by Keisha Bush
“I found you a mango,” Étienne says, coming back to the rock Ibrahimah has made his home for the time being.
Ibrahimah looks at Étienne, then the mango. All is not lost. He still has his cousin, but he cannot stop the feeling of dread that squeezes his body so tight.
“I want my mama.”
“I can’t steal one of those, so this will have to do.” Étienne shoves the mango toward Ibrahimah and drops it into his hands.
“Where’s yours?” Ibrahimah asks in a small and pained voice.
“I’m fine,” he says, climbing up onto the boulder.
Ibrahimah holds the mango to his chest. He wishes it were his mother. He bites into the skin and pulls it back, his stomach growling at the sweet scent of sugar permeating from the sugary meat. He is tempted to eat the entire thing.
“Here. Take,” Ibrahimah says, offering his cousin the other half. Étienne takes it, mango juice spilling onto his hands.
“Thanks,” Étienne says as he finishes the fruit.
“I hate Marabout, even if he says he helps my mama in Paradise,” Ibrahimah says.
“Me too,” Étienne says, between bites of mango.
Ibrahimah looks at Étienne with surprise. He is used to his cousin defending their teacher.
“Marabout is wicked. He does things that are bad,” Ibrahimah says, looking into Étienne’s face to gauge his cousin’s reception.
“Yeah.”
With the burst of sugar from the mango in his stomach Ibrahimah finds the energy to walk a bit more until they find a quiet street with a few trees offering scant shade. The tall multi-dweller houses that line the road show no signs of life. The small store next to them is dark; someone inside listens to the latest song by Youssou N’Dour.
“What would happen to us if Marabout died?” Ibrahimah asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe we go back to the village or another marabout would take us.”
“I hope he dies soon.”
Étienne looks over at Ibrahimah.
“Come on. Let’s find a better place to rest.”
The boys walk slowly through the streets of Mermoz. All is quiet except for the occasional car that races down the hot, sticky asphalt. They stop at a small freestanding boutique with a short bench beside its entrance; several large trees shade the area.
Étienne throws the mango seed into a bush and then turns to Ibrahimah.
“How does Marabout help your mama in Paradise?”
“A man comes in the morning sometimes and Marabout cuts my nails and hair and puts it in a basket for the man. He said it was for my mama.”
“I’ve never seen this man.”
“The man comes when everyone is sleep. Marabout wakes me up and tells me to be quiet.”
“Like a secret you’re not supposed to share with us?” Étienne asks.
“I think so,” Ibrahimah says, looking up at his cousin. He wonders if sharing his secret with Marabout was a good idea.
Ibrahimah and Étienne come upon a few men standing and talking amongst themselves nearby, selling grilled corn on the cob. Islands of sunshine force their way through the thick leafy trees, but not enough to conquer the cool shade. A boy recognizes Étienne.
“Hey, boy, how goes you?”
“Babacar. Namanala!” Étienne says, slapping hands with the skinny boy with a hunchback.
“I miss you more, my friend. It’s good to see you! Eat with us,” the boy offers, waving his hand to the group of boys huddled on the ground.
Étienne and Ibrahimah join the group of four boys for a bowl of rice. Ibrahimah eases himself down slowly while watching the boys sit on their heels, talking and laughing. He looks down at his shirt. Aria calls it a peach-hued polo; she took his green one after he shared the story of Demba. Wearing the shirt made him sad. He then looks at the boy next to him, who is wearing dark-brown pants, a blue button-down shirt, and white sneakers. Ibrahimah cocks his head to the side.
“Are you a Talibé?” he asks the boy in sneakers.
The boy turns to him and breaks into a coy, slanted smile.
“I am.”
“You don’t look like a Talibé. Where is your red can?”
“I lost it. I need to get a new one.”
“Why do you dress so nice? Talibé are dirty and poor.”
The boy throws his head back and laughs.
“You’re a funny boy. My marabout buys us clothes. Not all marabouts are greedy wretches.” He pats Ibrahimah on the shoulder.
“My mother and father are dead. If my marabout dies, I want to go to your marabout.”
Ibrahimah turns back to the bowl of food and plops the last bit of rice into his mouth. The boy he was talking to stands up and drifts off into conversation with someone else. Ibrahimah lingers on the ground a moment, then crawls over toward the trunk of the nearby tree and leans against it. His skin burns hot. Across the lot the men are eating their grilled corn and drinking café. His eyes fall heavy as he watches Étienne draw circles on the ground with a stick while talking with the hunchback boy. Within moments he is asleep.
“Students fight because they don’t want to pay eighteen francs more,” Étienne says.
“They should be a Talibé or a cripple like me and then they know what it means to suffer.”
“You’re not a cripple; your back is curved instead of straight. Look at my finger. It curves like your back.” Étienne jostles with Babacar, laughing. “If Talibé fought people for money, they would throw us in the sea.”
“Or under a bus!”
The boys laugh.
