by Keisha Bush
She walks past the houses of her neighbors. A lamb picks its sleepy head up to look at her. She remembers Ibrahimah running down this hill with his sisters. Down at the shore, the roar of the ocean’s breath is calming; it never changes its manner, never tells a lie, never claims to be something that it is not. She sits down on the sand and rakes her fingers deep into the earth until she finds the dense, wet layers beneath. She stares out across the dark sea.
“What are you looking at?” she asks.
The moon looks back, silent and without bias.
“It’s not right! Where are you now, Almighty Allah? Where is my son?”
A star glistens in the distance and she closes her eyes. She thought a family of her own would eclipse the pain and anger that had planted itself and grown so wild and abundant within her during her childhood. She looks down at her hands, the same hands that have lovingly cared for her children and husband. The same hands that had violently attacked Marabout Ahmed, and wished to tear him to shreds. There is too much wickedness in the world to escape.
Rising, she walks down the shore; the warm ocean water caresses her ankles, the hem of her nightdress catches salt and seaweed, and the wind slaps against her skin. She takes a step forward and a rush of excitement surges within her belly. She takes another step. And then another. This feels right. Submerged up to her knees, the strong current pulls and pushes her frail body about. She’ll walk out until the water reaches her neck and then she’ll let go. It will be easy. Her grief will subside and her sorrow will wash away. She takes another step forward but this time the tide pushes her back. She tries again but is met with an even stronger wave that pushes her back even farther; she has to catch herself from falling when suddenly someone grabs her arm.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Binta asks.
Maimouna spins around. “No, this is the only way.”
“Mama, you can’t do this again! You can’t hurt yourself.”
Maimouna stands there, unmoving, the waves licking at her thighs.
“Mama! Papa! Papa! Maam! Help! Help!”
“No one can hear us down here,” she says, wrenching her arm from Binta’s grip.
“I don’t care. Help! Ibrahimah, tell Mama to stop! Fatou, Papa!”
Maimouna looks past Binta as if someone is calling her name in the far distance.
“Mama! Wake up!” Binta yells, pulling and shaking on her mother’s arm.
Maimouna blinks several times and then looks down at Binta as if seeing her child for the first time. She looks out into the dark, roaring sea, its mystery looming within the night, then turns back and pulls her youngest daughter into a hug.
“I’m sorry, my baby. Come, let’s go.”
She does not need any more of a sign. Binta’s eyes are wild, tears streaming down her cheeks. Maimouna takes Binta’s hand and allows her youngest daughter to lead her away from the beach and up the hill to the house. Inside, Binta finds a dry nightgown and helps her change. Maimouna climbs into bed next to her mother, who is still asleep.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Maimouna whispers.
Binta curls up on the end of the bed at Maimouna’s feet. The red bird returns to the windowsill and snuggles down into his feathers. Maimouna drifts back to sleep but then awakens within minutes because of the brightness of the moon. She opens her eyes, ready to get up and shut the curtains, but the bedroom wall is missing, along with Binta, her mother, and the tiny red bird. The turquoise sky glimmers behind a bright-yellow sun. No wonder she can’t sleep. It’s daytime. Small eruptions of red fire burst forth from the sun’s surface and streak across the heavens. She reaches up and catches one of the flaming eruptions. It’s cool. Her heart settles down. The fire isn’t here to destroy her.
She floats up from the bed into the sky. A single tear escapes the corner of her eye and drops below. Her gaze follows it to the row of small houses lined up along the desert sand. When the teardrop reaches the surface, a small pond appears.
The cliff that the village sits upon, which saves them from plunging into the sea when the tide rises, looks small and insignificant. The steep hill they walk down is barely an incline. Maimouna frowns. She hates everyone in the village. She grabs at her wrist, but something is different. She looks down. The scar is gone. Her ascent comes to an abrupt halt and she begins to free-fall. The sea, black and stormy, crashing up against the cliff, rises higher than she’s ever seen before and threatens to engulf the village.
“No! Wait! Don’t let me go!” she screams.
Her hands grasp at air and she lands on a cloud. Her body lies deep within its cottony folds, bundles of softness enveloping her. The misty, cool air washes away her tears, the village below hidden beneath layers of condensation. She reclines her head and closes her eyes. She sees a small window ahead; she looks down at her feet but she cannot see them, as she is no longer in the cloud. This space is dark, dry, and without an up or down. The only way out is the window, and she wills it to come nearer until she is at its edge. The light inside is dull and yellow. The cement walls are painted tan and several cracks run the length of it. The faint whisper of a radio plays off somewhere in this world, so foreign to her. On the brown-tiled floor lies a thin blue foam mattress and on top of it lies the small body of a boy.
Maimouna leans forward to get a better look at the person. She tries to climb through the window but she cannot get the bottom half of her body to appear. She reaches her arms into the room, but the boy is too far to reach.
“Ibrahimah!” she calls.
The boy sits up, his back erect. His eyes pop open wide and his mouth opens wide in a silent scream. It is her child! She fights to get through the window, but something holds her back yet again.
