Oneiron

a terrible uproar. Someone pushes me with the barrel of a rifle, says, “Faster, faster,” and I trip on this dress. (I’m in the desert, I’m pushed with a gun, and I fall to the ground.) My lip starts bleeding. There are two Europeans with me, Marcel and Mikael. “Are you alright?” asks Mikael. He’s walking behind me and tries to stoop to help, but they won’t let him help. “Forward, forward,” they yell and push Mikael in the back. Mikael trips over me. His hand touches my back. Mikael and Marcel are good people. They’re interested in buildings. They aren’t make-troubles, but now they’re in very bad trouble. And I am too. (There are two European men with me, and we’re in trouble—so there are three of you?) Originally there were five of us. Samballa was with us, the quiet driver who brought us from Bamako, and Marcel and Mikael had a guide with them, Bonaventure from Cotonou in Benin. (There were five of us, we three and a guide and driver.) Marcel, Mikael, and Bonaventure began their journey from Cotonou thirteen days ago. They’ve traveled through Benin, through Burkina Faso, and ended up in Mali. They left early in the morning on a bus from Ouagadougou to Bamako and rode for twelve hours. It was dark when they arrived, and they took a room in a cheap hotel run by the nuns at the Mission Catholique. I’m also sleeping there. (I spend the night in the same cheap hotel as the European men and their guide.) Marcel, Mikael, and Bonaventure are very tired and hungry, and so am I. I’ve traveled the whole day and half the day before, a total of thirty-five cursed hours from Dakar to Bamako on Gana Transport (I’ve traveled thiry-five hours from Dakar to Bamako). The bus bench shakes, and I can’t sleep. And if I do nod off, I have to wake up soon because of the customs officials. I’m afraid at every checkpoint, and I’m afraid of every government bastard. They make us stand in place for two hours and collect extra fees. They want all the luggage removed from the bus and put on the ground, and so all the luggage is removed from the bus and put on the ground. (The customs officials are assholes. They slow down the bus.) They don’t touch me. I have a gris-gris around my neck, which they respect. I know that nothing bad will happen to me, but I can’t help being afraid, and sweat drenches my waist. I feel the weight there. I feel the fabric of my dress glued to my skin, and I’m afraid they will show through. (Maimuna, you’re afraid that what will show through?) I have . . . little packages there. Finally they allow us to leave, but soon the bus gets stuck in the sand. All of the passengers have to get off again. The men start to push, and when the bus finally moves, we can’t get on because the ground is too soft. The bus would get stuck again if we got on and made it heavy. So we walked behind the bus. We walk slowly since there are children and old women, and even older men with us. When I finally reach Bamako, I’m definitely more exhausted and hungrier than any men from Europe! They’re enjoying themselves on the Mission Catholique terrace. They laugh and drink Castel, and when I walk past them, suddenly one of them says, ‘You’re beautiful,’ and asks, ‘what’s your name?’ But he says it very nicely. I stop. Then this Marcel wants to take a picture of me. He asks me to stand next to the wooden cross nailed to the wall and look wherever I like. He gives me three thousand céfa and invites me to eat dinner with them at the De la Paix restaurant next door. He’s delighted when he hears I’ve come from Dakar. He visited there some years ago for work. I almost fall asleep in my spaghetti. (I finally reach Bamako, and I’m very tired. Marcel and Mikael invite me to eat with them. I order spaghetti.) When they hear where I’m going, they’re even more delighted, and when I tell them that my ride will be coming directly to the hotel in the morning, they ask if there might be room for them too. They promise to pay. They may just want to stop in a few places. But they promise to pay a little extra. I call Moussa immediately and ask. (Where were you arranging for all of you to go, Maimuna? And who is Moussa?) Monsieur Moussa is my father’s cousin. He arranged my journey from Dakar to Timbuktu and back. At first he sounds angry when I tell him about Marcel and Mikael, but he relents and says he’ll call me back in a few minutes. He calls an hour later when I’m already in bed sleeping. The packages rub my skin and make me sweat, but I’m not allowed to take them off. (What packages? Why are they against your skin?) Wait, I’m coming to that part! Monsieur Moussa promises that Samballa can also drive Marcel and Mikael to Timbuktu. He’s just arranged it with Samballa, and Bonaventure can also fit since no one else besides them will be in the car. Marcel and Mikael are still awake when I go to tell them the news. They’re sitting on the terrace drinking Castel again and offer some to me. I linger for a few minutes to chat with them. They’re excited about the three old mosques built of mud and wood in Timbuktu. They talk about attempts to protect the mosques but how hard it is: the desert is always coming closer and threatens to swallow them up, the northeasterly Harmattan blows sand on them, and they’re in danger of crumbling. (We’re all traveling to Timbuktu—Maimuna, why were you going there?) I have packages I’m supposed to