Gao. An agent hands me a fake passport- my name is not Jean-Luc, I am not from Mali and I am definitely no Francophone African. I am fluent in English though, and luckily the agent can communicate in Pidgin. He leads me through a haze of smoke to a mud hut where I will hide until nightfall. The smoke is coming from the compound where a group of old Malian women are cooking a mid-day meal. The women are shrouded in robes. Being such good Moslems, you would think they would invite a stranger to eat. Anyway, I am happy to go indoors, instead of sweltering in the heat like them. I do not care to know the town of Gao. The further north I am in Africa, the more one place begins to resemble the other. Like me, other travelers in Gao have come from somewhere south. We will cross the Sahara to get to Morocco, and from there cross the Mediterranean to get into Spain. We are illegals. It is not that we do not have enough money to fly overseas; it’s just that the foreign embassies do not grant Africans like us visas.
Half my fare is hidden in my sneakers. To raise the full amount, I sold marijuana. I was not making much of a cut, so I duped my boss. He threatened to send a gang to slit my throat, after they had raped me. I knew I had to leave town immediately. Death, I could live with, but I could not afford to be tampered with like that, against my will. When I was young, my mother used to smear lipstick all over my face. “Keep still,” she would order as I struggled. “See how pretty you look.” She oiled my hair with pomade and braided it into cornrows like a girl’s. In the afternoons, after school, I would beg her to let me play football with other boys in our neighborhood; she would make me sit on a stool and watch her roasting groundnuts.
She would be singing that awful nursery rhyme:
The birds have come home
Tolongo
One black, one red
Tolongo
Their tails are touching the ground
Sho
Instead of clapping, I would be frowning at her huge crusty feet. Even with those feet, my mother managed to walk the streets in high heels and solicit all sorts of men: rich, married, handsome, fat-white sailors like my father. One day she introduced me to a Lebanese man who was known for liking light-skinned boys. “He
‘ll only touch,” she promised. I ran away from home after that, lived on the streets, played football with a group of louts and discovered just how professional I was at the sport. In fact, for a while, before I warned them to stop understating my talent, my football friends were calling me- what’s his name?- Pele?
In the hut there is a prayer mat. I fall asleep on it. In my dream, my mother’s face appears as I remember it: two thick penciled-in lines for brows, a chip in her front tooth, and pink rouge on her cheeks. Her feet are the roots of a tree, with dry bark for skin. She cannot move, and yet she is able to hunt me down and find me, wherever I am, even here in Gao. She tells me that, all things considered, to trek overseas is reasonable. A man she knew hid himself in the wheel well of an airplane that flew overnight to London. It could have been the low temperature or high altitude that finished him. Immigration officers discovered his body two days later. By the end of the month, they had deported him back to his family for burial.
She says the lesson to learn is that the world is round, which means that if I run too fast I might end up chasing the very homeland I am running from. She lectures me even in my dreams, my mother. She is the daughter of a schoolteacher, lest anyone forget.
When it is dark enough, I come out of the hut. My stomach is so fed up with grumbling for attention it is in a silent sulk. I buy myself bread and sardines to eat, enough to last the journey. I buy drinking water, bottles of it. I meet a pretty girl called Patience at the depot where the agent instructed me to wait with other travelers for our transportation out of Gao. Patience is skinny with a bit of a backside. Her trousers are too tight. Her hair is curly and greased back. She wears a silver hoop in her nostril. She claims to be from Mali, but she has been living in the capital city, Bamako. She says this as if it is some sort of achievement, as if it separates her from villagers who are happy to stay in Africa herding their cattle, hoeing their land or whatever.
“You have a man in Bamako?” I ask her.
“Do you know how old I am?”
“Sweet sixteen at most?”
“You small boy! Don’t cheek me! How old are you yourself?”
She laughs and swings slaps at me. I am a year older than I was on the day I left home, is all she needs to know. African women are proud of their ages. I bet Patience is taken by my looks. I bet she has taken rubbish from men not nearly as goodlooking as me. I bet she is used to it. In my old neighborhood, a pretty girl like her would have been beaten up several times by her man.
Our trucks arrive while she is still busy trying to snub me. They are small trucks with tarpaulin covers. We do not scramble for them. We all believe we will get in one way or the other. Our guides are Tuaregs with indigo cloths wrapped around their heads. They know the desert routes. They will drive us through Mali, Algeria, and beyond. There is talk that travelers are sometimes attacked by bearded Moslems and bandits; that trucks often break down and there is no guarantee the gendarmes on patrol will arrive on time to rescue us. This makes a few women turn around at the last moment, especially those with children. I hop into the same truck as Patience and sit by her.
