of helping his mother calms his heart.
“Thank you, Marabout,” Ibrahimah says, walking out the door.
“No, thank you, Ibrahimah,” Marabout says before the door shuts.
Marabout has never thanked him before, or any of his Talibé brothers. Maybe the man is not so bad after all. Ibrahimah lies back d
own onto his cardboard mat and dreams about his parents in Paradise, laughing and eating.
* * *
—
The next day, by seven in the morning, the streets are packed with people running errands before the noon heat, thirst, and hunger set in.
“During Ramadan everyone feels like Talibé during the day,” Fatik jokes.
Ibrahimah finds this quite funny; Étienne scrunches up his face and rolls his eyes.
“Hot, tired, and hungry,” Ibrahimah quips.
Fatik slaps his leg, laughing.
Ibrahimah nudges Étienne to join in on the joke.
“Not really funny. Ramadan will soon be over, and then it’s Talibé who are hungry and everyone else is rich and happy.”
“Ramadan should be all year!” Ibrahimah exclaims.
“I can live with that,” Fatik says, chuckling.
Across the street a man gets out of his car and starts waving his hands and yelling at another man, who is trying to stand up.
“What happened?” Ibrahimah asks.
“The driver hit the man on the bike,” Étienne says.
The biker pushes the man, yelling at him, and the two get into a shoving match. Several people rush to the altercation in an attempt to calm and mediate the situation.
“Some people go crazy when they’re hungry,” Ibrahimah says, shaking his head.
Étienne bursts into laughter. Ibrahimah is pleased his cousin is finally joining in on the fun.
The approaching afternoon heat leans on the edge of the cool morning air. Maimouna sits in front of a bucket, peeling potatoes, forcing herself to go through the motions of tending to her home as if nothing has happened, even though everything has happened. Fatou continues to report the whisperings of the village. Binta and Aisha run errands and sit at her feet, staring into her face, searching for answers, until she runs them off. Idrissa blames her last delusional episode on a combination of the pungent tea her sister-in-law sent and the illness of fever, but since then she has not experienced the fevers again in the evening, nor during the day.
Frustrated that the lamb sacrifice failed to cure his wife, Idrissa found a different tea concoction at the market that he insists she drink every morning. But it does not matter whether she drinks the bitter tea or the pungent tea, if they work to keep the feverish episodes at bay then she will be content.
This morning, Idrissa kissed her on the forehead before departing for work. She felt a tinge of empathy for him, if only for a brief moment, but then the thought of what Ibrahimah must be enduring in Dakar brought her back to reality.
A skinless potato drops into the bucket with a soft thud, where Maimouna expected to hear a thwack. She looks down to find she has skinned too many for dinner; at least twenty potatoes sit floating atop the bucket of water, more than double what she needed. She tilts her head to the side and decides to make French fries. The girls prefer them fried anyway. She reaches for the knife from the side of the bucket and the first potato is sliced into wedges in no time. She has skinned and cut potatoes since the age of eight years old and she finds the repetitiveness soothing. Plus, she gets it done much faster since Binta and Aisha are fetching water while Fatou is purchasing fish at the market for dinner. Upon picking up the second potato she cannot say whether it was with intention or an accident, but as the knife comes down to slice the potato, the blade instead cuts through the dark-brown skin of her wrist.
She winces in pain as blood rushes to the surface of her arm. The potato in her hand is now covered in blood. Time stops and she no longer hears the song of birds, or the soft ocean breeze off in the distance. The air around her constricts and she can’t move. The blood pools on top of her upturned wrist and when it spills over, she staggers to the ground.
“Mama! What happened?” Fatou drops the black plastic bag onto the floor and runs in a circle. Maimouna begins to laugh, and then begins to sob. It would be funny if the situation were not so dire.
“Fatou!” Maimouna cries as she climbs back to her feet, using the back of the chair she was sitting on for support.
Fatou stops, then dashes off, returning a moment later with a pile of torn rags Maimouna keeps washed and folded in the hall closet.
Maimouna winces in pain as the puddle of blood gathers around her feet. “Get the cornstarch.”
Fatou rushes off again. When she returns, in a more calm and focused state Maimouna points to a large tin bowl.
“Rinse my wrist first,” she says.
