by Keisha Bush
She plops the hat down onto her mother’s head, grinning ear to ear. The hat sits low on Maimouna’s head, the large brim shading her eyes. Maimouna folds her hands into the middle of her lap and sits quietly. Fatou gives her aunt a smile of satisfaction while the woman sucks on her teeth in response. Fatou sits on a small bench in front of the pail with the soiled sheets and blankets and begins the wash. Maimouna’s sister-in-law returns to the living room with the two men, her chest puffed out in victory.
“Well, I’ve got the lady of the house out of bed and cleaned up, and she’s now sitting outside to get some fresh air. It’s a good idea to take the mattress out and beat it. It holds a wretched stench, if I do say so myself.”
The two men look up at the woman in awe. Idrissa jumps up from his seat and obliges the demands of his brother’s wife. He grabs the mattress and drags it outside. When he steps out of the back door, he sees Maimouna sitting, wearing his hat. Fatou looks over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and smiles when she sees her father. He points to the person with the hat and Fatou puts her hands over her heart. Binta and Aisha return in a cloud of noisy chatter as they lug the heavy buckets of water.
“Girls, calm down,” Idrissa says.
Raised eyebrows are returned as they look to see why they should be quiet.
“Mama!”
Idrissa rests a stern hand on Binta’s shoulder and the girl looks up at her father with questioning eyes.
“Mama, would you like to say hello to the girls?” Fatou asks.
Maimouna does not stir beneath the respite of the large-brimmed hat. Fatou looks closer and notices her mother’s eyes are shut.
“I think she’s asleep.”
“Let’s leave your mother for now. Run along, unless Fatou needs you for something else.” He turns to his eldest daughter. “Fatou?”
“Aisha, empty one bucket of water into the blue pail, and then put the other over there. I need you all to clean the turnips and carrots,” she says, pointing.
“You heard your sister, go over there and start preparing dinner.”
Idrissa walks over to Maimouna and rests his hand on her shoulder. Her head bobs up but just as soon settles back into a bent-over position.
“My love, it’s good that you’re getting fresh air.”
Maimouna does not respond. He pats her shoulder a few times and heads back inside. Fatou has the girls hang the sheets in the sun. Within two hours they’ll be crisp and dry. Fatou beats the mattress while the vegetables boil on the fire. She glances over at her mother every thirty seconds to ensure she is fine.
Maimouna is awake, and with the brim of the hat pushed back she watches her girls busy at work. She lifts her hand and Fatou is by her side within seconds.
“I need to lie down.”
“Yes, Mama. Binta, watch the pot while Aisha helps me bring Mama inside.”
With slow, meticulous steps the girls lead their mother into the house and lay her down onto a mattress in their shared bedroom. Maimouna lets out a sigh. She tells herself that there’s nothing wrong with being bathed fresh before death arrives. She wills the end to come quickly and within moments she is sound asleep.
“Why are you always looking up at the sky?”
Ibrahimah averts his eyes from the clouds and looks over at Étienne. “The bird flies where he wants to go. The airplane flies to places far from here. I want to be in the sky, too, free to go where I want.”
Étienne looks at the stalled traffic in front of them, black clouds of exhaust fumes spit out of the backs of several Car Rapides. He looks up and sees fat cumulus clouds sitting calmly against the baby-blue background. A black bird zips by, then disappears behind a brush of trees.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Ibrahimah glances up at the sky one more time. Still no sight of the red bird. “I am.”
He and Étienne walk toward downtown Dakar with Fatik and several other boys from their house. Not their usual territory for begging, but Ramadan ended months ago and raising four hundred francs a day bedevils every boy in the house. They walk past the football stadium in Medina, the last place they ever saw Abdoulaye alive. A teenage boy yells at a girl and hits her. She struggles to pull away from him until an older man comes and runs him away. The girl fixes her shirt, her eyes wet, and walks away, shaken. Something cracks below Ibrahimah’s foot and he looks down. A piece of broken glass sticks into the thin sole of his shoe. He lifts his foot up and pulls the glass out of the plastic jelly sandal. The edge is sharp.
