by Keisha Bush
“Let the men calm him down first. If he did hurt the other two, could you live with yourself if he hurt this one? You saw his rage.”
Ibrahimah stops playing as he listens. Of course Abdoulaye has died, but who is this second boy they’re talking about?
Diatu’s mother doesn’t respond but obliges the older woman by sitting down. Diatu’s uncle arrives within the hour, along with Marabout Sa’id, who lives nearby, and Imam Farad, Ahmed’s associate from the nearby mosque. Sa’id is hunched over with age, but is still taller than everyone in the room at an even six feet. He has a long, gentle face and droopy eyes. Imam Farad is light-skinned and slim. He wears a kufi on his head and holds his wooden beads, constantly moving from one bead to another in succession.
Diatu brings a platter of rice and fish and three oversized cups of orange soda to the men. The elder woman relays her secondhand version of what transpired next door. The men listen in silence. Diatu’s mother is brought to lie down in her room and within moments is asleep. The men talk in hushed tones, long after the food is gone, before venturing next door.
“Salamalaikum, brother,” Imam Farad says, entering the house first.
Ahmed’s bedroom door is open but he doesn’t get up to greet them. He sits on the floor, his shoulders slumped, chin on his chest.
“Brother,” Imam Farad says again, clearing his throat. “Salamalaikum.”
“Malaikumsalam,” Ahmed mutters.
The men stand around waiting for something more, but Ahmed doesn’t lift his head. Marabout Sa’id, who is blind in one eye, resorts to sitting on the edge of the bed. Imam Farad grabs the lone chair in the room, sets it in front of Ahmed, and sits. Diatu’s uncle stands close to the wall, his hands clasped behind his back.
“We come to you in good tidings, my brother. To offer you support. Djibril’s sister tells him you are in distress. That you’ve been robbed.”
Ahmed lifts his head, his puffy face painted in defeat. It takes a moment before his eyes adjust and he can see the men in front of him.
“Yes, my brothers, I have. Five hundred thousand francs. My entire month’s salary. I am a man of meager means to care for my family in the village”—he pauses a moment—“and my Talibé. Only bad omens have come upon me for my servitude.”
“Brother,” the imam says, “you cannot speak in such ways.”
Ahmed closes his eyes, the rising and falling of his chest the only movements he makes. The three men exchange glances.
“Allah is good and looks after his sheep. These are bad times for all.”
“What does this have to do with me and my money?”
“My brother, what I’m trying to say is, prices are rising to levels never seen, families unable to buy rice, eggs, or bread. Petty theft and break-ins are spreading fast and wide throughout the city. The riots,” Farad says.
“But who would steal from a marabout? A teacher of Allah! Allahu Akbar!”
The elder marabout agrees. “God is the greatest.”
Imam Farad sighs heavily.
“Times are changing rapidly, my brother. Dissent cries out in our streets as hardworking men are pushed out of the city. Rumors are spreading fast of a long list of laws, created on a whim to appease foreign outsiders, being cast down from the president. The wicked do not offer a marabout exception in these times. We are all at Allah’s mercy.”
Ahmed looks into the faces of the men sitting in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The Talibé will be no more, sent back to their families,” the elder marabout says. He leans forward, wagging his finger at Ahmed and staring hard at him through his good eye. “It’s said that they will try the marabouts in court for harboring Talibé. Arrest us!” He starts coughing and wheezing. Diatu’s uncle, Djibril, steps over and pats him on the back.
“Arrest us? For what?! For teaching the words of Prophet Mohammed? Alhamdulillah, have mercy on those who do not see, for I cannot!”
Ahmed gets to his feet, his breath coming fast and quick. He waves his hands about, pacing in the tight space.
“When the winds shift toward the wicked, chaos prevails. The righteous have always suffered, my brother,” Imam Farad says.
Ahmed stops pacing and narrows his eyes at the three men in front of him. Sa’id looks at Ahmed with the fatigue of a man who has seen and heard it all. Imam Farad continues to move the beads through his fingers and offers no reaction at all.
