by Keisha Bush
“Vous êtes ici. Je ne vous ai pas oublié tous les deux.”
“What does he mean he doesn’t forget us? Who is he?” Ibrahimah asks Étienne.
“He’s the American man that bought us Coca a long time ago at the boutique. Remember? He’s sure to give us money today.”
Ibrahimah’s eyes light up.
“Mooneh, please. Tank you,” Étienne says, looking up at the American man.
“Whoa, little Talibé! You speak English now?” The man’s eyes pop open wide. A grin spreads across his face.
“Yes, please give me mooneh,” Ibrahimah says, with his practiced English, palm open wide, waiting to be blessed with riches.
The man laughs out loud.
“Why is this man laughing? He doesn’t understand me?” Ibrahimah asks, sucking his teeth, reverting back to Wolof.
“I think he’s in shock.” Étienne says in Wolof before turning to the man. “We are angri, please buy us food.”
“Angry?” the man repeats, his head turned to the side in confusion.
“Yes, beaucoup angri,” Ibrahimah adds, touching his stomach.
“Oh! You’re hungry? Damn, times are changing when Talibé start learning English,” the man says, laughing.
“What did he say?” Ibrahimah asks. The man spoke a bit too fast for him to catch everything.
“He thinks Talibé speaking English is funny,” Étienne says.
Ibrahimah cracks up laughing, joining the man and Étienne. A Senegalese woman passes by and stares at the foreign man like he is crazy.
“What do you want to eat?”
“Food,” the boys say in unison.
“Okay, stay here. I’ll be back,” the man says, walking away while shaking his head in disbelief.
“I can’t wait to tell Moustapha. We need to learn more English,” Ibrahimah says, reverting back to Wolof.
“Imagine how much money we can get from Americans if we could speak perfect English,” Étienne says.
Ibrahimah’s eyes light up. The exchange has infused him with a burst of energy. They linger by the door, when four Talibé boys about Étienne’s age run over to them.
“Aye. You get lots of money here?” a boy asks.
“Not really,” Étienne says, pointing toward the cars pulling up to the gas pumps. A driver in the queue sticks his head and arm out of his window, gesturing to the taxi driver in front of him to wrap it up. The taxi driver sucks his teeth and turns his back to the impatient man.
Ibrahimah sees the woman from earlier coming out of the store first and runs up to her in hopes that she gives him the money she promised. When the other boys see the large Senegalese woman in the bright expensive outfit, they rush up alongside Ibrahimah, pushing him out of the way.
“Watch your manners!” she yells at them.
“Money!”
“Give me money!”
“Money for me.”
They stumble over one another, shoving dirty hands up toward her face.
“Back away from me, Talibé! Back! I give money to whomever I want, and not to boys who have no manners!”
“Come, baby,” she says to Ibrahimah.
She plunks down several one-hundred-franc coins into his hand and saunters away with a cut of her eye at the others. The four boys glare at Ibrahimah. He scoots back over to Étienne.
“Should we go?” Ibrahimah asks.
“No, we wait for the American man.”
Ibrahimah watches the rowdy group of boys vie for money and attention. A foreboding feeling circles the insides of his stomach. The American man walks out of the market and the group of boys rush him, almost knocking him over.
“Whoa, calmez-vous!” he shouts, raising his hands up in the air.
Several people look over at the scene. He drops a coin in each of their cans as they shove and push. Once free he walks up to Étienne and Ibrahimah and gives them money, boxed apple juice with the straw attached to the side, bananas, and the thick, sweet yogurt with the millet on the bottom. Ibrahimah’s eyes light up at the sight of his bounty. He needs to learn more English from Moustapha. The other boys see what is happening and rush over, demanding more.
“Hey, boys, la prochaine fois, d’accord?”
“Greedy American,” the boy in the green T-shirt says, spitting on the ground and stomping back over to the entrance of the store.