“My baby, come to Mama. Come, let me take you home,” she cries.
Ibrahimah’s eyes fill with water and it spills over onto the floor, flooding the room. His mattress floats over toward the window, but not close enough for her to reach him. Ibrahimah reaches out his hand and opens his palm. In it lies a small tooth. In his gaping mouth, she sees his front tooth missing. She takes the tooth and then tries to grab his wrist, but the water begins to recede and the bed floats back out of reach.
Ibrahimah’s eyes close and with his hands reaching toward her he lies down in a fetal position, his lips trembling in a silent whimper as he sleeps.
Maimouna is engulfed in the black void, and when the light reappears, the cloud beneath her dissipates, leaving her once again in a free-fall. She screams, falling backward with her arms flailing about in the air. She reaches for the window, but it is gone and so she stops fighting, screaming, flailing, and allows her head to fall back and her arms to reach up toward the heavens and she lands on her bed with a soft thud. She turns her head toward the familiar sound of her mother’s steady breathing, the red bird looks up from the windowsill but is silent, and Binta is curled up into a ball at the foot of the bed. Maimouna attempts to replay in her mind what just happened, but she cannot fight her fatigue and, within an instant, returns back to a deep, dreamless slumber.
In the morning, Maimouna wakes up clutching her body, her brow furrowed. Her mother and Binta are gone. The morning sun paints the room in gold tones, bringing warmth and softness, easing her tight muscles. She unfolds her limbs and stretches. Something drops to the floor. She hangs her head over the edge of the bed and notices the basket of cowrie shells and roots sticking out from beneath the bed. The doing of her mother, of course. She searches the floor further and notices a mysterious object. Frowning, she picks it up and turns it around in her hand. It’s a baby tooth. She cocks her head to the side before her eyes light up and it all comes rushing back to her.
Ibrahimah lying sick and dying on that foam mattress on the floor. His tears. The water. Ibrahimah handing her his tooth.
“Are you ready?” the red bird says from the windowsill.
&n
bsp; “Yes. Are you?”
“I’m going to him now,” the bird says before flying away.
After the bird has gone, she rises from her bed and puts the tooth in the pouch she wears around her waist, stuffed with herbs and cowrie shells for protection and longevity. She sits by the window and takes a deep breath. Butterflies dance by while their colorful avian neighbors sing sweet ballads filled with happiness. She doesn’t remember hearing the birds and the crickets before. She had almost lost faith, and with it, her son and her family.
In the living room Maimouna finds her mother sipping a concoction of life-sustaining root tea. Fatou and the girls are busy with their morning chores before the heat makes it impossible to exert the energy to do a sufficient job.
“Do you want anything?”
Her mother looks up at Maimouna and smiles.
“No, my child, I’m just fine.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you.” Maimouna’s shoulders drop in shame. “My husband shouldn’t have had to contact you for me.”
“There is no need to be sorry. Your burdens are real, but so is your ability to free yourself from their chains, but we all need a little help at times. You are my daughter and as long as I have breath in my body, I will be here for you. Just like you are for your children.”
Her mother opens her arms and Maimouna finds herself nestled within a cocoon of love and strength.
“We are a family that survives the worst of trials. If you were not strong, you would not have survived those years of being treated like a slave and I would not have survived the truth of your experience.”
Maimouna looks up at her mother.
“To fail is not something to be ashamed of. Life is a series of failures, my child, and the greater the failure, the greater the spirit to rise up from the ashes.”
“But what of the evils in this world, it seems they search out the innocent? They seek to devour what is good. Like parasites.”
“It is true. There are parasites that roam every inch of the Earth. They’re greedy and ravenous and do not care for anyone but themselves. You have to find the courage to turn your head from them, even if you cannot remove yourself from their midst, physically, at first. But at some point, you will have to find faith, that you can free yourself both physically and spiritually, for as soon as you do the parasites will soon begin to devour themselves.”
Maimouna pours herself a cup of her mother’s tea and sips the hot, spicy drink as she ponders her mother’s wisdom. She was too afraid as a girl to run away from her aunt and uncle, even after she got older, because she did not know where to go. So, she waited until she could convince her uncle to bring her home. There are many paths to freedom, some quicker than others.
“Do you have something?” her mother asks.
Maimouna reaches into her pouch and pulls the tooth out.
“Am I crazy?” Maimouna asks.
“Would you prefer to believe that?”
Maimouna shakes her head no.
“That magic done to you has spilled over onto Ibrahimah and would have soon spread to your entire family, and village. You’ve witnessed more than most people can ever imagine. There are more layers and doors than we can count. Give me the tooth. I have something I need to do, before I give it back to you.”
She can be a victim or a warrior. She hands her mother the tooth. She will keep fighting.
The morning prayer call fills the room. Oblivious to the noise and movement around him, Ibrahimah doesn’t stir.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if we get sick too?”
Caca and Scarface look at Ibrahimah with distrust.
“You get sick yet?” Étienne barks.