“You lie! You try to distract me! That no-good whore next door has fed you these lies! She has stolen my money and is trying to get more. No marabouts will be arrested, and what does that have to do with my stolen money? Nothing! It has nothing to do with it. Get out! Get out of my house!”
“No? You must not read the paper, because everyone is talking about it. Look here at today’s Quotidien. Front page!” Djibril pulls the paper from his back pocket and hits it several times to make his point. “There are foreign organizations, NGOs, supporting this new faction against our traditions and yet you scoff at us. You call my sister a whore. You should be the first to send your Talibé back to the village!”
“I shall call the police and report you and your sister! I’m sure you were in on this scandal against me.”
“Call the police! I will ensure they take your Talibé and charge you with human trafficking. That’s what the foreigners are calling the marabouts now, human traffickers!”
“Trafficking? This is nonsense. I’m calling the police now. Get out!” Ahmed says.
“I would advise not,” Imam Farad interjects, standing up between the two men. “If this is all true it’s best to stay quiet, at least for now. You’ve already had two of your Talibé attacked, Ahmed. You would be a perfect example for the courts if these rumors prove to be true. Don’t give the devil fuel for his fire.”
Ahmed shakes his head, mumbling to himself. This cannot be. The floor is moving beneath his feet and he cannot catch his balance, he cannot seem to get enough air to fill his lungs.
“…but then it could be just talk. Every so often there’s an article in the paper claiming the Talibé suffer. They are boys! A boy needs a stern hand and a life that teaches him to be a man. Without the daaras these boys would sit in the village with no education, barely enough food to eat—burdens to their families! Our government cannot disregard hundreds of years of tradition because some foreigners, outsiders, are asking them to do so. It’s absurd!” the elder marabout says, his voice giving out, the anger too much for his frail nature.
When Ahmed’s attention returns to the roomful of men, the sun has bid adieu and night has fallen upon the landscape outside his window. Tired of the conversation, the elder man yawns.
“Well, it’s getting late, we must leave you with the blessings of Allah,” Marabout Sa’id says.
“I agree,” Farad seconds.
“Well, what about my sister and this madman?”
“It is you who is the madman!” says Ahmed.
“Brothers,” Imam Farad interjects once more, “can we agree that this is not the way to go? The enemy is not within this room.”
Ahmed grumbles under his breath.
“He should apologize to my sister!” Djibril says.
“Brother Ahmed is very sorry for his rash actions; he should not have struck out and hit an innocent woman,” Imam Farad says, looking Ahmed in the eyes.
“If your sister did not steal from me, then I apologize,” Ahmed says, looking at Djibril.
Djibril shifts from one foot to the other, and with his face set in a scowl walks out of the two-room house, slamming the door behind him.
“Can we leave you in peace, Brother Ahmed?” Sa’id asks, rising from the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, my brothers,” Ahmed mumbles. “May Allah guide you in all that you do.”
�
�Alhamdulillah,” the two men reply in unison.
With the visitors gone, the boys file into Ahmed’s room with their day’s earnings. He barely notices them as he reads the article in the Quotidien again and again.
The glare is blinding. Everything spins into a massive kaleidoscopic vision, causing Ibrahimah to grab hold of the fence for balance. His heart pounds hard and fast; he feels weak.
Several cars drive by, bald tires dipping and scrambling over the uneven road. The air stinks like sewage, exhaust, and sweat. A young man walks by yelling out the inventory of the cheap imported kitchenware he carries slung over his narrow, sweaty back—the president’s ban on street vendors has failed. A baby screams with colic from a house nearby, its voice strained and hoarse. A plane flies overhead, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
Ibrahimah looks back. Diatu stands there with sadness on her face as she blocks the entrance to his refuge. Her mother, still traumatized from yesterday morning, has made herself clear. He walks out to the sidewalk, his focus solely on placing one foot in front of the other. Not noticing the boys next door, spilling out from Marabout’s house, he sits down on the curb.
“Ibrahimah!”
Fatik is standing over him, smiling, and a moment later Étienne joins them. Ibrahimah’s heart skips a beat at the sight of his cousin.
“What are you doing out here?” Fatik asks.
“I have to go back to Marabout.” A heavy sigh escapes his chest. He rests his chin down onto his knees.