The other boys press the American further, but he puts his hands in the air, showing them he has no more to give. Étienne and Ibrahimah thank him quietly but linger, curious to see if the man will succumb to the boys’ pressure. He doesn’t, and walks away with a wave. Étienne grabs Ibrahimah’s arm and pulls him away.
“Give me your drink,” the boy with the torn pants demands.
Étienne doesn’t turn around, and drags Ibrahimah behind him.
“No!” Ibrahimah yells, his legs doing double time to keep up with Étienne.
“I said give me your juice, stupid!”
Étienne turns just as the boy swings at the back of his head. The boy’s fist brushes his cheek. Étienne drops his tomato can to the ground and throws a punch at the boy. Ibrahimah picks up his cousin’s can and steps away from the brawl. Confusion and anxiety rush through his body. He doesn’t know what to do. The memory of the brawl with Scarface and Caca outside the nightclub comes rushing to the forefront of his brain. They can’t afford to lose their money.
“Stop!” Ibrahimah yells, taking a step forward, then a step back.
The other three boys rush over with grins on their faces.
“Beat him! Show him a lesson!”
A second boy rushes over and jumps in on top of Étienne. The two boys drag Étienne to the ground, kicking and punching him in his head, torso, and back. Étienne grabs the boy with the torn shorts by the calf and pulls him to the ground. Ignoring the blows to his body he throws his weight onto the slim boy and bites his ear, breaking the skin. The boy screams out in pain.
Foreigners walk by with trepidation on their faces. Several drivers standing at the gas pumps look away. In the excitement of the brawl the other two boys hadn’t paid any attention to Ibrahimah.
“Aye, boy! Come here, give me your food.”
Just as the two boys start toward Ibrahimah two gas-station attendants approach them, shouting that they stop.
“Fuck you!” the tallest of the boys shouts over his shoulder.
Ibrahimah doesn’t know whether to run and hide or stay, but the station attendants are on the group within seconds after the tall boy’s retort. The tall, slim attendant rushes toward the three-way brawl, with the short, stocky attendant close behind.
“Stop this at once!”
He yanks the two boys off Étienne. The boy with the torn shorts, and bleeding ear, backs away but then comes up and hits Étienne in the head. The man tries to grab the bleeding boy, but he hits the man in the arm and then attempts to run behind him to get at Étienne again. The man catches the boy by the bottom of his T-shirt. In the boy’s struggle to get away, the man ends up pulling the T-shirt up over his head and beats the boy in the head, back, and torso. The other boys watch. Their twelve-year-old bodies are no match for the adult men.
“You think you’re tough! You little shit.” The man hits the boy once more before letting him go.
“Fuck you!” the boy yells, tears in his eyes, blood running down the side of his neck.
“What?” the man says with a start, but the boy runs away.
“Get out of here and don’t let us see you again!”
“Étienne, you’re bleeding,” Ibrahimah says.
Étienne gives his arms a once-over, dismissing the superficial scrapes he finds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and finds his bloodied lips are the source of Ibrahimah’s worry. He takes the tail of his shirt and wipes his mouth agai
n.
“I’m okay.”
“You all get out of here too. Get!”
“Come on, Ibrahimah, let’s go.”
Étienne picks up his drink from the ground and brushes the dirt from the straw. He takes his red tin tomato can from Ibrahimah, ensures his money and food are safe, and the two of them walk in the opposite direction of the four boys.
“You got your money?” Étienne asks.
“Yes.”
Ibrahimah looks around the vicinity of the area, wary of bumping into the boys again.
“Don’t worry. They’re gone.”
In the afternoon heat, time stands still, no breeze dares show itself. Ibrahimah watches the ants scurry across the earth in search of food, then give up and run back home. The rumble is faint at first but increases with each step. When the ground begins to shake, Ibrahimah raises his eyes to meet the large Alitalia plane overhead, shaking everything awake beneath its flight path to Yoff Airport. With it comes a gust of thick, hot air that encapsulates the two boys. Ibrahimah raises his arm in an attempt to touch the belly of the aircraft as small round faces look out of the windows and down at the streets below.
