by Keisha Bush
“Who are the toubabs?” Ibrahimah asks.
The boys in his circle hush him. “Toubab” is not the nicest thing to call a white person.
“This is their house. They feed Talibé every day,” Fatik informs the group.
Ibrahimah looks over his shoulder at the house.
“Why have we never come before?” Ibrahimah asks Étienne.
“We would need money for the Car Rapide. Downtown is too dangerous, and too far to walk home. If Marabout lived downtown, it would be good.”
He could see himself walking into the big house of the white couple, sitting on a soft chair, and watching cartoons with Étienne. They’d be his new parents. Moustapha and Fatik would visit, and together they’d eat mafé and tell jokes. His new father would tell him that he is a good boy and he can go to school. In his school bag he’d have lots of crayons like the one the girl gave him, and he’d spend all his days drawing airplanes and big guns, like the ones the soldiers carry.
“We got lucky today,” Étienne says. “Now we have to go give Marabout his money.”
The trek from downtown to Ouakam after a long day of working would take them at least three hours on the badly lit streets of Dakar.
Ibrahimah dozes as the Car Rapide ambles along in the dark. Unable to resist, he leans up against Étienne’s shoulder and dreams of his grandfather. He clings to the old man’s hand as they walk across the ocean, their feet making a soft spattering sound with each step. A large airplane flies along beside them, but they talk with ease over the engine. Ibrahimah sees Abdoulaye inside the plane smiling and eating a big piece of meat. Abdoulaye beckons Ibrahimah to come inside. He turns to his grandfather and points to the plane: “Look, Grandpa, it’s Abdoulaye! Let’s go eat.”
His grandfather pats him on the head. “It’s not your time, little one.”
“But there’s food inside the plane and the plane is going to Paradise. I want to get on the plane, Papa Yoro. I want to see my mama.”
His grandfather smiles but shakes his head. Ibrahimah tries to pull away, but Papa Yoro won’t release his hand. The plane turns and heads away from him.
“No! Come back! Grandpa, why don’t we go too?”
Ibrahimah turns to his grandfather and screams. Marabout squeezes his hand, leering down at him. A red feather falls from his mouth to his chest as blood oozes from the corners of his lips.
A rooster screams and Ibrahimah jolts awake. His body is soaking wet, making a little puddle of mud beneath him He doesn’t remember getting off the Car Rapide or paying Marabout. He scratches at his cheek and sits up. The morning prayer call rings out across the neighborhood. He has no idea how or why he slept outside in front of the house, but other than the annoyance of multiple mosquito bites, he shrugs it off; it’s better than being inside with the devil.
A thick fog climbs the hill from the shore and wraps itself around the house. Fatou inhales deeply. The rain will arrive within moments. She rushes to take the clothes down from the line, and leaves them in a pile inside the house for her sisters to fold when they return with the baguettes. She looks over at the pail of vegetables waiting to be washed and cooked. There are three large barrels and every other pail they own in the yard waiting to catch fresh rainwater for cooking, drinking, and laundry, saving several trips to the well at the bottom of the hill. The barrels were an inheritance from Grandfather.
Fatou looks at the empty white plastic chair and sighs. Things had gotten a little better after her aunt came. She and her sisters were getting their mother up in the mornings, bathing her without a fight, sitting her out in the back while they cooked and cleaned. Today Maimouna opted to go back inside and sleep after her morning bath, though, leaving Fatou wary of just how long this reprieve would last. She looks up at the sound of heavy footsteps moving through the small house.
“Papa?” Fatou calls out, confused as to who it could be.
Idrissa walks over and pats her on the head.
“Yes, yes, it’s just me,” he says.
Her father has aged much in the last few months. His hair has begun to turn white around his ears.
“You’re home early. Is everything okay?” Fatou asks.
Idrissa grunts in the affirmative while searching out a cup and pouring himself some water.
“Okaaaaay,” Fatou says, turning on her heels to go back outside.
“We have a visitor coming today. Is there anything to drink prepared?”
