No Heaven for Good Boys

by Keisha Bush

  A thousand pins and needles prick him over every inch of his body. Hot liquid escapes his butt. His stomach spasms. He tries to sit up but instead vomits all over himself before he collapses onto his cardboard mat. He whimpers in pain but none of the other boys stir. Ibrahimah grips his stomach and rocks onto his side. He vomits again. Étienne wakes up and helps him to the hole behind the house. He fails to control his bodily functions and diarrhea runs down his bony legs.

  Étienne searches out an old ripped piece of cloth and attempts to clean Ibrahimah using the day-old water from the pail in the back. He’s still tending to his cousin when the prayer call sounds at five o’clock and Marabout appears. Étienne rushes toward their teacher.

  “What do you want?” Ahmed dips his hands in the pail of water.

  “Ibrahimah is sick.”

  “Sick how?”

  “He has diarrhea and vomits. It won’t stop.”

  “Let me see him.”

  Ahmed walks over to find Ibrahimah squatting over the hole, convulsing and vomiting between his legs, crying out in pain, and clutching his belly. Ahmed walks out of the foul-smelling space.

  “Stay with him,” he growls over his shoulder, walking back into the house.

  “Cousin, what do you need?” asks Étienne.

  Ibrahimah whimpers in response. Étienne goes to fetch more water from the pail. When he returns, Ibrahimah is curled up next to the hole, sleeping.

  “Ibrahimah, wake up.”

  Ibrahimah replies with a pained moan.

  “Let’s go back in the room to sleep on the mat. It’s dirty here.”

  Étienne tries to move him, but Ibrahimah protests. Why is Étienne being so mean to him? Who cares about the mat inside the house? It’s better right here.

  “You will make Marabout mad. Come, you don’t want a beating.”

  Ibrahimah allows his cousin to drag him to his feet and they stumble back into the room, where the rest of the boys are in prayer. Ibrahimah’s mat is wet with a cocktail of bodily fluids. Étienne guides Ibrahimah to lie down on his own clean mat and drags Ibrahimah’s soiled piece of cardboard outside. The other boys wrinkle their noses at the smell. With their prayers complete and the sun shining brightly through the window, the roomful of boys prepares to go out to work. With mats put away, they grab their empty tomato cans and file out of the door.

  Ibrahimah lies in the middle of the room, on the floor, curled into a fetal position. Étienne hangs next to his cousin for a while and then goes to Ahmed.

  “Teacher, Ibrahimah’s too sick to work.”

  “Where is he?”

  Étienne points to the bundle of boy on the floor. Ahmed sighs. He walks over to Ibrahimah and pokes him.

  “Leave him. You go to work. He’ll sleep and should be fine to work tomorrow.”

  Étienne hesitates to leave. Ahmed slaps him across the side of his head, hard. “Go!”

  Étienne walks away but turns back to look at Ibrahimah one more time. Ahmed goes to his room and slams his door.

  Ibrahimah sleeps fitfully and dreams of his village. It seems only moments have gone by when conversations suddenly disturb his slumber.

  “Come close to me. Are you lying?”

  “No, Papa, I would never lie to you.”

  “You love your papa, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “We’ll be together forever, yes? You won’t ever leave your papa, will you? Tell me you will never leave me.”

  “Never. We will always be together.”

  Ibrahimah’s eyes flutter open. Is he back in the village with his father? No one loves his father more than he does. But his eyes dart across the room and he catches sight of Marabout and two of the boys from his house, Scarface and Caca. Ahmed wraps his arm around Scarface and the boy leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

  “You two are my special boys.”

  The boys look at each other with tepid smiles.

  “You take care of your papa, the way these other boys cannot.”

  “Yes, sir,” Caca says.

  Ahmed punches the boy in the back and he yelps out in pain.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Papa, I called you Papa!”

  Caca looks up at Ahmed with fear in his eyes.

  Ahmed’s demeanor eases as he watches them eat; they stuff handfuls of burnt rice and chicken into their mouths.

  “After you finish eating, we’ll take a nap together. Are you tired? Would you like to take a nap with your papa?”

