by Keisha Bush
“If you have money, then yes. But if you’ve got no money, then no cashews.”
The boys wave their hands dismissively, grumbling to one another. Étienne sets the bag of cashews in his can. He looks around at the people walking up and down the sidewalks, and in the street. A foreign woman walks by and the boys pounce on her with fervor. Étienne watches as they run up to the woman begging for money while she walks with her head held high so as to pretend she does not see them. The boys give up after she crosses the street.
“You look like animals begging,” Étienne says.
“Shut up. We’re working. What are you doing? Eating your nuts and doing nothing like Marabout,” Ousmane shouts. He is one of the new boys Marabout Ahmed has recently brought back to Dakar.
“Shut up!”
“Étienne is like Marabout!”
All the boys turn and look at him, their faces set in disgust. Étienne pushes the tall, lanky boy.
“Take it back!”
“Étienne is a greedy, dirty marabout!”
Étienne hits Ousmane in the face as his anger boils from the pit of his stomach and explodes into his chest.
“Stop!” Fatik yells, inserting himself between Étienne and Ousmane in an attempt to break them apart, but he gets knocked to the ground and trampled on. He screams out in pain as the two boys tumble over him, out into the street, in the way of moving traffic.
A driver screeches to a halt and the driver behind him slams on her brakes, her tires skidding across the asphalt. A heavyset man jumps out of the first car and pulls the boys apart.
“You want to get killed? I could have run you over!”
The cars piling up behind the ruckus begin to honk their horns. The boy attempts to throw another blow at Étienne but misses.
The man grabs Ousmane by the back of his neck and jerks him to the side. “You listen to me or I’ll whip you worse than your friend here!”
The boy wrenches his body away from the man, his lip bloody, shirt torn. Ousmane grabs his tomato can and walks away with squared shoulders.
“You’re not out here to act like fools,” the man says, still holding onto Étienne’s arm.
Étienne stares at the ground, pouting. The man releases him, gets back in his car, and takes off ahead of a wave of angry horns and shouts. The group looks from Étienne to the other boy to make sure they don’t try to go at it again. Once it is safe to assume the battle is over, the boys pounce onto the stalled traffic with renewed energy. The heavyset man backed up more than twenty cars.
“Étienne, where are you going?” Fatik asks.
“I have other things to do.”
Étienne wanders through the streets, his thoughts far from the noise and heat of the city. When Ibrahimah wakes up they will run away, maybe go to America or back to their village, anywhere but in Dakar with Marabout. At thirteen years old he’s old enough to take care of them both, and he knows better now than to go off with people like Pape and that liar of a boy, Lamine.
Car horns scream in the background as he steps out into traffic; people scowl at him when he bumps into them without an apology. His legs feel heavy, his chest tight. Unable to take another step he sits beneath a tree, places his can between his bent legs, and rests his head on his knees. Several birds sing a melody amongst themselves in tune with the sounds of passersby. The world is slipping away, but he has to hold on until Ibrahimah wakes. His cousin will not die. He cannot die. The five o’clock evening prayer call fills the air and Étienne picks his head up, eyes bloodshot. Taxi drivers pull over to the side of the road, rinse their feet, hands, and head with bottled water, then lay their rugs down to pray.
A tiny red bird lands near his feet. Étienne is tempted to kick it away, but the way the bird looks at him causes him to pause. The bird searches its wings for ticks and dirt. Étienne looks down into his red tin tomato can. Six hundred francs sits at the bottom, not enough to cover both his and Ibrahimah’s daily payment. There is no way he can raise a thousand francs a day. Only crippled kids, little girls, and Talibé under five make that kind of money, and Marabout is quite aware of this fact. Maybe he’ll stop by the neighborhood of Liberté Trois, though he wonders if showing up with enough money every night will make Marabout suspicious. Perhaps he’ll just take the beating tonight.
“Hey, boy.”
Étienne looks up to find an older man glaring at him; spit dribbles down the man’s chin and open sores litter his neck and face.
“Come here,” the man growls.
“Get away from me,” Étienne says, jumping up.
The man lunges toward him, grabbing his arm. Étienne kicks him and tries to wiggle out of his grasp. The man digs his long black fingernails into his skin. Étienne turns and bites down hard into the man’s forearm, causing him to yelp in pain. The man loosens his grip for a split second and Étienne wrenches away, running down the tree-lined street.
Running out of steam Étienne slips into a quiet alley between two houses and tries to catch his breath. He turns to see if he’s lost his pursuer and is shocked when his eyes meet the disfigured face of the man. He tries to shout, the sound traveling from the base of his belly up to his larynx, but it gets caught at the back of his throat.
The man bares brown, slimy teeth at him. How was he so close that Étienne didn’t hear him? Afraid to move, Étienne drops his eyes down to see the long black handle of a knife protruding from his body. He tries to cry, to breathe, anything, but only the rush of warm blood escapes, spilling out the corner of his mouth. His can drops to the earth. He reaches out to push his attacker away, but the man gathers Étienne’s falling body into an embrace. The little red bird appears behind the man’s head and it screams out in pain, fluttering its wings wildly, but the sound of its voice is too small to attract help.