“Maybe one day you’ll fly the plane and take us far from here,” Étienne says as he watches the tail end of the plane disappear over the neighborhood of Mamelles. “I want to see the world far away from Dakar.”
“Paradise is outside of Dakar for sure.”
Ibrahimah sucks the last of his juice, then frowns at the empty carton, not ready for the drink to be finished so fast. He pulls the straw out and chews on the plastic. He drops the carton into his tomato can and walks along with the straw sticking out of his mouth.
“I like this drink,” Ibrahimah says.
Clear blue sky stretches on for eternity except for a scatter of featherlight strokes of cirrus clouds. He has not seen the red bird in a long time. He wonders if the bird has left him, like his parents.
Ibrahimah and Étienne pass a group of women lined up along the wall of the Danish embassy, sitting on cardboard boxes. Plump babies suck from limp exposed breasts. Ankle-length wrap skirts are pulled up to their knees in hopes the stagnant air decides to adjust itself and offer them relief. Bodies bent to the side in fatigue, the women quietly watch the backs of the boys as they walk down the hill. Ibrahimah scratches at his butt.
Another plane passes overhead, its massive wings blocking the sun’s rays from kissing his face. The temporary shade feels good. Walking through the soft earth, he kicks at the hot sand, causing a cloud to billow up around him. He feels invincible within the fog until the earth finds its way into his mouth and eyes, causing him to cough and gag. He rubs at his eyes, making things worse.
“Meow.”
Ibrahimah spins around in an attempt to follow the source of the sound.
“Meow.”
“It’s a cat,” Étienne says.
“Where?”
Ibrahimah spins around in another circle.
“Meow. Meow.”
“Here,” Étienne says, walking over to a mound of sun-scorched shrubs and weeds. Ibrahimah runs over, excited to see the animal. The boys move the dead wiry shrubs around but don’t find anything.
“Meow.”
“I think it’s here!”
Ibrahimah runs over to a rusted red pickup truck parked next to the shrubs. Below, two tiny white kittens spotted with black are huddled together. Their fur matted to their emaciated bodies, they shiver in the shade away from the unbearable heat. Étienne finds a stick and begins poking one of the kittens. Each time the stick connects with its small body, the cat cries out in pain. On the fourth poke the angry kitten gives a scathing hiss and scurries out of reach. The other kitten continues to cry. Ibrahimah tries to pick it up, but the kitten retreats toward its sibling.
“Why are they here alone?” Ibrahimah asks.
“People throw the babies away. They don’t want them.”
Ibrahimah looks up at his cousin. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Ibrahimah turns back to the scared kittens.
“I’m hungry,” Ibrahimah says.
“Let’s go.”
After one final glance at the kittens Ibrahimah grabs his red tin can and stands. With each step he takes, the cries of the two kittens increase tenfold in an attempt to get the two boys to return.
* * *
—
The street lies still. No birds flutter about. No cars amble down the uneven road leaving thick clouds of fumes and dust behind. No young, hungry Senegalese men drag their sandaled feet across the ground selling Chinese goods.
Approaching the familiar address, Étienne walks up to the big metal door and rings the bell. The high cement walls loom larger than usual and the bell echoes throughout the compound. Ibrahimah looks out across the street. Something sparkles beneath the sunlight and catches his eye. He walks over as a faint breeze washes over him and the smell of the Atlantic Ocean rushes into his nostrils. The faces of his sisters flash before his eyes, eclipsing his sight for just a moment. “Fatou,” he mumbles under his breath. The shiny object sparkles again. He bends down and picks up the flat, round silver object. It’s bigger and flatter than any of the coins he’s received. He flips it around in his hand. The surface is smooth on one side and has etchings on the other. Excited, he brings the metal piece over to Étienne.
“Look, money.”
Étienne looks at the silver coin in his cousin’s hand. “That’s not money.”