“Are you okay?” Fatik asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Well, don’t kill anyone with it!”
“If I kill someone, they’d go into the sky to Paradise. It’s better than here.”
“No, if you kill someone you go to hell for being wicked!”
Ibrahimah raises his eyes to Fatik. “Will Marabout go to hell?”
“Maybe. What do you think, Étienne? Would Marabout go to hell if Ibrahimah killed him?”
“Yes.”
“So, if I killed Marabout he’d go to hell, and I’d go to Paradise?”
“Who is talking about killing Marabout?” Caca asks.
“No one is talking about killing Marabout,” Étienne interjects.
“I am!” Ibrahimah shouts.
Fatik starts laughing and the other boys in the group chime in.
“How would you do it, Ibrahimah, in his sleep?”
“Do it the next time he makes you sleep in his room!”
“Take that stupid cane and give it to him good!”
Ibrahimah looks up at all the older boys laughing and slapping one another on the back when one of them thinks of a cleverer way to kill Marabout.
“Why has no one tried to kill him yet? He’s wicked all the time,” Ibrahimah says.
The noise and chaos of Sandaga drowns out the boys’ mumbled responses. There is no real answer to the question that has passed through all of their minds at one point or another. It is too dangerous even to acknowledge.
The large open-air market is home to the worst traffic bottleneck in Dakar, since the road is the main route in and out of the city. Cars crawl through the narrow alleys that are already crowded by makeshift vendor stalls and slow-moving, sweaty bodies. The asphalt is so hot, it gives way beneath feet and tires. The boys push their way through the tall crowds, sliding up against cars with frustrated drivers leaning on their horns with no resolution in sight. Young women hold their heads up high, backs straight, as they sway their hips from East Africa back to the West. One driver, angry that his honking is being ignored, accelerates. People jerk their bodies from the car’s path, hitting at the car and cursing. The driver shouts back from inside his rolled-up windows and air conditioning. The boys break through to the other end of the market and Ibrahimah’s eyes light up at the sight of the long lines of stalled vehicles fighting for passage through the ill-conceived junction.
“Be careful, stay close.”
Ibrahimah tightens the space between himself and his cousin. Downtown is the beggar’s field of dreams for its influx of wealthy foreigners, and for its pedestrian and traffic congestion as far as the eye can see. But the boys don’t frequent downtown for a reason. Thieves, bandits, pickpockets, hustlers, adult beggars, families of vagabonds, and all kinds of downtrodden convene there looking for an opportunity.
The boys assess the four-way intersection and decide to head down the shady avenue that wraps around the market. No sooner do they arrive than they realize that they have to compete with the large congregation of albinos and the disabled. This road is one of Dakar’s most popular spots for begging, and the people who are stuck in traffic are used to ignoring requests for money and food.
“When does Ramadan come back?” Ibrahimah asks, hopeful that it will be soon.
“Next year.”
“How long is that?”
“A long time; the rain leaves and then comes back before Ramadan returns.”
“I wish it were Ramadan all the time.”
Étienne smirks as he looks around.
“Hey,” Étienne says to the others, “there’s no good money here. We’re going.”
“We’re going to stay,” Fatik says, and the other boys nod in agreement with him.
Ibrahimah and Étienne walk down toward Place de l’Indépendance. The small green promenade marks where a band of people stood and declared independence when Senegal officially broke from France in 1960. The green strip of land, the only public space with grass in the dry desert heat, stands in the middle of a large half-mile roundabout. The boys walk between the tall buildings that hold state offices, HSBC, the Sôfitel hotel, TAP Portugal airline offices, travel agencies, and other businesses representing the bustling West African economy.
