No Heaven for Good Boys
Page 31
Ibrahimah opens his eyes, his chest bereft of air. He peeks over to his left and sees nothing but gravel and the wheels of the car he slept behind. He steals a glance over to his right and is met with a thorny shrub pricking at his skin. He breathes a sigh of relief. A dream. It was just a dream. He is no longer at the mercy of the devil, but a half-day’s journey away from Saloulou, and his family.
Finding the correct transportation depot in Dakar, and getting a driver to sell him a seat in a sept-place took half the day, and then the eight-hour drive down to the border took more than twelve hours, according to the other passengers, because the station wagon broke down on the uneven dirt road that led to the Gambian border, and they had to wait for a new vehicle to come and fetch them. The passengers argued for a refund, but it did not happen. By the time they got to the Gambian border, Ibrahimah was exhausted but he managed to slip past border control by walking close to an elderly woman and hiding behind the folds of her large boubou. By the time she realized he was next to her they were on the Gambian side of the border, where he scooted away in search of a place to sleep for the night, hidden from any and everyone.
The sound of Earth’s creatures waking weighs heavy on his shoulders; the night is so much more peaceful, and safe. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, to go over the next set of steps in his journey, when someone kicks his foot. He jumps up ready to fight, but is surprised when he finds who it is standing idly across from him.
“Étienne?” Ibrahimah cocks his head to the side, then rushes over to the boy with open arms. Holding his cousin in an embrace, he catches a glimpse of a tiny red spot off on the horizon. He wonders if that is his bird, but the thought leaves him as he tears himself away from the body of his lost friend and confidant. He approvingly looks Étienne up and down.
“You found me!”
Étienne offers a coy smile.
“Where’ve you been?”
Étienne uses his hands to make a sweeping motion.
“Are you back for good?”
Étienne nods.
“They said you were dead, but you are here again and we can touch each other,” Ibrahimah says, throwing his arm up across his cousin’s shoulders.
Étienne does not respond.
“Do you remember when I couldn’t touch you?”
Étienne nods again.
“Can you talk?” Ibrahimah asks, eyeing him suspiciously. His arm falls from Étienne’s shoulders.
Étienne lifts his neck and points to the wound that has been sewn up rather badly.
“What happened?”
Étienne makes a stabbing motion into his neck.
“Are you staying for good this time?”
Étienne nods in the affirmative and the two boys fall into their old familiar stride along the dirt road.
Ibrahimah’s mind is overcome with a deluge of questions of who attacked Étienne and was he really dead, but something stops him and he becomes somber. The last time he met someone who was in a place he was not supposed to be it turned out to be the devil himself, and his life took a terrible turn because he was too trustful. Ibrahimah glances over at the boy that looks like his cousin but wonders what it is that truly walks alongside him. Étienne could be an angel sent back to him, or another version of the devil in sheep’s clothing. Once he makes it home, he will decide what needs to be done. He is not a child, like he was that evening on the beach so long ago. He knows better this time.
Author’s Note
According to Human Rights Watch, “More than 100,000 talibés living in residential daaras across Senegal are forced by their Quranic teachers, also known as marabouts, to beg daily for money, food, rice or sugar. Thousands of these children live in conditions of extreme squalor, denied sufficient food and medical care. Many are also subject to physical abuse amounting to inhuman and degrading treatment.”
I encountered Talibé daily during the four years I worked and lived in Dakar, and was profoundly affected by the boys I got to know. What I learned of their joys and their pains has never left me, and I am grateful that fiction allows me to share some of those feelings with readers, many of whom may have never traveled to magnificent Senegal.
For more information, see “ ‘There Is Enormous Suffering’: Serious Abuses Against Talibé Children in Senegal, 2017–2018,” Human Rights Watch, June 11, 2019, https://www.hrw.org/report/2019/06/11/there-enormous-suffering/serious-abuses-against-talibe-children-senegal-2017-2018.
To donate and learn more about work being done to help Talibé children in Senegal, check out the following organizations:
Maison de la Gare at mdgsl.com
Empire des Enfants at empiredesenfants.sn/en
Samu Social Senegal at samusocialsenegal.com/en
For the Talibé and vulnerable children everywhere
Acknowledgments
I am thankful to have had the opportunity to live in West Africa, for the friendships I forged while there and the discovery that we are a global village, connected in more ways than one. To the Talibé boys in Senegal who bravely forge ahead each day, unwilling to give up hope for a world that will allow them to be children, and see them for the beautiful deserving beings that they are.
I am forever indebted to John Reed, who saw the potential in this story in its very rough first draft, and who helped me realize my own potential as a novelist. You are my hero. To Luis Jaramillo, who has been there for me over the years with kindness, understanding, good advice, and patience. To John Freeman, who has been that person I can always turn to, regardless of where he is in the world. I want to send a special thank you to my agent, Ryan Harbage, who allows me to be myself and who believes in me without waver—we make a great team and I would not be here without you. To my editors extraordinaire, Chayenne Skeete and Caitlin McKenna, who took me in with love and helped me to realize that there are genuine and nice people in the world and that this process does not have to be painful; thank you for your generosity and openness. To Susan Kamil, who would not let this book fade to the sidelines, and who moved literal mountains to ensure this story would have its day, you will be forever missed—may you rest in peace.
To the entire Random House team, who brought this story to life in the midst of a global pandemic. You are amazing. Thank you.
To my early writing group: Natalie Rogers, Minette Greenberg, Joyce Jacobson, and Lenore Grandizio, who listened to me read the very first pages as I wrote them; and to the many friends who have heard me talk about the story over the years, who have read various iterations, who printed hard copy drafts when I had no printer and no money, who motivated me to push outside of my box, and who have loved me even when I may not have been at my best, I appreciate you. There are many names but I’d like to offer special thanks to Fatma Abdullahi, April Jackson, Anna Konte, Duarte Geraldino, Olivia Newman, Chanelle Elaine, Zelle Bonney, Wandie Bethune, Alexandra Boggs, Leia Menlove, Andreea Scarlat, Betsy Ho, Erin Shigaki, Justin Sherwood, Lori Lynn-Turner, David Lehman, Gina Sharpe, Wilson Hughes, Michael Vincent Miller, Cindy Spiegel, and Emi Ikkanda.
I’d like to thank the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, the Virginia Center for The Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council Workspace Residency, and VONA, with a special shout out to David Mura and Junot Diaz, for offering me space and time to write and rewrite drafts of this story. I also thank The New School for being a mecca of support for its students, and the creative writing program staff for the relentless work that they do to support budding writers.
To my mother, Lunita, and my siblings Kalimah, Keith, LaDawn, Walid, and Salim. And to my great-grandmother, Mary-Ann Ebanks, who unwaveringly watches over me and who is always present in my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KEISHA BUSH was born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. She received her MFA in creative writing from The New School, where she
was a Riggio Honors Teaching Fellow and recipient of an NSPE Dean’s Scholarship. After a career in corporate finance and international development that brought her to live in Dakar, Senegal, she decided to focus full-time on her writing. She now lives in East Harlem.
Twitter: @KeishaB
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