Caca smirks and walks off. Étienne doesn’t want to leave Ibrahimah another day.
“Teacher, Ibrahimah is sick. He needs medicine.”
“Medicine,” Ahmed scoffs, “after all I do for you. Provide you with a home, clothes, and lessons of life. Now he sleeps all day and I lose money. And you say I need to buy medicine. Get out of my face. He’ll get over his laziness once he gets hungry enough.”
Ahmed returns to his bread and café. Four sugar cubes to a cup or he’s annoyed for the rest of the morning. Étienne shifts from one foot to the other.
“Teacher, Ibrahimah is not getting better. He can’t eat or drink. He throws up. His skin is hot.”
“You talk too much. Now, you’ll bring back your money and his. Go, before I whip you.”
Étienne looks on at the man with his balding head and greasy face. Disgust and anger set into Étienne’s expression.
“You’re still standing there?”
Étienne grabs his can and stomps off.
* * *
—
The next morning, Étienne picks his sore body up from the floor.
“You’re back in my face again. Last night’s whipping not enough for you?”
“Ibrahimah’s dead, he’s not breathing.”
Ahmed looks up with a start.
“What! What are you talking about, you little fool?”
Étienne stands motionless without expression.
Ahmed bolts out of his room, pushing past him. “Where is he?”
The boys move out of the way like the parting seas of Moses, creating a direct path to Ibrahimah’s crumpled body. Ahmed drops down to his knees and puts his ear to the boy’s nose. Shallow breaths can be felt, but just barely.
“He’s alive.” Ahmed wipes the sweat from his brow. “Boy, get up!”
Ahmed shakes Ibrahimah, but not even a whimper rises from the boy.
“Go next door and get Madame. Tell her a boy is sick and come immediately.”
Étienne runs next door. Diatu has her baby brother strapped to her narrow back. She sweeps the floor while her mother sits over a pail of dirty laundry.
“Madame, Madame! Come quick. A boy is dying!”
The older woman wipes her hands on her lap and follows Étienne next door, with Diatu on her heels. When they enter the room, all eyes turn to the intruders. The boys are not used to seeing women inside their space.
“Let me see.”
Ahmed moves to the side and allows the woman to look at Ibrahimah.
“How long has he been like this?” she asks, frowning at the pile of skin and bones on the floor.
Everyone looks to Étienne.
“Three days.”
“Three days! Has he eaten or drank anything?” the woman asks.
Étienne shakes his head no.
“You should have said something to me sooner! You stupid, stupid boys. I can’t afford this!” Ahmed yells.
Confusion washes across the room while Étienne’s angry gaze bores a hole in the back of Ahmed’s head.
“Well, what’s done is done. We know now. The boy needs a doctor immediately. Diatu,” the woman says, turning to her daughter, “go to your uncle and tell him to fetch the doctor, quick!”
“Étienne, go with her, make sure she relays the message properly,” Ahmed instructs with authority.
Étienne and Diatu walk in silence, weaving down several streets in Ouakam before coming to a small shanty. The hovel is fastened together with thick fisherman’s rope tied thoughtfully through drilled holes in the aluminum material.
“Uncle! Uncle!”
Diatu’s little brother wakes up and begins to wiggle on her back. He stares at Étienne.
“Uncle!”
“What?” a sleepy voice grumbles from inside.
“Mama needs the doctor quick. A boy is dying!”
Étienne stands quietly next to the girl. She’s the same height as he is, and just as skinny, but a year older than him.
“I’m coming.”
A man in his mid-fift
ies sticks his head out of the curtained entranceway and looks at his niece. His skin is leathery and wrinkled; his thick hair is not combed.
“Who is this?”
“Talibé.”
“I’ll go fetch the doctor now.”
Diatu’s uncle dips his head back behind the curtain and within several moments exits his place dressed in dark-blue pants, a dusty brown shirt, and old weathered leather sandals. The children watch as the man walks off in the opposite direction they came. They are sure to be asked whether he actually went or not. Étienne and Diatu hang outside the shanty.
“Should we wait for him to return?” Diatu asks.
“No.”
“Ahhh!” the baby shouts from Diatu’s back, reaching his fat little hand toward Étienne.
Étienne looks at the baby and pokes his finger at it.
“Ahhh!”
“Hush!” Diatu shakes her body from side to side.
The toddler frowns at Diatu then plops his head down against the nape of her neck while staring wide-eyed at Étienne. They start back toward home in a slow, easy manner. Without the doctor there’s no need to rush.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Diatu asks.
“I don’t know.”
“My mother says your marabout is no good. We hear you tell him the Talibé is sick, but he just yelled at you to go to work.”
Diatu looks at Étienne with expectant eyes, but he stares straight ahead.
“If that Talibé dies it will be your marabout’s fault, just like the other one. Everyone knows your marabout didn’t look for that boy while he was getting his heart cut out of his body. My mother says Marabout Ahmed might as well be killing the Talibé himself; he treats you all so bad. Why do you stay with him? I would run away. Anything is better than that.”