Fatou fills the bowl with water from a bucket that was to be used for boiling the potatoes and pours it over Maimouna’s wrist. For a brief second, she can see where the skin is separated, but then the blood replenishes itself. Fatou then sprinkles cornstarch onto the wound.
“Do I wrap the wrist now?” Fatou asks.
“No. See the blood has stopped running?”
“Yes.”
“Now rinse the wound again to get the cornstarch off. Then we wrap the wrist, but not too tight, as we don’t want the bleeding to begin again,” Maimouna instructs.
It takes Fatou two tries before she gets it right, but once the wrist is wrapped properly, she sighs heavily with relief.
“Does it hurt badly?”
Maimouna shakes her head no.
“Mama, what happened?” Fatou asks.
Maimouna shakes her head, unable to vocalize her thoughts as the water surges up from the core of her belly, into her lungs and chest, rising up past the backs of her irises and cascades down her cheeks to her very toes.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
Maimouna cannot explain why, but the floodwaters have been released within her and she has no control over them whatsoever.
“I’m going to lie down,” Maimouna sobs, walking away, leaving her daughter sitting alone with a bloodstained lap and a bucketful of potatoes swimming in a river of blood.
The moment Maimouna’s head hits the pillow, the dark veil of sleep arrives and her forty-one-year-old body floats into the dream and nightmare of memories both recent and past. There she stands, in the body of her twenty-three-year-old self, eighteen years ago, as she pleaded with her uncle to bring her back to Guinea to the mother whose bosom she yearned to hug and nestle for too long.
For fifteen years she did the bidding for her uncle and his Senegalese wife, and the years had worn her down to her last thread of sanity; she had lived more years of her life with them than she had lived with her own mother, and yet she had never felt like a daughter or even a tolerated distant member of the family. Her aunt treated neighbors and strangers alike better than she treated Maimouna, and at twenty-three years old she was one more cruel word or unprovoked whipping away from losing her hold on life.
“Uncle, you cannot keep me here any longer. I am a woman and want to marry!” she exclaimed.
She couldn’t have cared less about marrying, but it was a good enough excuse. Her uncle was no longer her legal guardian. She could leave and return of her own accord, although it would not be the best scenario for either of them, as she did not have the first clue as to how to get to Guinea and traveling alone as a young woman was not safe. Her uncle dropped his head in regret.
“We will leave in a week’s time. Do not mention it to your aunt or cousins,” he said in a weary voice.
Her heart skipped a beat of joy, but she knew to temper her happiness. He had made so many false promises, yet this time felt different.
“Maimouna!”
Her eyes flutter open with a start. Idrissa’s face looms over her. He is unable to mask his fear.
“What happened?”
Her lips part to respond, but no sound rises up from her chest. She really does not know what happened. One minute she was slicing potatoes and the next, her arm.
“I don’t know, it was as if someone else was doing it,” she whispers, the
floodwaters rising again.
A look of anger crosses his face. “Did someone do this to you? Are you covering for someone?”
Idrissa stands and drops his bag to the floor, then looks around the empty room. Fatou is standing in the doorway but does not enter.
“No, no, it was me.” Maimouna shakes her head, unable to hold back the tears.
“My darling, I’m not angry at you. Please, don’t cry,” Idrissa pleads.
Maimouna shakes her head. She cannot explain what she does not understand. Idrissa sits down on the edge of the bed and lifts her up into his arms. She sobs into his arms for what feels like eternity.
“She began crying right after we bandaged her wrists and then she came to bed,” Fatou says to her father, handing him a cup of bouye, the chalky sweet drink made out of the fruit from the baobab tree.
He looks at his watch before taking the cup and finishes the contents in three large gulps.
“My love,” he says, “it has been more than an hour. Do you think you can calm your tears?”
Maimouna sits up on her own.
“I’m trying,” she says between sobs, “but I cannot. I will…go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please,” she cries.
Idrissa gets up from the bed and follows Fatou out of the room. Maimouna lies back down and falls back into a slumber of reprieve.
“Wake up!” Marabout Ahmed barks. He hits several boys with his cane as they pull their tired bodies up for prayer. Ramadan ended ten days ago.
“Everything is back to normal,” Étienne mutters beneath his breath as he and Ibrahimah scamper out of the house.