“Instead, the leaders of the student riots get scholarships to go to any school in the world so that they don’t riot again next year, except every year a new batch of troublemakers starts trouble for any stupid reason to get the scholarships!” Babacar says, shaking his head.
“Maybe Talibé should join the students next time,” Étienne says with a smirk.
“Babacar, let’s go work,” the buttoned-down-shirt boy says.
“No. The sun is too hot. Wait.”
“What’s wrong with him?” the boy asks, pointing to Ibrahimah.
“He’ll be okay, he’s just tired,” Étienne says.
“Well, we’re going. We’ll meet you back here later.”
“Okay, ciao,” Babacar says to his friends with a short wave.
Moments later a white-haired British woman approaches the two friends.
“Tu veux de l’argent, Talibé?”
Étienne and Babacar give each other a knowing look.
“Oui,” they say in unison, smiling at their inside joke.
She hands them three hundred francs each. Walking away she notices Ibrahimah and turns back.
“Est-il malade?”
“Non, fatigué,” Étienne says.
She walks over to Ibrahimah and drops several coins into his red tomato can. She turns and waves to Étienne and Babacar. They pass their cupped hands over their faces in prayer for her. After she is gone from sight, Étienne puts the three hundred francs in his pocket.
“Do you collect a lot of money here?”
“Sometimes, but this is luck. I’ve never seen that woman before. The others missed out; they should have stayed.”
“More for us.”
The two boys nod like a pair of old wise men.
“How much do you have to raise every day?”
Babacar looks at Étienne, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Our marabout raised our payment to four hundred francs every night. How much do you pay your marabout?”
“We don’t have to pay our marabout a certain amount. The five boys who raise the most money every week get a prize. The three boys who raise the most every month get a bigger prize.”
“Like what?”
<
br /> “New shoes”—Babacar sticks his leg out to show Étienne his Nike sneakers—“new clothes, pencils, cookies, and chocolates. One month, all the boys did better and he bought everyone ice cream.”
“I never knew that about your marabout!”
“You never asked.”
“My marabout beats us and makes us sleep outside when he’s really angry.”
Babacar nods in understanding. “My marabout says men like that give the brotherhood of Talibé a bad name.”
Ibrahimah stirs awake, groggy and stiff. He rubs his eyes while looking around in anxious confusion, then pulls his achy body up from the base of the tree. He drags his feet across the dirt, kicking up a small billow of dust around his knees. Étienne looks at him and turns back to his conversation. Ibrahimah leans up against the bench, frowning as the tingling beneath his skin reverberates from the tips of his toes on up through his entire body. A hen runs past, screaming at the top of her lungs, a rooster hot on her trail.
“Why does the plain chicken always run from the colorful chicken?”
“One is a boy chicken; the other is a girl chicken. The boy chases the girl,” Babacar says.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what boys do. Chase girls!”
Étienne and Babacar laugh.
Ibrahimah scrunches his face up as he wakes. “What’s so funny about chasing girls?”
“The boy chases the girl to make baby chickens,” Babacar says.
Ibrahimah yawns big. He’s not interested in the rooster-chicken mystery. A man walks up to the store clerk to buy cigarettes and Ibrahimah walks up to the man and begs for money, his voice soft and pitiful; a combination of the grogginess that has yet to wear off and the suffering he wears like a badge. The man hands Ibrahimah a hundred-franc piece. Ibrahimah mumbles thank you and walks away. He drops the coin into his tomato can and it clanks up against something. He looks down and notices four silver hundred-franc coins sitting on the bottom. He cocks his head to the side and stares in confusion.
“Étienne, look! Magic!” he says, pointing into his can.
“What?”
“Money appears in my can. It’s magic!”
Étienne laughs and walks over to Ibrahimah.
“No, an Englishwoman put money in your can while you slept,” Étienne says, resting his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.
“Easy money is the best,” Babacar says with a chuckle.
“Too bad we couldn’t sleep and money just appears like that every day!” Étienne snaps his fingers in the air.
“Like that!” Ibrahimah says, snapping his fingers, copying Étienne. Maybe the tooth fairy whispered to the lady to give him the money. He looks up at the sky. Or perhaps his mother is now an angel looking after him. He doesn’t have to worry about getting beat tonight.
Étienne looks over by the group of men and catches a glimpse of Scarface and his sidekick, Caca, crouched down by the wheel of a car. They’ve been spying on him and Ibrahimah.
Scarface pushes Caca in anger.
“Why are you mad at me?” Caca yells.
“We waste our time following these two sissies,” Scarface says as he walks away, not caring that their cover is blown.
Étienne turns back to Babacar and Ibrahimah and smiles.
For forty days and forty nights Maimouna cries, but the deep, guttural sobs cease the day the spiritual doctor leaves, and so every morning and evening thereafter, she rinses her hands and feet in the chalky concoction he gave her. But the tears continue to fall ceaselessly, and so every morning she changes her pillowcase and bedsheets only to soak them afresh, overnight.