Images of his village appear. The ocean hums somewhere in the background. The forever-luminescent sun above fades to dark. His last thought screams inside his head—Ibrahimah!
Gaining consciousness, Ibrahimah finds Diatu propped up on her elbows, staring at him.
“You whisper in your sleep.”
He raises his eyebrows at the interesting news.
“What are you whispering about?” she asks.
“Heaven,” he says.
“Do you know what it looks like?”
Ibrahimah smiles. Diatu’s face perks up.
“Tell me.”
“The sun shines like a fire, deep down below the sea. That is where we are from, and when we die, that is where we return.”
“You’re strange. Everyone knows heaven’s in the sky.”
“It’s not. People are too afraid to go deep where the light does not seem to exist. If they didn’t run away so fast, they would understand that they can see in the darkness.”
Diatu raises her eyebrows with intrigue.
“And what is in the darkness?”
Ibrahimah curls his lips into a small smile.
“Light.”
“I thought you just said it was dark,” Diatu says, rolling over onto her back to stare up at the ceiling.
“It is. But people can’t see the light because it’s so small. You have to stay in the darkness until you can see the light.”
“And what is the light?” Diatu asks, turning back to look at Ibrahimah.
“Heaven.”
“Can I get there without having to die?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Ibrahimah looks at Diatu, and for the first time she realizes that his eyes are jet-black.
“Did you know your eyes are black?” she asks, forgetting about his answer to her question.
“My papa calls them his black pearls,” Ibrahimah says, his chest filling with warmth at the thought of his father.
“Everyone wants blue and green eyes, but your e
yes are beautiful.”
“I know,” Ibrahimah says.
Diatu laughs. “You almost died; did you know that? And now you’re awake with the same cockiness of all the other Talibé boys; you’re a true Senegalese man.”
“Do you want to know the answer to your question?” Ibrahimah asks. He can feel the fatigue of talking creeping up on him.
“Yes. Wait. What was my question?”
“How to find heaven. Do you still want to know?”
“Yes, yes. Tell me.”
“Don’t be afraid of the darkness.”
“Like evil?” Diatu asks, incredulous.
“In the dark you can’t see what is there, or what is coming, but if you run away then you will never know. You will never see the light. When you stop being afraid, you will find the path to heaven.”
Diatu falls silent as she thinks about what Ibrahimah has just said.
“Mama didn’t believe me when I told her you would wake up,” she says, and gets up from the blue foam mattress on the floor.
“I almost died.”
Diatu turns before walking out of the room. “I know.”
Ibrahimah takes a deep breath; the air filling his lungs feels good. He stretches his stiff arms and legs, then rolls over and closes his eyes with exhaustion. When he wakes again the late-morning sun paints a golden river across the wall above him. Little flecks of lint waltz in the air. He stretches again, and this time his body is a little less stiff, then he squeezes his legs tight to hold his pee. He gets up and hobbles through the house like an old man, his muscles weak and unconditioned. In the bathroom he aims for the toilet but a thunderous sound frightens him and he misses. He adjusts his grip, moves his hand an inch, and tries again; the stream returns to the porcelain toilet bowl. He doesn’t like these fancy toilets; aiming for a hole in the ground is much easier. The loud sound thunders again and he walks to the backyard, where he finds Diatu, alone, bent over a pail of wet laundry.
“What’s that sound?”
Diatu looks up. “Gunfire.”
Multiple shots go off, one after another.
“Who’s shooting?” he asks.
“The police.”
“At the students?”
“No. The vendors at Sandaga refuse to shut down and go back to the village.”
“Why do they need to go back to the village?”
“Because the president wants Dakar to be more like Europe, and less like Africa.”
Ibrahimah is quiet a moment. Diatu picks up the transistor radio that was sitting at her feet and turns the volume up.
“Several government offices have been ransacked and destroyed by rioters. The president has decreed a state of emergency. Citizens are advised to stay inside until further notice. Sandaga Market is officially closed. The army has arrested hundreds of market vendors.”
The sound of the radio is too much for Ibrahimah; he walks over and turns the volume down. “It’s better in the village.”
“But you can’t make money in the village. Anyway, what do you know, you’re just a boy.”
“I know a lot.”
Ibrahimah looks up at the blue sky, then squats down on the back of his heels to rest.
“Where would we buy clothes and things we need for the house if vendors can’t sell their goods in the markets?” Diatu asks.
“The tailor makes clothes.”
“I like American clothes. Gucci, Prada, Nike. Those brands are too expensive at the stores.”
“Your clothes are fine,” he says. “You don’t need clothes from America.”
Diatu smirks at him.
“I’m tired,” Ibrahimah says.
“You know where the bed is.”
“Where’s Étienne?”
Diatu looks up with surprise in her eyes, then lowers them to the ground.
“I don’t know.”
“If you see him, tell him I said to come,” Ibrahimah says, rising.
Inside, he lies down on the thin foam mattress that feels luxurious in comparison to the cardboard mat he has slept on for so long in Marabout’s house. The smell of tear gas drifts across the city and into his nostrils. Hopefully Étienne is okay.