“You again?” she says.
I wink. “I’m just here to protect you.”
There are seven of us under the tarpaulin. I check out the others while cracking my knuckles: passenger one, tattered shoes; two, greasy skullcap; three, lopsided headscarf; four, chapped lips; five, gold chain and red eyes. Nothing new.
How long can I bear this god-forsaken place? We can only travel at night when cold winds blow. During the day, the sand- you cannot understand- is like needles in my eyes, ants in my nostrils, cobwebs in my chest. It is everywhere. I eat bread and crunch on grains. I gulp down water and grit gets stuck in my throat. I cough so hard my head could detonate.
I am telling you, in the most crowded cities, I have ridden in taxis with wobbly wheels and no doors, hitched rides on highways in lorries that bounce from one pothole to the other. I have slept in villages where dogs will not stop to take a piss, had bouts of diarrhea, fever, to get to Gao. I cannot understand these Tuaregs. Only camels are meant to survive in the Sahara.
At first, Patience would say, “Mr. Protector, how now?” and I would mumble, “Cool.” Then I could not be bothered to answer because my tongue started to swell. Then she stopped teasing me, perhaps because she realized that joking around might eventually exhaust her. Now, she is choking away like everyone else in our truck. We spit where we crouch. We reek badly. Our legs are cramped. The man with the skullcap says he is suffering from piles because of the constant jolts. His wheezy wife complains that she cannot breathe. “Shut up!” I want to shout.
Day two. We stop for a rest, finally. I fall out of the truck and roll underneath to avoid the afternoon sun. There is sand even in my underpants.
Patience slides next to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry I teased you earlier.”
“Don’t worry.”
“It’s just that, to me, you ‘re young. Too young to be on your own, crossing the desert.” Her breath smells of sardines.
“I’m not that young.”
She stretches. “You know, in Bamako, I heard that this is the same route the Arabs used to traffic African slaves in the olden days,” Who cares? I think.
“Do you have someone to meet you overseas? She asks.
“Nope.”
“What will you do when you get there?”
“Play football.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, and I’ll be famous, then I’ll get a white woman. I hear they’ re less trouble.”
She sucks her teeth. “You’re still very confident, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
Sometimes I am too afraid to think, especially about my mother and that Lebanese. Perhaps that is why I am this way: braggadocious. Perhaps that is why it is impossible for me to worry about where I will end up. Patience pulls a white Bible out of her pocket and begins to tell me about Moses who led the Israelites. It is a good story. It puts me straight to sleep.
Again, my mother finds me. This time, she wants to know if my little girlfriend is aware that she is reading a testimony passed from generation to generation. She says if only we Africans take time to compile our stories in a holy book, we might just learn from our past. How many of us have sought the Promised Land and ended up driving taxi cabs, guarding buildings at night, washing dirty plates and toilet seats, sleeping in cold ghettos and on streets?
She says she knows of African women overseas who are recruited as domestic servants and service their masters in bed. She says she has heard of African men who will marry any sort of woman for the sake of being right with immigration. These men call their wives darlings, eat their bland stews, father their children. Yet, they cannot open their mouths to talk because their wives are liberated. Their children have rights too, so if a father dares to raise his hands to discipline his son, he might find himself sleeping in jail. She says she hopes I will not become that kind of African man, a whitewashed African.
I wake up so fast Patience says my eyes look like they are about to pop. That nasty Tuareg is making us pay him extra. I cannot believe the lunatic. He beckons that he is about to drive off. He pats his palm, all dried up like beef jerky. He wants more dollars or else he is leaving us here, stranded in the scorching desert. He is yelling in bloody Berber or whatever. The wheezy woman is pleading that she is suffocating; can he not take pity on us? Her husband with the piles begins to weep. I could punch him. Why do we Africans make spectacles instead of fighting for ourselves?