“Ibrahimah, we thought you weren’t going to make it. Allah blesses you with life, boy! You escaped death two times now!” Fatik says, patting Ibrahimah on his back.
Ibrahimah looks up at Étienne and then over to Fatik. Their clothes are dirty, their skin rough and scarred. The straps on Étienne’s jelly sandals have broken, the soles worn down. Ibrahimah remembers the day Aria bought them their shoes. How new they looked. How good he felt. Étienne’s big toe sticks out of a hole at the front of his sandal. Ibrahimah looks down at his own bare feet; he grew out of the jelly sandals before he fell sick. He has no idea what happened to his pants, sweater, or polo shirt. He pulls the oversized T-shirt down over his naked knees. Ibrahimah looks up with doubt in his eyes. He had hoped things would be different, but they seem worse.
“Well, let’s go before anyone sees you and tells Marabout,” Fatik says, looking over his shoulder. A few boys look their way but then take off in the opposite direction toward the Rue de Ouakam.
“I can’t do it. I can’t go back. I hate Marabout.”
“Shhhhhh, don’t say that here.” Fatik looks over his shoulder.
Fatik grabs Ibrahimah’s hand and pulls him up. They walk in the opposite direction, in hopes of avoiding the other boys. Ibrahimah knows he’s alive because of his mama, but he can’t understand why he’s still in Dakar.
“I have to go find breakfast. You coming?” Fatik asks.
Étienne shakes his head and leans up against a tree.
“No, we’ll stay here,” Ibrahimah says.
Fatik cocks his head to the side. “We?”
“Yeah, me and Étienne,” Ibrahimah says, motioning toward his cousin.
A somber look falls across Étienne’s face.
“Ibrahimah. Are you feeling okay?” Fatik asks.
“Why do you ask that?”
Fatik pauses a moment, a look of pain on his face. “Étienne is gone.”
“No, he’s not, he’s right here,” Ibrahimah says, pointing.
“He’s not. They found him a few days ago.”
“What do you mean?” Ibrahimah’s voice rises. He looks over at Étienne, but his cousin’s face is like stone.
“Étienne, tell Fatik he’s crazy. You’re right here.”
“Étienne is gone, Marabout said so. If you see him it’s because he’s come back to watch over you.”
Fatik looks at the empty spot Ibrahimah keeps pointing at and takes a step back.
“Étienne,” Ibrahimah cries, “tell him you are here, alive!”
Étienne shakes his head.
“But you brought me Coca last night.”
“You dreamed of your cousin, Ibrahimah. Étienne was killed.”
“You’re lying!”
Tears run down Ibrahimah’s face and he finds it hard to breathe. He bends over and grabs his legs to brace himself. “Étienne is not dead. He’s not!”
Fatik stands there awkwardly. He looks around, but the street is deserted. Ibrahimah walks over to Fatik and hits him. Fatik grabs his hand and holds it tight, then pulls Ibrahimah’s sobbing body into a hug. The sun disappears behind large storm clouds, returns, and disappears again before Fatik releases his embrace. When Ibrahimah turns to talk to Étienne, his cousin is gone.
“What will I do?” he sobs.
Fatik looks at him.
“Is Marabout taking Étienne back to the village?”
“No, he said he put Étienne to rest the same day they found his body.”
Ibrahimah lies down on the ground and curls up into a fetal position.
“Ibrahimah”—Fatik bends down and shakes his arm—“let’s go back to Diatu’s house; maybe her mother can help you.”
“She doesn’t want me. I need my mama.”
A woman walking by stops. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks.
“He’s okay, I think,” Fatik says, sounding less sure than he would like to believe.
The woman walks closer to Ibrahimah. “Petit, are you okay?”
“Étienne is dead. I can’t…Mama!” Ibrahimah sobs.
“Come, help me with him, he can’t stay here like this,” the woman says.
Fatik helps to lift Ibrahimah, but his legs won’t work and he falls back to the ground. The pain in his heart is too great. He doesn’t belong here. Étienne and Abdoulaye were good but now they are dead. Marabout is wicked and he is alive. He cannot understand why Allah would let this be. He scrunches his eyes shut, squeezing them tight, hoping this is all just another one of his bad dreams.