  Scarface offers Marabout a tight smile. “Yes.”

  Caca leans over the plate, and shoves more food in his mouth.

  Ibrahimah closes his eyes. His throat is parched but he dares not utter a word. His body too weak to budge, he allows the sounds of their voices to fade before drifting back into a slumber. His mother appears before him with a tall glass of bissap to drink. The sweet sugary drink washes through his body and he jumps to life, running down the hill to the shore of the beach. The waves roar loud and thunderous and he jumps into the ocean.

  His body moves without effort through the water as he dips below the surface, swimming deep down into the belly of the sea alongside sharks, sea spiders, eels, and squid. Jellyfish drift by, their bodies folding and unfolding in their slow, beautiful dance. Flat-faced fish shimmy across the ocean floor. The water becomes colder and the valleys darker the farther down he goes, but he is not afraid. A shimmer of light flashes off in the distance and he swims toward it; the light never gets brighter or larger than the small dot it appears as, but it beckons him all the same. So he swims with confidence that he will reach it, but once he gets right in front of it he realizes there is no place to go but through, and so that is what he does, swims straight through and finds himself facedown on a thick bed of grass, arms caught in the air with no water left to manipulate. He turns around to see the wall of water leading back to the sea, standing free on its own. Ibrahimah stands up and shakes the drops of seawater off of his body.

  “Ibrahimah!”

  He looks over to see Abdoulaye, Demba, and Aisatu eating strawberries and mango beneath a tree with bright-purple flowers. Aisatu’s small two-year-old legs are chubby and short compared to the two older boys.

  “Is this Dakar?” Ibrahimah asks, looking at Demba.

  With a coy smile etched across his mouth, Demba shakes his head no.

  “Heaven,” Abdoulaye says, sweet strawberry juice running down his chin.

  The three children jump up and run down a grassy, tree-lined passageway. Aisatu’s giggles sing out amongst the trees.

  “Wait! Come back!” Ibrahimah runs down the winding path, his feet sinking into the thick, damp grass. The air is soft and fresh; a warm breeze strokes his skin, just as his mother would when she was soothing him.

  He runs down a row of short blue-leafed trees, but stops after a while to look to his right. There he sees the boys waving for him to follow. He runs toward them but instead of waiting they run away again, laughing with joy. Ibrahimah stops and looks up. Fat red apples hang low enough for him to reach and he pulls one down and bites into it. The sky above is a deep violet, yet the space around him is bright with the illumination of a hundred suns. The sweet nectar bursts with flavor inside his mouth and he sits down. He takes a deep breath filled with freedom and joy. He chews slowly and closes his eyes as he listens to the sound of a dragonfly flap its wings nearby.

  Large raindrops fall so slowly that he can see images within them before they hit the ground. He sticks his free hand out and catches one. Within his palm he can see a man bent over crying. In another raindrop is Marabout and the man that would come in the morning. He instantly understands that his teacher was not helping his mother—but hurting her. Another raindrop falls within his palm and he can see Étienne running away from something, afraid. Ibrahimah ju
mps up and tries to catch as many raindrops as possible. The apple falls from his lap and the sound of Aisatu’s giggles fades. Something shifts in the air and his eyes flutter open.

  Ahmed holds a naked Caca by the neck; the boy’s face contorts in pain. Ibrahimah clamps his eyes shut and wills his brain to return to the place below the sea, with Abdoulaye and his sister and the images of those who love him, but he does not return. Instead he is left trapped in the room filled with the sounds of suffering and evil.

  “Ibrahimah.”

  Someone is touching him, he tries to push them away, and pain shoots through his body.

  “Marabout, no,” he cries.

  “Ibrahimah.”

  He opens his eyes. Étienne has returned home early. Ibrahimah is wet with excrement, and dried bile lies next to his head. Étienne looks over at Marabout, who listens to a local radio station while eating his dinner. Étienne takes the piece of bread he begged from a woman earlier and tries to get his cousin to eat, but Ibrahimah refuses to open his dry, cracked lips.

  “Ibrahimah, you have to eat something,” Étienne says, his voice a quiet whisper.

  The thought of eating food makes him want to vomit again.