Patience says, “Look here, Mama and Papa, I want to get Morocco. I don’t want to die in the desert. Pay the man, you hear?” The Tuareg calms down when we give him an extra ₷100 each to continue our journey. How I wish I could curse him to his face, but his eyes never seem to blink. As we set off, I see the sun setting through a tear in the tarpaulin. It is orange and sliced in half by the horizon. We pass two trucks almost buried under the sand, like giant carcasses. I shiver, not because of the evening wind. For the first time, I think we might not make it to Morocco after all. Two birds, I keep humming. One black. One red. Their tails are touching the ground. Their tails are…
Tangier. Well, almost. The Tuareg drops us at the foot of a mountain. It is the end of his own journey. He has driven us hundreds of miles and none of us is thankful to him, the cheat. We have prayed, cursed, and crossed the border with our fake passports. Our feet are numb, and now we have to walk to a camp in a forest on the mountain where travelers stop. Patience says it is unfair. Climbing up a mountain is not what she bargained for. She is meant to be in a guesthouse somewhere in
Tangier, overlooking the Mediterranean. “I am not doing it,” she says, bursting into tears. “I did not leave Bamako to sleep in a bush like a common villager.” Three women surround her. The wheezy one rubs her back whispering, “Sh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Patience gasps as if she is expelling something bitter. “All right,” she says, wiping her tears with her thumbs. “I’m ready now.” Her trouser seams have burst; her hair is so covered in sand she resembles an old woman. I am surprised she is capable of crying. Every drop of water I have drunk is dried up after the desert. My brain is like fried gizzards at this point. It is almost evening and I think I might have forgotten how to fall asleep. My legs have taken charge. If someone shows me the sea and says, “Here, walk over it,” I will. Still, I want to give Patience some assurance, so I reach for her hand.
“No, no,” she says and eases mine away.
She hobbles up the mountain like the rest of us.
Honestly, it is like finding an open sewer when we reach the camp. People sure can stink whenever we are like this: in deep rot. I fit in well, I am in a shirt that has not seen soap since before I got to Gao. The people here are not like any villagers; they are like refugees on television, squatting under plastic sheets: men, women and children, mothers nursing their babies. They are coughing, scratching, and slapping their arms and legs. “I can’t,” Patience whispers, and collapses by the root of a tree. She begins to sob again. This time she says that fleas are biting her all over. She gets on my nerves. While she sits there with her head in her hands, I build a tent for the two of us. One good thing: the others are willing to help. They give me a plastic sheet and show me how to tie it to a tree. They tell me to be prepared for thieves, the Moroccan security forces, and to look out for conmen that take my money. Even the air we breathe may carry plagues.
All they want to do is work. They would work in their countries if they can; they will work overseas. They have worked in Casablanca, in Tangier. It is easier for me to venture to the port, they say, because I am- you know – a mulatto. No one will suspect I am from pays- z’amis-you know- black Africa. I lie under my new tent and catch what conversations I can in English: who has reached Ceuta, who was caught by the guardia civil and sent back before they could make it to Ceuta. Before I can find out where Ceuta is, I fall asleep with my sneakers on, just in case they get stolen.
This place is no stop, my mother says; it is the anteroom to Hell. It is where spirits wait to pass to the other world. It is the only time left for those who have stopped living and are yet to be pronounced dead; the ground between madness and reason; the Mountain of Babel, where Africans speak in foreign tongues and nothing they say makes sense, so I need not listen. How is it possible, she asks, that I can be denied asylum in Spain, when this place resembles the aftermath of a war zone?
Patience is under the tent with me when I open my eyes. Miraculously, she has magicked a tin- pot and is cooking over burning sticks.
“What are you making?” I ask, stretching.
“Chicken,” she murmurs.
Four feet. They are boiling a sort of frothy broth. My stomach groans.
“That’s why I like my women African,” I say. “A white one will be of no use here.”
“I’m almost old enough to have given birth to you,” she mutters.
So much for my kindness. She brings up my mother.
“I’m not that young,” I whine like a girl.
“Sorry I lost my nerve earlier,” she says after a while.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I suppose you’re used to the good life.”
She shakes her head. “In Bamako, I was a prostitute.” I do not know what to say to that. I remove my sneakers to air my blisters. She stirs the chicken feet.
There is a Nigerian here called Obazee. I think he fancies himself some kind of a village chief. He has a university degree. He lays down the laws of the forest, he and his cronies. Patience will not come to consult him though. She says it is only God that can save us now. She is reading her Bible again. Nigerians are an arrogant lot.
This Obazee, all I do is call his name without adding a Mr., and he comes so close to me, with his chest hairs all matted like dead flies.
“Mr. Obazee to you,” he says. “Who’s asking?”
“Me, Jean-Luc.”
“Don’t you know how to respect your elders?”