“No?” Ibrahimah asks, frowning.
“No. Money has numbers to tell you how much. That has no numbers, just lines and circles. See,” Étienne says, comparing a hundred-franc piece to the silver object, “not money.”
Ibrahimah frowns and puts the shiny metal object into his can. It’s too shiny not to be important, Fatou would know if it were really treasure.
“I don’t think anyone is home.” Étienne says.
“Ring the bell again.”
Étienne reaches to press the doorbell again when the sound of metal fighting against metal takes center stage.
“What do you want?” someone grumbles.
To the right of Moustapha’s house, a short, sleepy-eyed Senegalese man sticks his head out of a metal door, annoyance in his eyes.
“We’re looking for our friend Moustapha.”
“The family is gone to America,” the guard says. “They left a few days ago. The father got a new job in New York.”
“New York?” Ibrahimah asks.
“Yes, America,” the man says.
“Thank you, ton-ton,” Étienne says.
The man retracts his head and slams the door shut.
“America?” Ibrahimah asks.
“Come, let’s go,” Étienne says, walking away.
Ibrahimah’s legs are frozen.
“Moustapha went to America?!” Ibrahimah exclaims.
“Yes, let’s go.”
“What about our money!” Ibrahimah cries, meeting his cousin’s pace, his legs taking two strides for every one Étienne takes.
“We’ll figure something out,” Étienne says, squinting against the sunlight.
“Will Moustapha come back soon?”
Étienne stops abruptly and looks down at Ibrahimah.
“Probably not,” Étienne says, biting his bottom lip.
Ibrahimah pictures the map on the wall of the bedroom he shared with his sisters but can’t remember where America is in relation to Africa anymore. “Where’s America?”
“Far away from Dakar.” Étienne starts walking again.
Ibrahimah is quiet a moment, his thoughts run through his brain too fast for his mouth to articulate; English, money, food, baths, clothes, cartoons, air conditioning, PlayStation, Xbox, Moustapha.
“How do we get ther
e?”
“We have to take a boat across the water, or a plane.”
Planes that go to America and Paradise cost a lot of money because that is how the rich people come to Dakar. Ibrahimah drops his head. They pass a boulangerie and the smell of fresh bread baking engulfs him. His stomach screams with hunger.
“I need food.”
“Why do you keep complaining? We’re used to being hungry all the time!”
Customers rush in and out of the boulangerie with barely a glance at the unmistakable looks of hunger. Those who do notice walk faster in an attempt not to see. Étienne suggests they go find food somewhere else.
“We’ll go over there where they sell dibi to try. It’s better, maybe.”
“No. I need food now!” Ibrahimah demands.
Ibrahimah sees a woman approaching and rushes up to her. She waves him away. He continues asking and lurks close to her leg. With one sweeping move she swats him upside his head.
“You listen when an adult tells you no, you little ingrate. Now go away!” she scolds.
Ibrahimah’s mouth settles into a pout of disappointment and anger.
“I told you we should go. You don’t listen,” Étienne says.
“But I’m hungry,” Ibrahimah whines.
“Rich people want to keep everything for themselves. They don’t care about Talibé.”
Disappointment sits on Ibrahimah’s face.
“Come, let’s see how much money we have; with the extra we’ll buy food, okay?” Étienne says.
They crouch down in a spot hidden behind a car. Ibrahimah leans his head up against the vehicle. Moustapha didn’t steal their money, but how could he forget about them? He was the best friend Ibrahimah has ever had, besides Étienne. He stands up and the ground spins beneath his feet. His stomach gurgles in anger and he lurches forward; a mixture of blood, undigested peanuts, and bile spills out of his mouth.
* * *
—
Ibrahimah wakes with a start. The room is devoid of color and his skin is roasting. The open window brings no air from the moonless sky into the crowded room. The rhythmic sound of forty boys breathing deep within their sleep fills the space; Ahmed returned with five new boys from a recent trip to Mali.