They haven’t accepted a visitor in weeks. The story Idrissa came up with was that Maimouna had come down with a terrible flu, worse than grippe, and to prevent contaminating others they’ve quarantined themselves as much as possible. The whispers throughout the village have risen again, but no one dares to barge in on them.
“We have bissap. I’ll be done with lunch soon. I’m making fish with the vegetables you brought home yesterday.”
Her father goes into the living room to watch television. Aisha and Binta walk through the door, wet, but not quite drenched.
“Is the bread wet?” Fatou asks, exasperation in her voice.
“I’m not stupid, Fatou,” Aisha says with a roll of her eyes, dropping the dry bread, wrapped in a plastic bag, onto the counter.
“I’m just saying—”
“I was seven years old then! Ya Allah, get over it. I’m not a baby. I’m eleven, only two years younger than you.” Aisha rolls her eyes and turns to walk away.
“I was just making sure, because there’s a visitor coming this afternoon.”
Aisha stops in her tracks; Binta looks up from the cookie she just unwrapped.
“Who?” Binta asks.
“I don’t know,” Fatou says. “Papa says someone is coming to visit today.”
Aisha frowns, her eyes disbelieving. “You lie,” she accuses.
“I’m not. Go ask Papa. He’s home early, in the living room, waiting.”
“Who do you think it is, a doctor for Mama?” Binta asks.
“Peel the potatoes,” Fatou says, pointing to the bucket. “It’ll help pass the time.”
Aisha and Binta plop down in front of the bucket of potatoes, whispering between themselves. Fatou hears the approaching footsteps before anyone else and dashes to the door. When the knock comes, it’s a normal knock, like someone who just happened to be in the neighborhood; a knock that suggests that you should come out and enjoy the gay afternoon. Bracing herself for the worst, Fatou swings the door open and her mouth drops in shock.
“Grandmama!”
The seventy-five-year-old woman doesn’t look a day over fifty, her smooth dark skin elastic against the laws of gravity and age. Her thick black hair shows no signs of gray. Two long braids hang down her back, her petite frame sturdy and strong. She’s completely dry, as are her shoes and luggage, though behind her the drizzle has morphed into a full monsoon that rages without mercy, whipping and bending the trees.
“Oh, my, my, look at you! What a beautiful young woman you’ve become.”
Fatou’s smile threatens to overtake her entire face. “Come in, come in, before you get wet. This is the best surprise! Papa didn’t tell us it was you coming.”
Idrissa greets his mother-in-law inside the living room with a warm embrace.
“Thank you,” he whispers into her ear.
She pats him on the back.
“Maam, Maam, Maam!”
Aisha and Binta rush toward their grandmother, almost toppling her over in an excited embrace; hugs, kisses, and a sense of relief wash over the space. Their grandmother will know what to do.
“Sit, you must be tired from your travels,” Idrissa says, waving his hand toward the living room.
“No, I’m fine. Where is my daughter?”
Ibrahimah scratches without mercy at his arms, hands, and face. Of all the people and animals in Dakar the savage mosquitoes
seemed to attack only him through the night.
“Ibrahimah, come!”
Ibrahimah frowns at Étienne, refusing to budge. “No.”
Étienne walks over and puts his arm around Ibrahimah’s shoulders. He tries to coax him forward, but Ibrahimah brushes his cousin’s arm off and steps back. Étienne lets out an exasperated sigh. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m hungry and tired,” Ibrahimah says, still scratching. Fresh blood mixes with the caked dirt beneath his fingernails.
“Ibrahimah, please come. We’ll find food.”
He doubts it. “I want cake!”
Étienne throws his hands up in the air, grabs his can from the ground, and walks away. The air is thick and unmoving. The sun sits above, its tyranny slowing everything down within its grasp. Ibrahimah’s legs feel like lead, his knees hurt, his feet are tired, and his back aches like that of a grown man working the land. His head spins and he’s unable to make sense of anything around him. His body loses its strength, his knees buckle, and he collapses as the world goes black before his face meets the hot earth.
