Eternal Journey

by Ben Dosso

  “You can own my whole body, otherwise I don’t have a penny for you, khoya. If I could sell you right now to buy a piece of bread, I would do it,” replied Samba Diallo.

  “I would slice your head up if you dare say that again, mesquin,” said aggressor.

  “Do not call me, mesquin, otherwise you’d see my punch up,” said Samba Diallo.

  “Hein! Little asshole, if you dare challenge me on my territory, you would pay for the consequences,” said the aggressor, brandishing a machete.

  “Handek khoya (be careful man), I am not strong enough to challenge but if you touch one of my hair, you’d know who I am,” said Samba Diallo, always ready to fight back.

  Then, a fierce fight got triggered in this chock-a-block crumbling buildings. Samba Diallo got a stab on his left vertebral column and the aggressor got a bleeding nose. “I’d let you go today because I’m suffering from this fatal stab I got on my vertebral column, but you better keep me in mind because I’ll never ever forget you,” Samba Diallo said furiously, leaving the curious spectators.

  The next day, the aggressor ran towards Samba Diallo and said, “You were aggressed yesterday, correct?”

  “Yes, I was violently aggressed yesterday evening. So?” said Samba Diallo.

  “It was me. You know why?” said the aggressor.

  “No, I don’t,” said Samba Diallo.

  “Welcome to my sector. You’re my friend from today until death. Look over there, it is my older brother, Mehdi, who’s selling ingredients for sauce. In case you need some, please come over and get some,” said the aggressor, going to his brother’s place.

  Pending the processing of his asylum application, Samba Diallo stressed out the charitable organization that welcomed him to find a public school for him. Because many sheets that were provided to him by these different international organizations sometimes crumpled when folded, and could not allow him to go back to any public school. This time, Samba Diallo’s long-awaited wishes to maintain his studies on a solid wheel were heard by Mustafa who had grown up in Europe. Mustafa decided then to sign Samba Diallo up in his culinary school among a hundred children left behind by the society. Mustafa did not want to know him nor see him before. He rather wanted to help Samba Diallo and participate actively in the education of this teen. But the culinary school was in another city, Salé, near Rabat. About 20 minutes away by a taxi. More than an hour of walk. And Samba Diallo used to cross Rabat to join Salé (city) on other side of river Bou Regreg every day. But, Samba Diallo’s first time at this culinary school was a seismic atmosphere. Ebola epidemic virus was dramatically ravaging in West Africa. And when other teens were looking at him, they thought automatically about the Ebola virus. Samba Diallo was clothed and swollen by the coat of a veteran that a bodyguard had given to him for cold. Everyone used to look at him as if he was a big doll fallen from the sky sitting upstairs. Matter of fact, Samba Diallo was a partridge with hard legs in a family farm of yellow ducklings. All these teens thought they were superior to Samba Diallo. And Samba Diallo did not care about that matter.

  Culinary School was the only chance for Samba Diallo to leave the street because there was less opportunity such as Takaddoum El Youssoufia, J5 etc. in many cities. And it was easy to see women in needs in these crowded neighborhoods knocking on the broken doors and asking, “Toi, veut travail?” using the broken French. (Do you want work?) Which meant, do you want to have sex with me? If anyone answered back with a question, “What does toi, yeut travail mean?” it was a sign that meant the person was new in the ghetto.

  Prostitution is illegal; one cannot see these women in the streets as in other countries, but it took to live in the ghetto to know that this evil was legal the whole night. And when one heard “c’est tombé” or “c’est free” while it was not dinner time yet, meant someone’s mother had come to sell herself to feed her kids. It was heart-wrenching for Samba Diallo when a woman who was older than his genetic umbrella hopelessly told him that she was doing it to feed her kids, while he was another mother’s son who was figuring out how to feed himself. Every morning, Samba Diallo was waking up with empty stomach to go to class, knowing that he did not want to be a blue cordon. Cuisine was not his big passion, likewise pastry. There were only these two choices. So, Samba Diallo decided then to take the pastry class not to feel alone in the violence.