The morning her tears finally do stop, Maimouna is overcome with joy. Her appetite returns and she drinks endless amounts of bissap, soda, tonic, black tea, gingembre, bouye, and water with vigor; her body desperate to rehydrate. That evening she prepares yassa poisson for dinner and lights a candle, praying nonstop for five hours in hopes of Ibrahimah’s safe return home, and in gratitude for the freedom from the ill will of others. She goes to bed with dry eyes and a dry pillow.
“Mama.”
Her eyes flutter open.
“Mama, are you awake?”
Maimouna looks around the room. Light breaks through the parted curtains.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, sitting up. Her body struggles to wake up.
“Grandpa has passed away,” Fatou says with wet eyes.
“As soon as one good thing happens, something terrible arrives to replace it,” Maimouna says, sighing heavily and getting out of bed.
Idrissa is home within an hour of receiving the news and finds Maimouna in the kitchen with the girls. She looks up at her husband with solemn eyes. He hugs her and kisses her gently on the mouth.
“My father was ill. It was a surprise he held on this long. He has joined my mother, and is now with Allah. May both my parents rest in peace,” Idrissa says before leaving to meet his brother at the mosque.
Maimouna and the girls bring food, drinks, and fatayas over to their uncle’s house, where family and neighbors are gathered. It is the first time in months that many of the neighbors have seen her.
“Maimouna! Namanala trop!” Madame Touré exclaims. “You’ve lost so much weight! I knew you were not well, but oh là là! Ma belle chérie, I did not know just how bad. Why have you not called on me?”
Maimouna responds with pious silence as a tide of whispers swells within the room.
“She is fine,” Maimouna’s sister-in-law booms over the chatter, “she just needs to have a successful pregnancy.”
Maimouna looks over at her sister-in-law. Not this talk again of having another child. She is done with childbirth if she can help it, and having another child so that she can forget about Ibrahimah, her child who is still alive, feels wicked and unnatural.
“Did you lose a baby to miscarriage? Is that what this has been all about? That would make sense, actually. You know, with everything…” Madame Touré allows her voice to trail off as she uses her hands to make a sweeping gesture.
Several women in the room move closer to listen, and the whispering ebbs as its inhabitants ponder this new line of thinking.
“A woman’s hormones, when she is pregnant, are unpredictable. You become a lion, willing to devour anyone that threatens the well-being of the life you are creating or have created,” Madame Cisse says, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“That is true. I was terribly cranky, yelling at my husband and children throughout my entire pregnancy of my third child. It is like I was possessed,” another woman says, shaking her head.
Whether her sister-in-law meant to change the winds of discourse or not, it is working, with the help of Madame Touré. She should have called on her friend and neighbor long ago. Madame Touré has been on her side from the start of this disaster with Marabout Ahmed, but one can never know whom to trust fully, so it was best to keep her family’s problems as quiet as possible. She cannot deny that it feels good to reconnect with the women in her village, although it is at the expense of her father-in-law, and Madame N’Diaye is glaringly not in attendance; she left before Maimouna arrived, as organized by Maimouna’s sister-in-law.
Over the course of the next week, Maimouna visits Madame Touré and her sister-in-law on several occasions; she receives several orders for her fatayas and goes about her days and nights encased in prayers for Ibrahimah, herself, and her family. Maimouna’s respite lasts a mere seven days before her desire or ability to participate in the daily ritual of life dissipates once more.
“Get out,” Maimouna growls from her bed.
Fatou stops cleaning and stands in the middle of the room, uncertainty draped across her shoulders. This phase is worse than the month-and-a-half-long crying fit. At least Maimouna was trying then. This time feels different to Fatou.
“Go!”
Maimouna watches the thin silhouette of the girl walk out of the room. She lies there with dark pouches of woe encircling bloodshot eyes. Her hair is matted to her head; flakes of dandruff speckle her scalp like cinders of ash above a fire. She replays Idrissa’s words in her mind from that morning.
“How long are you going to behave this way, woman? You cannot continue on in this manner! It’s been three weeks since my father passed. We are all mourning!” Impatience nestled at the base of his throat.
The room was too dark to see the worry in his eyes, but the disapproval in his voice was clear enough. She tried to explain to him the mountains of hate and disgust she feels for herself and everything around them, but no sound would leave her throat. Even now, her vocal cords fail to express her despair. The relief she had once felt after her fits of crying ended was now a faded memory. Her attempts at getting well seem frivolous and shallow. Leaving her bed is nonnegotiable. Visitors are turned away. She refuses to allow the spiritual doctor to come again or to drink any more variations of bitter, pungent, or overly sweet teas made out of roots, fungi, and dirt. She has lost the energy to fight. She is unable to face the present, and her mind is flooded and tormented with memories of her youth.
After her uncle returned her to Guinea, she never saw him again. His lies and deceit were too much for her mother to endure, and she expelled him and his wife from their lives, which unfortunately included her cousins. Little did anyone know Maimouna had saved two hundred and fifty thousand francs for her mother; she wanted to bring something to her for all the years they had spent apart. A gift to show that even with so much distance between them, she loved her mother dearly and thought of her every day.