“Boy!” a woman calls from across the street.
Étienne looks over to her and the Malian fruit vendor. They’re both pointing behind him. He turns around to find his cousin crumpled to the ground.
“Ibrahimah!”
Étienne runs over to Ibrahimah and tries to jostle him awake. The Malian fruit vendor pulls Étienne back and drops his head down to Ibrahimah’s face.
“He’s breathing.”
The man gently rocks Ibrahimah.
“Call his name,” he says, looking over at Étienne.
“Ibrahimah. Ibrahimah! Cousin, wake up!”
Tears spring into the corners of Étienne’s eyes.
“Have you all eaten today?”
Étienne shakes his head no.
“He wanted cake,” Étienne cries.
The man picks Ibrahimah’s limp body up and carries him over to his fruit stand nestled beneath the shade of a tree. He places Ibrahimah down onto a bench, grabs a cup of water, pours some onto a rag, and dabs it across his face.
“It may be hunger and heat exhaustion,” the man says.
Several passersby have stopped to see if the boy is all right.
“The Talibé boy passed out from hunger,” the woman informs the small crowd.
Eyebrows shoot up in the air. A woman shoves a sandwich, wrapped in paper, toward Étienne.
“For him,” she says, pointing at Ibrahimah.
Étienne takes the sandwich and touches his stomach while looking at Ibrahimah.
“Ibrahimah!” the man says.
Ibrahimah’s eyes flutter open. Disjointed by all the faces leering down at him he closes his eyes again.
“Am I in heaven with my mama?” Ibrahimah asks.
The Malian man looks down at the little boy, confused for a moment, then chuckles. “No, you are alive, my child. Can you sit up?”
Ibrahimah holds his hand to his head as the Malian man gently sits him upright. He is dizzy and feels like he did whenever he tried to hold his breath underwater longer than his sisters. Fatou always won. This feeling is much worse, since there is no way for him to quit and come up for air.
“Eat this,” Étienne instructs, shoving the sandwich at him.
The fruit vendor takes the sandwich from Étienne. Ibrahimah watches with big eyes as the man opens the paper, splits the sandwich in two, and hands a half to each of them. He motions for Étienne to sit down next to Ibrahimah on the bench and gives them a cup of water to drink. There in the shade they nibble the sandwiches self-consciously, thankful to be eating. Ibrahimah’s stomach gurgles and feels a bit queasy with the taste of food, but he’d rather be eating than not.
Seeing that the child is okay the crowd returns to its lazy gait.
“You boys be careful. You have to drink water in this heat,” the woman says. Satisfied with herself she walks off.
“Drink water?” Ibrahimah repeats.
Étienne glances after the woman, then returns his attention to the matter at hand, his sandwich.
“Drink water,” the Malian man grumbles. “How do children drink enough water if they’ve got nowhere to get it?”
Ibrahimah finds it soothing to watch the short, slim Malian man with the long fingers sell fruit. He could sit on this bench, beneath this tree, eating sandwiches forever. When his sandwich is finished, the man hands Ibrahimah a banana. Ibrahimah obliges without argument; with food in his belly his eyes are coming back into focus and the wooziness begins to fade.
“The other boys must be far by now,” Étienne says. “We can visit Moustapha today.”
Ibrahimah’s face lights up as much as it can, the dull throbbing in his head holding his joy at bay. Maybe Aria has medicine so he doesn’t fall down again. The passing traffic slowly builds in front of them.
“One day we won’t have to beg anymore,” Étienne says.
Ibrahimah smiles at this grand idea.
“People will lay down gold and silver on the ground for us to walk over when we return to our village.”
“My mama and papa will come down from heaven and be there with lots of food,” Ibrahimah says.
“Don’t forget your Hummer,” Étienne says, looking at his cousin.
“And big guns to shoot stupid people!”
“No shooting, Ibrahimah. We’re good.”
“Okay, I’ll drive over stupid people with my Hummer!”