  Meanwhile, Eid-al-Adha, also called the “Festival of Sacrifice,” the second of two Islamic holidays celebrated worldwide each year, and considered the holier of the two, honoring the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God’s command, was coming up slowly. And the cattle markets were filled with sheep and were also bleating almost in all the yard. However, the culinary school’s principal had given some gifts for holiday to all his students. But Fatima wanted more than what she got and wondered if Samba Diallo would give his to her. Samba Diallo flatly refused to give her his gift. Fatima was furious. She became redder than before. Her slave had just disobeyed her. She felt reduced at zero degree. In her eyes, Samba Diallo was incarnating the old century pictures of Bilal, the first Muezzin and slave. And she said something that hurt Samba Diallo deeply. She said, “Dirty son of negro, ancestors cursed by the sun gods. That’s the reason why you are also burned such as you are.” She said that with satisfaction.

  A few youths were shocked and encouraged Samba Diallo to react. “Come on, react fat shit, have a heart in your chest instead of an anus,” said a crowd of teens and another wave of mockeries followed.

  Another response came up from the crowd. “Go away, band of tramps, I won’t react badly under your influences. My genetic umbrella told me I should respect any feminine gender. So, I don’t want to use my strength of predator to break this girl’s jaw, who has just disrespected me, only to delight you, band of tramps because you are so happy when you do call me ‘mon ami’ also, and you do get angry when I do call you ‘mon ami.’ I can’t disrespect any words from my genetic umbrella. Make me a way, I have to go,” said Samba Diallo, leaving the crowd.

  “You better go, it would be good for you,” said a voice in the crowd.

  “Hey, Fatima, don’t talk to Samba Diallo like that, he is one of us,” said another voice in the crowd.

  “I don’t care if he is your half,” said Fatima.

  “Leave her alone, man, she can do whatever she wants, I don’t care. I merely wish her all happiness and see her succeeding, and out from her daily misery,” said Samba Diallo.

  “I have to go, I don’t want to waste my time dealing with you guys. I am under another arrest warrant for having robbed your religion. People usually shoot me down with my own belief. They do consider me as a Houdhy, ‘non-Muslim.’ They think that they are more Muslim than me. The same question used to come back to me every time. Are you Muslim? I was born in a Muslim family and raised in a Muslim tradition,” said Samba Diallo once again while going home.

  Samba Diallo was hurt by her words but he controlled himself in order to protect Fatima. He knew that the culinary school may have been Fatima’s only hope, as it was for other children, for if he were to tell on her, she may be kicked out of school. He realized that after this, Fatima would be left with no choice but to sell herself in order to survive out in the world. Sometimes, despair pushes people to become weak when they don’t know how to protect themselves.