* * *
—
Later that night, as if reading Ibrahimah’s mind, Étienne steals into the room, bringing with him a bag of nuts and soda.
“Étienne!”
Étienne puts his finger to his mouth and points to Diatu, her breath even and steady. Ibrahimah’s smile fades.
“I don’t want to work for Marabout anymore. He cares only for money, and he lies,” Ibrahimah says.
Étienne hands the nuts to Ibrahimah.
Ibrahimah puts two cashews in his mouth and chews. The creamy nut mixed with salt melts on his tongue and coats his throat on its way down. Étienne hands him the soda and he washes it down, the fizz burning his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Dissent screams outside the window. The people of Dakar riot through the night.
When Ibrahimah wakes the next morning Étienne is gone, but Diatu’s mother is standing over him with a wide grin on her face.
“Little Talibé, you’ve awakened!” she says, arms folded across her chest, clutching her large bosom.
He offers her a tepid smile, not sure if the fact that she is aware of him being awake is a good thing, or bad. He hopes he hasn’t done a bad thing, but he didn’t even hear her so there was no way to know that she was standing at the door. Perhaps, she came every morning to stare at him, or perhaps Diatu told her mother that he had awakened, though he somehow doubts this. He’ll just have to be brave for what is to come, because he can’t go back and undo any of it at this point.
Next door, the boys are busy putting their cardboard mats away when Diatu’s mother enters the house. The room buzzes with whispered conversation and nervous glances toward Ahmed’s bedroom door. He has yet to show himself this morning.
“Marabout Ahmed!” she calls out in a singsong voice. “Good morning!”
Several moments pass before his door swings open, his body drenched in sweat.
“Why, there you are! What a beautiful day today will be, yes? I think so. Yes, yes. I’ve come to let you know I will need five thousand more francs.” She puts both hands on her hips and leans back on her heels. “That little Talibé sure has an appetite on him! I had to get him more medicine. I just knew he was going to wake up sooner or later.”
Smiling big, she looks around at the boys scattered across the room. Large, quiet eyes look back at her and then to Ahmed. Within a vacuum, void of air, light, or sound, Ahmed moves across the room and slaps the woman hard, across the face, the sound bouncing off the bare walls of the room, cracking the paint and shaking the cement foundation. She stumbles down to one knee and screams in shock, the shrill pitch piercing through the two-room house, threatening to break the glass of the lone window in the room. The boys move in a single motion, making space between themselves and the scene before them.
“Where is it? Who has taken it?” Ahmed roars, barreling past the woman on the floor into the mass of boys quivering before him.
His turban is missing, exposing a bald, tiny, egg-shaped head. Blank eyes stare at the raging madman towering over them, waving a long silky black sock.
“Who? Who has taken my money?”
The boys turn to one another, their eyes pleading that the guilty give themselves up and take the blame. Ahmed’s face swells with rage.
“I-I don’t know,” Scarface says quickly, looking around the room.
“Not me,” several voices mumble over one another.
“Someone knows. Yes, yes! You know, all right, because one of you stole it!”
“How dare you hit me!” the woman cries, rising from the floor.
“You!” Ahmed spins around. “You know who has done th
is! Who is the wicked dog that stole five hundred thousand francs from me? Five hundred! Who is it? Tell me, whore!”
He runs up to her, his bare feet slapping against the cold tile floor, grabs her by her hair, and drags her across the room. She screams out in pain while she tries to regain her balance. Fatik runs outside, and within moments several men enter the house just as Ahmed takes his cane and cracks Diatu’s mother across the back. She howls out in pain as the wood crashes into her body. Several women run into the house. The men bark orders to take Diatu’s mother out.
“How”—she struggles to catch her breath—“h-how dare you accuse me? After all I’ve done. You crazy fool!”
“You greedy whore! Give me back my money!”
Spit flies out of his mouth as Ahmed lunges toward Diatu’s mother. She screams in fear and stumbles back, falling to the floor. The two men closest to Ahmed grab his shoulders. The women hoist her up and rush her out of the house.
“Let go of me,” Ahmed growls, “and get out! All of you. Get out!”
Fatik and the other boys trample out of the house before he can say another word. Back home, Diatu’s mother shouts with fury.
“Never again! If another of these boys dies, it will be him to pay!” A scream bursts from her lungs, hands clenched tight, body stiff as it releases. “They should lock him up! Diatu! Fetch my brother, quick!” Another scream slips from her chest.
“Ibrahimah, it’s time for you to return to your marabout!”
Ibrahimah looks up with sunken cheeks from the floor, where he’s playing with a bottle cap. He wilts at the woman’s words.
Diatu’s mother’s eyes roll to the back of her head.
“That man is the devil!” she screams.
“But Mama,” Diatu intercepts, “he’s still not well.”
“You shut up and stay out of this! You know nothing! I want him out of my house. Out!”
The women, having backed off for a moment, usher her through the house toward the living room.
“Leave the boy for now, you’re angry. Shhhhh,” the elder woman of the group says.
“He had murder in his eyes! That man is evil; I don’t want to have anything to do with him! He probably killed those two Talibé of his. He’s a monster!”