Étienne laughs and looks up to find the pleasant-faced Malian man standing above them. The man hands Ibrahimah a packet of cookies, and within seconds he has stuffed two in his mouth.
“I feel better,” Ibrahimah sputters, cookie crumbs flying across his lap.
“Sit for some time,” Étienne says, looking over his shoulder at the cars piling up behind him, due to the out-of-sync traffic light a quarter mile up the road. He approaches the cars with a tempered calm.
Ibrahimah dangles his legs over the edge of the bench. Cars idling in traffic exude black, curly smoke from their bottoms. Drivers with scrunched-up faces stick their heads out car windows in search of answers. A tall, slim security guard, dressed in a black uniform and black cap, walks a large black-and-tan German shepherd. Several drivers stare at the man and dog. It’s rare to witness someone walking a dog, much less one so big. A woman and two girls cross the street to avoid walking past the pair, yet both man and dog move with ease, unfazed by their spectacle. Right as they’re passing by Ibrahimah, the dog turns his large head and looks straight at him. Pulling away from the guard, he licks Ibrahimah’s hand.
“Down, boy.”
Ibrahimah has never seen a dog so big, but he doesn’t flinch, just like he was not afraid of the lion.
“Little Talibé, you aren’t afraid,” the tall, skinny security guard says, chuckling.
Taking advantage of the lax hold on his leash, the dog moves in closer to Ibrahimah and licks his cheek. His hair tickles Ibrahimah’s neck and sends him into a fit of giggles.
“A brave Talibé you are,” the guard says.
Étienne approaches the dog from behind and touches the hind end of his back. The dog turns his head, acknowledges Étienne silently, and then turns back to Ibrahimah, who beams with delight at the attention.
“Okay, Oscar, let’s go,” the guard coaxes. The dog pulls against the guard, exhales loudly, then succumbs and slowly walks away.
“You boys doing better?” the Malian man asks, turning away from the departing customer.
“Yes,” Étienne replies.
“That’s good.”
Étienne cups his hands in front of his face.
“Thank you for your kindness, may Allah bless you, ton-ton,” he mumbles.
The Malian man with the cocoa-brown skin folds his hands in prayer over his
chest and bows in appreciation. The boys take off to the streets again.
* * *
—
“I’m hungry,” Ibrahimah complains, his patience waning as people continue to ignore his requests for money and food.
“We just ate an hour ago!” Étienne exclaims, looking at his cousin in disbelief.
“Well, I’m hungry again!”
Ibrahimah’s plastic jelly sandals are looking worn; a strap has broken on one foot. He grips his stomach with his hand. Spotting a woman selling peanuts, Ibrahimah approaches her.
“May I have some peanuts, please?”
She motions for him to take a small packet.
“Thank you, ta-ta,” Ibrahimah says, stuffing the peanuts into his mouth without a thought of saving some for later, or sharing any with Étienne.
“You said we’d go see Moustapha,” Ibrahimah says.
“I know,” Étienne agrees, “but first let’s see if we can find some more money.”
“Don’t we have money in the safe at Moustapha’s house?” Ibrahimah asks. He needs a break.
“We do, but never let the luck of finding more money pass you by. Let’s go.”
They walk over toward the gas station in Mermoz, next door to the bookstore, Librarie IV, which is in the exact opposite direction of Moustapha’s neighborhood. The shaded station and food market are busy as cars pull in and out of the parking lot.
“Get two big coins and then we’ll go see Moustapha.”
Ibrahimah falls into action. He approaches a rich-looking Senegalese woman in a heavily starched pink-and-purple boubou.
“Talibé, I’ll give you money when I finish inside.”
Ibrahimah turns to the next set of legs approaching, a man in a black crisp suit and shiny black leather shoes. Ibrahimah scores two small fifty-franc coins from him. Clink, clink, they fall into his red tin tomato can.
“Aye, petit garçon. Comment ça va?”
Ibrahimah looks up to see a light-skinned black man smiling down at him. Étienne runs over, bumping into Ibrahimah as he greets the man.