  “I brought you Coca.”

  “The man in the morning hurts me and Mama,” Ibrahimah mumbles before losing consciousness.

  “What are you doing?” Ahmed barks from his bedroom door. A grain of rice falls from his chin.

  “I’m trying to get him to drink something.”

  “What?”

  “Ibrahimah is thirsty.”

  “What are you giving him to drink?”

  “Coca.”

  “You bring him Coca, but not your marabout. You boys do not respect me.”

  Étienne looks up at the large man with a dubious expression.

  Ahmed scoffs. “He doesn’t need Coca, leave him. Bring it to me.”

  Étienne hands the soda over to the large man.

  Ahmed grunts. “Now get out of my sight.”

  Étienne lies down next to his cousin. He had a strong feeling that Marabout wasn’t helping Ibrahimah’s mother in heaven. He sleeps fitfully as Ibrahimah whines and writhes in pain throughout the night. Étienne wakes to the sounds of coughing and finds Ibrahimah sitting up bent over his lap. Ibrahimah heaves as if he is going to vomit, but nothing but a dry, painful cough comes.

  “Ibrahimah, you okay?”

  Étienne puts his hand on his cousin’s back. Ibrahimah is still hot with fever.

  “I…hurt.”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  Étienne walks quietly to the back of the house and grabs a cup of water from the pail.

  “Drink this.”

  Ibrahimah shakes his head, but Étienne insists. Ibrahimah takes the water and sips.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Ibrahimah shakes his head no and lies down. A few moments later Étienne looks on as Ibrahimah grips his stomach in pain and vomits. When the last of the water and bile has exited his system Ibrahimah rolls over to his side, closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep. It is up to Étienne to save his cousin.

  Morning sunlight bursts through the parted curtains. The air smells fresh and the room feels more spacious than usual. Maimouna lies unmoving, meeting her mother’s unwavering gaze.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Is that how you greet your elder? I’ve been here three days. The rain is heavy. The spirits are discontent,” Maimouna’s mother says, sitting down on the chair by the window and gazing up toward the sky.

  Her lips continue to move, but without sound. A string of wooden beads lies in her lap. She touches each bead with her thumb and pointing finger before grabbing the next one.

  “I don’t see any rain.”

  “You’ve slept through most of it, but it will come again; nothing lasts forever.”

  Maimouna watches her mother’s hands.

  “Why did you not send for me?” her mother asks, still looking out the window.

  “I don’t know. I wanted to get better on my own. I’m supposed to be the mother to my children that I always wanted. It’s so hard, though,” Maimouna says, looking away.

  Her mother turns and looks at Maimouna just as a miniature red bird lands on the windowsill; its small body is no bigger than the wingspan of a butterfly. Her mother reaches out and touches its head. It sings out in response, then flies into the room and lands on the edge of the bed, looking into Maimouna’s eyes. Head cocked to the side, it comes closer to get a better look. Maimouna holds her breath.

  “Am I dreaming?” she whispers.

  “Would you like this to be a dream?” the red bird asks.

  Maimouna blinks several times and then looks over at her mother, who has lighted a pipe. Her mother inhales deeply then exhales the smoke in tight swirls that spread out like a hungry fog. Maimouna looks back at the tiny bird and reaches her hand out. It steps back, spreads its tiny wings, and flies out of the window. Maimouna drops her hand onto the bed and looks to her mother.

  “How long will you stay?”

  “As long as I am needed.”

  Maimouna sighs. “Nothing can cure me, Mama. We’ve tried everything. The devil is too strong.”

  She looks over toward her mother, the light fading around her. Her mother rises, touches her head, and walks out of the room. Outside, Fatou follows her grandmother around.

  “Fatou.”

  “Yes, Maam.”

  “Bring me a bowl and spoon, I need to mix these herbs together.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  Her grandmother bends over the bowl and burns several roots and twigs inside. When the flame has fizzled out and just the burnt ash is left, she sprinkles a green powder over it and mixes it with tree bark and a dark liquid. Fatou watches intently.

  “This will make everything right again.”

