by Keisha Bush
“Shut up! You talk too much.”
Étienne pushes the skinny girl away from him. The baby starts crying as she stumbles, catching herself just in time before falling.
“Stupid Talibé! I could have fallen. You all deserve to die!”
She folds her arms across her chest and doubles her pace, walking up ahead and looking back every once in a while, to make sure Étienne isn’t coming after her. She makes it back to the house first and the room is cleared of the other boys. Her mother is bent over Ibrahimah.
“Did you find your uncle?”
“Yes. He left to fetch the doctor.”
“Good. Talibé, get your marabout. We’ll move the boy to my house, where I can look after him while I finish my business and wait for the doctor.”
Étienne goes into the bedroom of his teacher and the man grunts at him in acknowledgment.
“Madame says—”
“I heard her. Help her move him.”
Étienne returns to the crumpled mass on the floor.
“Help me lift him up,” the woman says.
Ibrahimah is light enough for the large woman to pick him up, but Étienne sits his cousin upright, then hoists his small body up. The woman makes a big to-do about balancing Ibrahimah, but her dramatics create more chaos then help, causing Étienne to almost topple over under the weight of his cousin.
“Come this way.”
Étienne follows the woman to the back of her house, taking each step with caution.
“Put him here.”
She points to a pail of water.
“I was going to do laundry, but the boy is disgusting. He needs to be bathed. Hold him up while I pull this shirt off him.”
Étienne does as he is told. She grabs a bar of soap and lathers Ibrahimah up. His head flops to the side like a newborn, his breath faint.
“Boy, grab that towel from over there. Diatu, when I’m done here, dump this water, refill the pail, and start the wash.”
Thirty minutes later, Étienne sits down on the edge of the blue foam mattress on the floor, staring at the wall, Ibrahimah lies unconscious behind him. Étienne’s mind wanders toward memories of his family back home in the village, the images of his parents and siblings fading more and more with each passing year—he nods off to sleep.
“What’s happening in there?” Diatu’s mother yells from the back of the house.
Étienne opens his eyes and looks around him.
Diatu stands in the doorway, her hands on her narrow hips. She rolls her eyes. “It was that ugly Talibé screaming. He’s crazy.”
“Girl, shut up and wash these things here like I told you to do earlier. Talibé! Come here,” the woman demands.
Within seconds Étienne is in the doorway.
“Tell your marabout I need to use you today to help me.”
Étienne lingers in the doorway.
“Diatu, go next door and tell the marabout what I just say.”
“Talibé, what is your name?”
“Étienne.”
“Okay. Étienne, I need you to take this down the road past the big tree and over the bridge. At the boutique, take a left and go past the restaurant; it’s the third house down with the yellow door. There is only one house with a yellow door on that road. Only a fool can miss it. Ask for Madame Aminata. Tell her I need two sacks full. You hear? Two sacks! Don’t come back with no less. Now go.”
Outside he sees Diatu bouncing back toward her house. When she spots him looking at her, she sticks out her tongue. He looks up at Marabout’s house and walks off down the street. The sun illuminates the black asphalt and he can feel its heat through the soles of his plastic jelly sandals. The paint on old cars glistens, tricking the eye for a moment, causing one to think they are new. He follows the directions Diatu’s mother gave him, and when he arrives Madame Aminata looks down at him, heaves a large sigh, and rolls her eyes toward the heavens.
“Now she has someone else coming to fetch my goods with no money in hand. Are you her son?”
“No.”
“Nephew?”
“No.”
“Who are you then?”
“Étienne.”
“Who do you belong to?”
“Marabout Ahmed.”
“A Talibé, eh?” she says with raised eyebrows.
“Yes.”
“Talibé don’t run errands in the day for women, what are you doing here?”
“My cousin is sick.”
“He a Talibé too?”
“Yes.”
“What is he sick with?”
Étienne shrugs. Madame Aminata is tall and thin. She wears a slim ankle-length dress, her angular face glistens in the sunlight, and her wig is on backward.
“Is he very sick?”
“Yes.”
“That is why she sends you. Come.”
Étienne follows her inside. A small skylight three stories up lights the dark, cool hallway leading into the kitchen. The fragrant scent of burning incense fills Étienne’s nostrils. The woman disappears behind a door and emerges twenty minutes later.
“Here, take these. Tell her I’ll give to her today but next time she pays me my money or nothing.”
She hands Étienne the sacks, now filled to the top. His long, skinny arms struggle with the weight.
“Swing one across your shoulder, then the other. Here, let me show you.”
The woman swings each sack over one of his shoulders and onto his back.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Étienne walks out of the door hunched over beneath the weight. With the heat gaining momentum and no tree coverage, sweat dribbles down every porous area of his dry skin. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other and wills his body to make it back.
“Étienne!”
He looks over and sees Fatik standing in front of a boutique.
“Come! Help me with this.”
Fatik runs over and takes the second sack from Étienne.
“Put it on your back, it’s easier.”
Fatik swings the sack a few times and it lands awkwardly onto his back. He leans forward to balance it while he walks.