Ibrahimah and Étienne turn left off of Place de l’Indépendance and find the block across the street from the popular French pastry shop La Galette to be just the right spot for them. Within seconds Ibrahimah breaks off from his cousin and approaches a statuesque woman. Her bright-orange dress billows behind her with every step she takes. A look of annoyance flashes across the woman’s face, but she catches herself as she glances down at him. Dried snot sits on his upper lip, and his khaki pants and peach polo shirt are dirty. He barely reaches the middle of her thigh. She slows her gait, reaches into her Louis Vuitton handbag, and pulls out several coins. Ibrahimah reaches his hand out.
“Your can,” she says, pointing.
Ibrahimah shoves his tomato can forward and she drops the coins inside. Ting-ting-ting ting-ting-ting! When he looks back up to say his blessings he’s met with the tails of her dress and her long silky black hair.
Ibrahimah attempts to approach every set of legs that walk past. His entreaties are barely audible on the noisy street. Most don’t even see him as he finds himself bumped, pushed, and ignored by those in a rush to get to their destination. The women naturally move at a slower pace due to their kitten heels and tight wrap skirts. Through trial and error, he learns it’s best to stand close to the wall of the building, then dart in and out of the pedestrian traffic to approach rich-looking women as they click-clack along.
“Give me money for my marabout.”
“That’s not how you ask an elder for money, Talibé,” a Senegalese woman with a bright-red face scolds him.
Ibrahimah strains his neck to get a better look at her. He can’t imagine why she is so red. It looks like her face is on fire.
“Well, what do you say?” she asks.
Taken aback by the attention, Ibrahimah is quiet with apprehension.
“Well?”
“Sorry, ta-ta.”
“Now, that’s better.”
The woman flings two fifty-franc coins into his red tomato can and struts off. Her strong perfume lingers, leaving Ibrahimah dizzy. He stands staring after her, confused and amazed.
“Her bleaching has gone bad.”
“What?” Ibrahimah says, turning. He stands eye to eye with a man with no legs.
“That’s what happens to African women who bleach their skin. They turn red and get all kinds of skin cancer. You can’t run from the sun,” he says, laughing.
Ibrahimah laughs too; this man is funny. Who would ever try to run from the sun? It’s everywhere.
“What’s your name Talibé?”
“Ibrahimah.”
“You want a watch? I sell watches.” The man lifts up his arm to show off shiny gold and silver wares. “I got Rolexes today.”
“No, I don’t need a watch.”
“Hey, kid, everybody’s got to know what time it is. I’ve never seen you around here before.”
Ibrahimah shakes his head. “I live in Ouakam. Where are your legs?”
“My legs? I’ve never had them. Was born without them, but I don’t let that slow me down!”
Ibrahimah looks inside his can and pulls out three peanuts from the few scattered at the bottom and offers them to his new friend.
“Thanks, Ibrahimah, you’re a good one. You’ll get to heaven with no problem.”
The man looks down at one of the watches on his arm.
“Well, I’ve got to go. Take care down here. Downtown is a rough place. Thanks for the peanuts.”
“Okay.”
The man waves, then uses his muscled arms to propel his torso around the corner. The day continues on with the stream of bodies passing by. Ibrahimah peeks around the corner of the building and spots his new friend peddling his wares to men in business suits exiting the bank.
With the arrival of sunset, the flow of bodies subsides as the workforce flees downtown and heads north of the city for home. Étienne leans up against the building wall to count his money—nine hundred francs. He smiles.
“How much do you have?”
Ibrahimah hands Étienne his red tin tomato can. He’s exhausted. His feet are throbbing and his legs tingle with fatigue. Étienne’s head is bent over for several minutes.
“Wow,” Étienne says, looking up, “you have two thousand, two hundred francs. Five days’ worth of money for Marabout. We did good today! We’ll take a Car Rapide back tonight.”
“Good. I’m too tired to walk.”
Étienne suggests they buy a pack of peanuts from a woman breaking her table down and use the plastic to wrap their coins so they don’t make noise in their cans.