  Fatou’s shoulders slump, her eyes sad. “Nothing works, Maam. Nothing.”

  The older woman looks at Fatou, fire burning in the center of her jet-black eyes. “The magic practiced against your mother is dark, and it is strong, but sacrifices have been made. What I do is permanent. There is no going back.”

  She points to a canister. Fatou picks it up and hands it to her.

  “But how will Mama get well without Ibrahimah?”

  “Your brother will return home, and when he arrives, he will stay.”

  Fatou raises her eyebrows in surprise. Her grandmother opens the canister and pulls out a paper bag. The bag rustles in her hand as it rises and falls. Fatou takes a step back. Her grandmother motions for her to grab the paste as she heads back to the bedroom with the paper bag. While Maimouna sleeps, the older woman scoops the paste up with three fingers and spreads it across Maimouna’s forehead and down the bridge of her nose. She mixes a smudge of it into a glass of water next to the bed, then reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a heart, still beating all on its own. She sits it in a woven straw basket surrounded by several cowrie shells and slides it beneath Maimouna’s side of the bed. On the windowsill sits the tiny red bird.

  “Watch her,” Maimouna’s mother says over her shoulder to the red bird as she leaves the room with a wide-eyed Fatou in tow.

  Heavy rains fill the pails to the brim and allow the girls laissez-faire afternoons once they are done with their morning chores. Binta and Aisha arrive fresh out of breath, their legs wet with the salty ocean water, caked beach sand falling from their ankles in small clumps. They bump into Fatou.

  “Why do you follow Maam around the house all day?” Binta asks.

  “To help her with anything she needs,” Fatou says, sweeping fallen leaves and other debris into a small pile.

  “The beach is more fun,” Aisha says, slurping on a cup of Fanta orange soda.

  “To show my appreciation.
I’m happy that Maam has come to help us.”

  “Why are you so appreciation?” Binta asks, putting a hand on her waist and jutting her hip out to the side.

  Fatou sighs with exasperation and leans on the broom. “Appreciative. Because, now that Maam’s here, you and Aisha do your chores without me having to yell at you!”

  Fatou pulls at one of Binta’s braids. She smacks at Fatou’s hand and rolls her eyes.

  “Roll your eyes if you want, but it’s true. You and Aisha know Maam will do juju on you and make you grow a hunch on your back if you misbehave. You’ll walk around like this all your life!”

  Fatou bends over and scrunches her face up, dragging her left leg behind her across the floor. “You’ll be ugly like a witch. All the boys will run from you, and you’ll never get married or have children.”

  Binta’s eyes open wide with fear.

  “Don’t listen to Fatou, Maam would never do that to us.” Aisha sucks her teeth. “Anyway, I don’t care to be married. I want to be a singer.”

  “Oh no? I’ll call Maam right now. She’ll burn the other roots and powders she has in her pouch, just for you!”

  “No, no!” Binta cries, frowning at Aisha. “We’ll be good. Aisha, shut up and listen to Fatou!”

  Fatou clicks her tongue.

  “Binta is smart,” Fatou says, looking at Aisha and cutting her eyes. “Now clean those potatoes! You’ve had enough fun for the day.”

  Fatou skips off into the house with a wide grin on her face as her sisters sit down in front of the pile of root vegetables.

  Dinner is quiet that evening, a sense of calm reverberates amongst them all. Binta smiles every time she sticks a French fry in her mouth.

  “I hate peeling potatoes,” Binta says with a grin, “but I love French fries.”

  Aisha rolls her eyes while Fatou sneaks glances over at her grandmother. Idrissa hangs his head low, brooding and absent. They all hold tight to the belief that Maam will fix it.

  * * *

  —

  That evening Maimouna sits up, a surge of energy rushing through her body. Her bare feet are cool against the tiled floor. The rhythmic sound of her mother’s breathing is comforting in the dark room. She walks past the girls’ bedroom and the sound of Idrissa sleeping in the living room. Outside, the sandy floor feels cool at first then turns warmer as her toes sink deeper. The full moon illuminates the navy-blue sky, and fluffy cumulus clouds race by in search of the sun. She holds her wrist, feels her scar.