“Why are you carrying these big bags?”
“I’m helping the madame next door. Ibrahimah is there waiting for the doctor.”
“He’s alive? He looked dead this morning.”
“Maybe. The doctor comes soon.”
“Good.”
“Where are the others?”
“On the main road but I’ll meet them after. I wait for a man I met yesterday, he told me to meet him at the boutique today and he’ll give me money.”
“Oh.” Étienne raises his eyebrows in curiosity.
“He hasn’t come yet, but I’ll wait a bit more.”
Fatik stops at the edge of the dirt yard in front of Diatu’s house.
“Bring the sack inside.”
“It’s okay?”
“Yes, come.”
Fatik follows Étienne around the back of the house into the small backyard, where they find Diatu and her mother. The boys heave the sacks onto the ground with relief.
“What did Madame Aminata say?”
“She is still waiting, and won’t give to you again.”
“Yes, yes,” Diatu’s mother says as she waves her hand dismissively, “this will last a month for sure. I will have something for her then.”
The boys stand waiting for further instructions, but the woman waves them away. Étienne leads Fatik into the room with Ibrahimah. They stand side by side staring down at the unmoving body.
“Well, I’m going,” Fatik says, breaking the thick silence. “I don’t want to miss that man if he returns with the money he promised.”
“
See you later.”
They slap hands. Étienne sits down on the floor and leans his back up against the wall. He wakes with a start to the sound of a man’s voice.
“Boy, get up and move for the doctor.”
An old wrinkled man hobbles over to Ibrahimah. Diatu’s uncle helps him sit down on the floor and the old man puts his face close to Ibrahimah’s nose to listen to his breathing.
“Has he vomited or had diarrhea in the last hour?” the old man whispers into the space.
Étienne shakes his head no.
“No, the boy hasn’t eaten in days. He’s been like this for some time, as far as I can see,” Diatu’s mother says, clicking her tongue and giving her brother a knowing look.
“Bring me my sack. Also, I need a bowl and some water in a cup.”
“Diatu,” her mother says.
The old man feels Ibrahimah’s stomach for a while then turns Ibrahimah over, pulls the oversized T-shirt up, and examines his rectum.
“He has worms.”
Once he has the bowl and cup from Diatu, the old man takes a mixture of ground powdered herbs from several plastic baggies and puts them into the bowl. He mixes them together, then drops several small twigs inside, lights them on fire. When the flame dies, he waves his hand over the bowl so that the roots and herbs smolder. He places the bowl next to Ibrahimah’s head; a mixture of familiar and foreign scents fills the nostrils of everyone in the room. Whenever the smoke starts to die out, he relights the mixture.
“Bring me another bowl.”
“Diatu.”
He digs through his sack and pulls out an old dirty plastic container. He pops the lid off, and a thick black substance that looks like bread dough sits inside. He scoops out a bit with wide, gnarled fingers and lops it into the second bowl. He opens two bottles of brownish dirty liquid and mixes the substances together into a heavy dirty gray shake.
“Hold him up a bit; he needs to drink this over the next five days until it’s gone. Just one sip for now is sufficient to get things started.”
Diatu’s uncle sits Ibrahimah’s lifeless body up as the old man puts the liquid into Ibrahimah’s mouth. They tilt Ibrahimah’s head back and the liquid slides down his throat.
“Turn him over,” the old man says.
With a different plastic bottle, with a long thin nozzle, he squirts something into his anus. Ibrahimah groans.
“Find something to put under him. The worms will come out and we need to kill them.”
Diatu walks away with her face scrunched up in search of something to catch the worms. The old man reignites the fire and waves the smoke into Ibrahimah’s face. Everyone begins choking.
“It stops the vomiting and spasms,” the old man says.
Within minutes something begins to move around Ibrahimah’s butt. The old man flips him over and bends his short legs in toward his stomach. Several live worms wiggle and squirm out, looking for a refuge. The worms are scooped up into a plastic bag. Bile escapes, along with several more worms. The process goes on for another fifteen minutes until nothing else comes out.
“Will the boy need more?” Diatu’s mother asks.
“No, but if there are any more worms, nestled deeper in his system, the liquid will kill them. In another day begin to give him the milk from rice and mix this powder in it and make him drink a little like we just did. He has to rest for some time before he is strong again.”
“He will stay here with me.”
“Good,” the old man says.
“Doctor, please sit in the living room a moment while I fetch you something from the boy’s marabout.”
The doctor follows Diatu’s uncle into the living room.
“Talibé, go to your marabout, tell him we need to pay the doctor now. Ibrahimah is very ill. Close to death. We also have medicine for other boys, to ensure they don’t get sick like Ibrahimah. Go now, the doctor waits.”
Étienne finds Ahmed on his knees in prayer.
“The doctor gave Ibrahimah medicine and now he waits.”