Ibrahimah sits up and brushes away the small pebbles and dirt from the side of his face and looks over at Fatik, who is eating a banana. The woman is gone. He must have fallen asleep.
“You want some?” Fatik asks.
Ibrahimah doesn’t have an appetite but takes a bite anyway.
“We should go to work soon,” Fatik says, looking down the empty street, the midmorning air still cool. “Marabout wants five hundred francs now.”
“I want to go back home to my family,” Ibrahimah says.
“Do you know how to get back to your village?” Fatik asks.
“I go to the depot and take a sept-place south to the Gambia and cross the river,” Ibrahimah says with authority in his voice. “After that I don’t know the way. You should come with me.”
Fatik looks over at Ibrahimah. “You’re crazy. Marabout would kill us if we tried to run away.”
Ibrahimah looks up at the sky; its intense blueness looks foreign to him. He remembers the tears in his mother’s eyes and touches his hand to his lips.
“You ready to work?” Fatik asks.
“I have no other choice.”
Approaching the house, they see Ahmed dragging a suitcase out the front door.
“Marabout,” Ibrahimah yells out, but the man doesn’t turn around and instead climbs into the back of a taxi that immediately takes off. Ibrahimah’s face falls. A man is walking toward him but Ibrahimah doesn’t recognize him.
“Salamalaikum, ton-ton,” Fatik says.
“Malaikumsalam, Talibé.” The man looks at Fatik quizzically.
“Where is Marabout going?”
“Well, I was going tell you boys this evening once you returned. He has to go to his village and then Mali. He’ll return in two weeks.”
“What
about Étienne?” Ibrahimah asks.
“Who?”
“The boy who was just killed,” Fatik says.
“Oh, what about him?”
“He is my cousin.” Ibrahimah’s eyes burn with tears.
“Well, he’s with Allah now in Paradise.”
“Thank you, ton-ton. May God be with you.” Fatik bows and pulls Ibrahimah away.
“Address me as Marabout Sa’id. Be sure to have your money tonight,” the older man calls out after them. “Marabout Ahmed gave me specific instructions on how much I should have by his return. I’m to beat any boy who returns short.” He pauses a moment. “I plan to bring my nephew to do the whippings. I don’t have the energy for it. Warn your brothers,” he says, and wags his finger.
Ibrahimah turns to glare at Marabout Sa’id. He’s done with the beatings.
“Marabout is traveling to get more boys,” Fatik says.
Ibrahimah glowers in the direction of the departed taxi.
“Pssst.”
Ibrahimah sits up and finds Étienne sitting crossed-legged next to him.
“Étienne, you’ve come back!”
Étienne puts his finger up to his lips and motions for Ibrahimah to follow him. Everyone, including Marabout Sa’id, is still asleep. Ibrahimah’s eyes light up.
“What is it? Where are we going?”
Étienne shakes his head. He is not going to tell him in advance. Ibrahimah rubs his eyes; he is happy to have Étienne with him—even if no one else can see his cousin, Ibrahimah knows he is real. They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk along the dark streets. A rooster screams off in the distance.
“Will you always come back to be with me?”
Étienne shrugs.
“What happened to you? How did you die?”
Étienne shrugs.
They walk along an abbreviated section of the coastline that is not yet overtaken by construction as the sky turns from midnight blue to a cool gray. The city slowly comes alive with the rising sun, on cue. Ibrahimah looks into the cars both old and new along the road. A female passenger tosses her head back in laughter. A young girl in the backseat of a car presses her round face against the window. The colors of the ensembles the women wear jump out at Ibrahimah in bright blue, purple, pink, yellow, gold, and red. He drinks in each color, his palate alive with the different textures and varieties. How long had he been asleep? Walking past the high fence of the French-Senegalese Bilingual School, the period bell rings and the rustle of students rushing to class floats into his ears. He imagines himself in the midst of their carefree chatter. He has so many questions for Étienne but he doesn’t know where to begin; his mind is overwhelmed with the bustle of movement going on around him.