  After a few months of waiting with the ideas of frequent suicide attempts in his head, Samba Diallo was recognized as a refugee by the refugee office on January 30, 2015. In the refugee office, Samba Diallo could hear from the interlocutor telling that he had a duty to go back to school, the right not to be abused in different construction sites by doing the hard works that could bend his back. And the interlocutor added that children had a particular protection, citing the Geneva Convention as illustration. The interlocutor had also told Samba Diallo about a long line of children’s rights, but Samba Diallo could only remind back that he would be back on the school benches. With this good news i
n Samba Diallo’s head, he left refugee Office, going back to Takaddoum between the sky and the Earth, making some rotations on the grass under the rain, with the document “To whom it may concern.” That day was shortest throughout Samba Diallo’s journey. He could not catch up all thousands of insomnia days in their roofless building, but he thought that it would have little change in his living condition. However, the days were rapidly flying one after another. And the charity organization that had put Samba Diallo on his feet, giving him a human face, a dignity. Specially, this lady who was so nice, Ms. Aminah, who had allowed him to throw out all thoughts, relieving his heart from all the pains housed in it. Her sweet words like ice on the heart of Samba Diallo, who could make him dream during the one-on-ones of psychological session. Ms. Aminah had a simplicity to describe the life by making Samba Diallo believe that everything could go well. She used to make Samba Diallo want to live again every time she planned on an appointment with him. And Samba Diallo wanted to keep on hearing the sweet words from Ms. Aminah to forget his pains. But the charity organization sadly told Samba Diallo that it could not take care of him anymore because he was already a refugee, saying, “You are already under the international protection, we must take care of someone else.” Samba Diallo seemed visibly paralyzed by that news. But he had to accept it against his will because the decision had already been taken. Samba Diallo was so sad when he was leaving the charity organization office with his sheet on which all children’s rights was written down and underlined. Samba Diallo wanted to burn this sheet of his life. He felt he was under the international protection of UNHCR but that little piece of paper was not enough and it held other issues. He thought he was under international umbrella, protected by an international organization, but his dream to go back to school didn’t come true and UNHCR didn’t go anything. He returned to Takaddoum, where violence was a volcano in boiling that fed itself on abandonment. Where one could read despair on all the faces, pain lines, and scars hidden behind some tattoos. Symbols of a lifetime on bodies that were the real works of art, not to forget the daily pains. Every tattoo was heavy with meaning, an eternal memory of a long journey of life. But Samba Diallo still believed in his pen. That could get him out of the darksome nights of his journey. With his backpack on his back, he used to breathe the smell of chalk through the door when passing in front of the schoolyards. He would use any papers he would find in the streets to write down on. Some people thought that he was going to school somewhere. Yet, the violence was his daily routine and when he would tell people he wanted to be a writer, they would laugh at him because of his appearance and living conditions.

  In the quest of returning to school, Samba Diallo fell into the ambush of the drug dealers. An embarrassing situation in which it was impossible to refuse their proposals. Refusing their proposals meant digging one’s own grave on a mountaintop. Samba Diallo could not hesitate to accept such proposals. It was also useless to resist them. He complied with the jungle law to avoid the menaces and moral reprisals. He got enlisted in drug trafficking, a rentable and well-organized business. An environment where money and good conscience could not be cooked very well together. The misery, many roll of bills, and famished unconsciousness mixed together in the same sack and showed to an unemployed young in a crumbling building and poorest neighborhood, always led to an excessive violence against neighbors. Samba Diallo made himself a place and was going to be the child prodigy for the dealers. Under his hood of little dealer, he used to shake hands with his former tormentors, police, and eat around a same table. Interest was tying them together, and they used to meet each other. Endowed with his enormous talent of dealing, Samba Diallo was solicited. It was necessary to note all entries and exits of the drug to a corporate accountant. Good accounts made good friends. Samba Diallo was going to be a real penny machine that could put all the banknotes in the pockets of his hawks. His daily salary was depended on his daily sale. He used to risk ending up with a bullet in his head forever. Samba Diallo preponderance used to put many banana skins on his way (a lot of enemies). He was in a hole where nobody could hear him. The duration of his shabby life was only counting on the tip of a simple pistol. It could be abbreviated before he was eighteen years old in a banal discussion. The sacred law of silence was a code that could not be broken. One had to respect the rules despite the fact that death was omnipresent. It was really a miracle when a chick survived between the claws of a hawk. It was useless to talk about justice to someone who applied the code of justice. Money was heavier in the balance between justice and truth. It was useful to sue someone when one knew that the complaint could be a poison against ourselves. But Samba Diallo just wanted to leave this violent and bloodthirsty place where the prostitution of minors was a big flourishing business, thanks to the complicity established by those who were making the orders to round off their end of the month. These prostitutes and victims of human traffickers could do their jobs thanks to the provisions set up. However, Samba Diallo did not want someone else to read him a court order in a prison as his birthday gift. He decided then to send a letter to the refugee officer to know if someone could remember him still.