“Aye, boy! You coming?” Fatik yells out from across the street. The rest of the group is with him.
“Where?” Étienne yells back.
Fatik puts his hand to his mouth.
“Yeah!” Étienne’s eyes light up.
Ibrahimah and Étienne cut across Place de l’Indépendance, talking and jostling about with their Talibé brothers; they all made their quota this evening, so their spirits are high. They approach a high white cement wall encased in the aroma of African spices and lamb. One of the boys knocks on the gate and within moments the whine of nuts and bolts in need of a good oiling fills the air around them and a slim, older Senegalese man appears. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp, angular nose, and smooth brown skin. He is dressed in expensive Western clothes.
“Good evening, ton-ton.”
“Come,” the man says, waving them inside, his nails freshly manicured.
The man leads them along a white stone path lined with two mango trees, an avocado tree, and rows of strawberry bushes. The path opens up to a large sprawling fresh-cut lawn and an in-ground swimming pool with reclining beach chairs along either side. The pool water is crystal clear, with an intricate mosaic design shimmering at the bottom. Ibrahimah feels a sense of anxiety crawl up into his stomach until he notices the most impossible thing to grace his young eyes. Over to the far-left side of the yard sits a large canopy with raised flooring; several groups of Talibé sit before heaping platters of food. More than twice the number of Talibé who live with his marabout are eating together!
“Is this heaven?” Ibrahimah asks.
“I think so,” Étienne says, taking in the scene in front of him.
If there is such an abundance of food in heaven, then Ibrahimah does not mind if seventy-two girls live with him; he’d have more than enough to share with his new sisters. Countless young Talibé boys talk and laugh through mouths full of rice. The sight of so much food stirs the hunger pains of the new arrivals. The Senegalese man turns and smiles down at them.
“Hungry, eh?”
“Yeah,” Caca says, distracted. Ibrahimah’s group is brought to the side of the canopy to wash their hands and then led to two empty spots. Ibrahimah places his can down between himself and Étienne. He wiggles and readjusts himself on the floor with impatience. When the platter of food is placed down between th
em several boys lunge forward at once.
“There is more where this came from, so be respectful. Patience!” the man instructs.
The boys pull back from the platter in a wave.
“See the others, how they eat and share. If they are still hungry after the plate is empty, there is more. You are not animals.”
“Yes, ton-ton,” they mumble, in unison.
With calculated pacing, the boys extend their right hands into the platter and gather rice to stuff into their small mouths. The man watches them a moment to ensure they don’t tear one another apart.
“Remember to chew!” the man says before stepping away.
Rice to mouth, hand to platter, rice to mouth. Ibrahimah sits in quiet embarrassment looking around to see who is watching as he stuffs the rice down his throat. The platter of food is finished within minutes.
“You ate mine!”
“No fighting. We’ll get kicked out!”
As if on cue a woman appears and asks the boys if they would like more. The boys mumble “yes.” The next thirty minutes are spent with Ibrahimah stuffing as much food into his small stomach as he can fit. He and Étienne have not stopped by Moustapha’s house in more than a week. Étienne advised that they avoid visiting their friend after he noticed Scarface and Caca following them during the day again. They can’t go back until Étienne is certain the coast is clear. A big white car pulls into the back and stops where the pavement meets the grass. A white Frenchman and woman get out. Together they walk over to the canopy.
“Bonjour, Talibé! C’est bon ce que vous mangez?” the man asks.
Ibrahimah finds it bizarre that these toubabs, a word he recently learned to call white people, care whether or not he finds the food good. During the day they wouldn’t have even looked at him.
“Oui, c’est très bon. Merci beaucoup!” several of the boys say.
Their smiles gleam in the evening dusk and the boys pause from eating to offer a prayer of thanks and blessings for the couple.
“Ahh, bien.”
The older Senegalese man approaches the couple. He bows his head in greeting; they exchange a few words, then retreat to the house together.