Ahmed grunts at Étienne. After several silent minutes he reaches under his mattress and pulls out the long black stocking. He hands three bills to Étienne, puts the stocking full of money down beside him, and returns to his prayer. Étienne folds the money into his hand and walks away. Before walking out of the house his eye catches both his and Ibrahimah’s red tomato cans sitting up alongside the wall alone. He peers inside his can but it’s as empty as he expected it to be. Inside Ibrahimah’s can the lone little baby tooth sits. Étienne grabs the tooth. Next door he gives Diatu’s mother the money. She looks down at the franc notes and sucks her teeth. She pockets two of the notes and walks into the living room and hands the other to the doctor.
“Thank you, Doctor, for everything; we’ll call you if the boy gets any worse.”
The old man bows his head in thanks and struggles to get up from the sunken couch. Diatu’s uncle offers the older man his arm and they walk out together.
“That cheap bastard, he should be stricken down by Allah himself…” Diatu’s mother mumbles under her breath, and walks out of the back door.
Étienne stands over his cousin and watches him. Ibrahimah’s brow is furrowed in pain. He takes the tooth from his pocket and places it into Ibrahimah’s hand, closing his cousin’s fingers tight around it.
“Keep the tooth for good luck,” Étienne whispers.
“Talibé!” Diatu’s mother calls out.
With one last look at his cousin, Étienne walks away in search of what it is that the large annoying woman wants now.
The days flow in and out like a hazy dream. Ibrahimah still hasn’t woken up and Diatu’s mother doesn’t seem quite as optimistic as she was before about his condition. It’s been three days since Étienne has seen Ibrahimah, as every time he returns in the evening all the lights are out in Diatu’s house.
Étienne squints against the sunlight. He stands waiting for a petit Gambian to decide whether or not he’s going to give him money. He would rather be in Ouakam with Ibrahimah.
“How long have you been a Talibé?”
Étienne shifts from one foot to the other.
“You like being a Talibé?”
“Are you going to give me money or not?”
The guy searches through his pockets and offers him a fifty-franc coin.
“Thanks.”
The man hooks his fingers into his suspenders and settles back on his heels. “You know, young man…”
Étienne walks away. La Corniche, the coastline that runs the length of Dakar, has recently been sold off to the highest foreign bidder to raise money for the country. The beach, which is open to everyone, will soon to be fenced off for the exclusive use of the new hoteliers’ wealthy clientele. Étienne cuts his eye away from the construction and spits on the ground. Everything is falling apart. If you don’t have money, then you are nothing in this world. If this is the price he pays to go to heaven, he would rather go to hell.
“Étienne!”
He doesn’t look up.
“Let’s go get lunch.”
“I’m fine, go ahead without me.”
Fatik puts his hand on Étienne’s shoulder but he shoves it off. “Come on, I think there’s lots of traffic over by Casino Sahm.” Fatik looks around at the empty coastline barren of traffic and people.
The sight of the tattered group of boys angers Étienne. He slows his pace, wanting to make distance between himself and them, but Fatik slows down too.
“Marabout wants five hundred francs now? It’s impossible!” a short boy in the group squeaks, his voice going through the change.
Fatik shakes his head. “Marabout is greedy. He’s worse than the rich people. At least they give us money sometimes.” He turns around. “What do you think, Étienne?”
Étienne kicks at a
stone on the ground; he looks over toward the ocean, but his eyes meet a half-erected building, its innards showing signs of halting construction. He scowls.
“Marabout cares only about himself,” the squeaky boy says.
Several boys voice their agreement. Something catches the eyes of the group and the boys take off running, leaving Étienne behind.
Walking by a street vendor, Étienne snatches a large bag of cashews while the woman is not looking. The creamy taste of the five-thousand-franc bag of nuts satisfies something inside him. He walks along, staring at the people ignoring him; walking the streets day after day to feed Marabout and make Marabout rich. Ibrahimah had been right all along, but Étienne had convinced himself that this life of a Talibé would be worth it in the end because his parents would be happy and there was a real reward waiting for him. Allah would bless his sacrifice. He knew boys who were tied with chains at night like dogs for being short their money, or who were locked out and forced to sleep in the street every night and beaten even when they weren’t short, or touched in bad places all the time, every night. He and Ibrahimah had it bad, but not as bad as it could be. Plus, he had no other choice. No place to go. The old man who was his friend, and teacher, made the evenings at Marabout’s house bearable for all those years, and when Ibrahimah arrived to Dakar, he had someone to think about other than himself. But now the old man is dead, Moustapha has left for America, and Ibrahimah might die. He is right back where he started when he came to Dakar, alone. He has been asleep all these years, it’s time for him to wake up.
“Where’d you get those?” Caca asks him as Étienne approaches the group.
“I bought it.”
“Can I have some?”
“No, get your own”—Étienne pauses a moment—“or pay me. How much money you got? I’ll give you some for fifty francs.”
Caca assesses the few coins he has in the palm of his hand. The cashews look really good and even the smallest packets, at five hundred francs, are too expensive to buy. He hands Étienne the money. Five cashews drop into his open palms. With the first bite of cashew the smile on Caca’s face proves it was worth it. He runs off to the others in the group up ahead.
“Étienne! Give me some,” several boys demand eagerly.