  Dear Protective Umbrella

  “The violence made me flee my birth home, but the violence has not forgotten me yet. The environment in which I do live rhymes with violence, many aggressions, the blooming is conditionally restrained, and liberty is confiscated. Delivered to myself, I’m daily fighting against all problems of the streets. I am exposed to this huge cold from the distant blue sea. Those with whom I share the same painful suffering let me know through words that I am not one of them. They throw cruel words at my face all day long. Only a few words from the novels that I borrow often leave on my lips a few bursts of smiles. Viewing all these obstacles that I endured throughout my perilous long journey, if my protective umbrella does not protect me, I risk losing my life someday from all these obstacles.”

  Thank you for taking your time to read my letter carefully, or sincerely.

  Samba Diallo

  Towards the end of fourth hour of the afternoon, Samba Diallo got a call from the refugee office. On the line, a feminine voice said, “We please you to go to the Center for refugees.” And the next morning, Samba Diallo started walking to find this center for refugees, asking unknowns on the street, between the influx of vehicles and these drivers who would stop in middle of two-ways and begin long greetings with pedestrians without caring for those behind them, and when asked to move along, they would acknowledge their requests with insults in return.

  “Salam, khoya! (Hi, man). Do you know where the Center for refugees is located?” asked Samba Diallo.

  “Mon ami, go straight, at a half mile, turn left at the first traffic light, the Center for refugees is on your right,” said the unknown interlocutor.

  “Chokran, khoya (thank you, man), for your help,” said Samba Diallo.

  Samba Diallo got this destination but the Center for refugees wasn’t there. He headed forward to someone else.

  “Salam, khoya! Do you know where the Center for refugees is?”

  “Center for refugees, Center for refugees, go a little bit straight. Then, left turn at roundabout and you’ll see your destination,” said the unknown interlocutor.

  After a day of questioning, Samba Diallo finally found the Center for refugees after some long hours of walking. The days were following one after the other and Samba Diallo started another process with Refugee and Stateless Office to re-analyze his documents for getting a residence card, the visa for a new normal life. The residence card that was considered as the passport of a refugee’s life did not allow him to access public schools. The problems of administrative documents followed him everywhere. The tourists who were going on vacation taught the refugees some English, Spanish, and German words and were also profiting from refugees’ kindness and good moods by stealing pictures and interviews to make documentaries. But they forgot about the anonymity instructions. To fight against the language barrier of his
new life of refugee, they taught Samba Diallo and many refugee teens the host country language one hour a week, four hours a month. The repetition could be pedagogical, but it became frustrating they wanted to learn a lot of things about the world but they made them repeat over and over the same lesson for years. In addition, it seemed that the inter-culturality was one of the mottos and a battle weapon for the heads of reception at the refugees’ Center, but Samba Diallo hated the Center for refugees because of the painting exhibitions of the sufferings of their border crossing. Especially, Ms. Nickname, when she’d send him into hell, turning on a video of more than an hour. A video in which boats filled with children in distress were capsizing on the Mediterranean Sea. And with her timer, she would come back in her office when the video would just be ending up and asking, “Kids, who can conclude what he learned from the films?”

  A hand rose up.

  “Yes, you,” said Ms. Nickname.

  “I could tell you that I saw actually how my friend, Little Boy, died from asphyxiation in middle of the salty water of Mediterranean Sea,” said Samba Diallo and stayed quiet.

  Ms. Nickname did not know she was lighting an unsupportable pain in Samba Diallo. She compelled him to tell more about his friend, Little Boy. Samba Diallo stayed silent. He did not like being pressurized into telling something that he did not want to tell.

  “What do you need from me?” asked Ms. Nickname.

  “Nothing, I just need a forever mother who can be a shoulder on which I can cry,” said Samba Diallo.

  “Alright, do you have a dream?” said Ms. Nickname.

  “Yes, like everyone has,” said Samba Diallo.

  “What are you going to do in the future?” said Ms. Nickname.

  “Well, I’m going to write about my miserable days someday,” said Samba Diallo happily.

  “Writing?” said Ms. Nickname, laughing.

  “Yes, writing. I want to transform my negative thoughts into positive thoughts through lines by honoring all sacrifices done by my genetic umbrella for giving to me all opportunities to learn and defend myself someday,” said Samba Diallo.