“I’ve crossed a desert.”
He could give me that, at least. There are tribal marks on his cheeks and sores have eaten up the corners of his lips.
“Parlez-vous Francais?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Wee?”
He laughs. “You’re no Jean-Luc, but whoever you are, just be careful how you mention my name next time. None of this shouting Obazee, Obazee, all over the place, or I’ll conk your little head.” I have decided. I hate him.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Six years.”
“Six,” I yell.
He frowns. “What? People have been around longer, for over ten years even. Time is not the object.”
“Why don’t you just cross to Spain?”
“You think it’s as easy as that?”
“I have to cross.”
“You think you’re the only one?”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Come,” he says beckoning. “Come before the sun goes down, and see for yourself, since you think we’re all fools here.” Again my legs carry me, snapping on twigs and stamping them into the mud. Obazee walks too fast. I follow him through the camp, past a group of people singing, “When shall I see my home? When shall I see my native land? I will never forget my home…”
“When I first came,” he says, “I used to stay in Tangier, in a guest house near Petit Socco. It’s not easy like that anymore. The security forces, if they find you, they will deal with you; then they’ll send you back to Algeria. You’ll die before you ever see Gao. I moved here to avoid them. I’m trying to sneak overland into Ceuta. It’s what all of us are waiting for. They have a centre there. You’ll get meals. They will decide if you deserve asylum. The trouble is, they have barbed wire around the place, and the guardia civil patrol it. They keep catching me. The last time they beat me up well, well.”
He stops and lifts his shirt. There are scars on his back.
“I swear,” he says. “I would have died if not for Medecins Sans Frontieres.” He takes me to a cliff. From there we can see Spain. The lights on the coast are so bright; the houses in the port of Tangier are pure white. “See?” he says. “It’s tempting, isn’t it? Twenty miles only. El Dorado. You can cross anytime if you have enough to pay a samsara to take you. The pateras carry more passengers. The dinghies are cheaper, but they capsize. People have drowned.” I can barely hear my own voice. “Which way is better, Ceuta or sea?”
“I’ve given you the options,” he says. “Take your pick.”
I relieve myself in the dark and wipe myself with a leaf. When I return to our tent, Patience is still reading her Bible. I want to tell her all I have found out from Obazee.
I want to find out if she has enough to pay a samsara.
“Bad news,” I announce. She shines her flashlight on a page and says, “Listen. ‘I have heard the complains of the Israelites. Tell them that at twilight they will have meat to eat, and in the morning they will have all the bread they want…”
“I’m tired,” I say.
Fairy tales can’t save us.
So, my mother says, my girlfriend turns out to be just another woman of the night. Why then is she reading her Bible and going on about the Israelites of the past? Here are real stories from a modern African exodus she says.
One man from Mali, he could not afford his fare. He crossed the Sahara on foot. It took him several years. The Moroccan security forces got hold of him when he reached Tangier. They repatriated him straight back to the border of Algeria and told him to find his way to Gao. Yes, with the same two legs that brought him to their country. Another man from Rwanda came by truck with his family. This was long before the barbed wire was erected around Ceuta. The family got into Ceuta all right; then they were kept in detention for months, waiting for their lawyer to prove that they really were from Rwanda. What about the Sierra Leonean who, shortly after the barbed wire went up, tried to scale it several times, until his skin was practically shredded? He decided to swim across the sea to get to Spain. He had only one hand by the way. The salt water stung his skin; he still made it to the shore. His missing hand was there to prove that he was fleeing a civil war. What about the Nigerian who secretly regretted that her own homeland was not war-torn, and hoped that the baby in her belly would be considered worthy of asylum. The baby came out two months too early, right here in the forest. Mother and child never made it to the next day.
Then there was the Senegalese. She could not swim. She found a samsara to carry her by dinghy, and it was not that the dinghy leaked or capsized. It was the samsara: he said he could not get too close to the shore; the guardia civil might catch him, so he ordered her to jump out of his dinghy into the sea and find her way somehow. Perhaps Africans should not compile these stories in any book, my mother says. Who wants to save such stories for posterity? No, she says, these stories are worse than any nightmares, so considering what may lie ahead, it is better that I continue to sleep for the rest of my journey.
The night is so chilly we sleep curled up like a couple of crayfish. We wake up to the sound of thuds, shouting, pots clanging, babies crying. It is dawn and the sun has not yet dried up the dew. The commotion is over Obazee and his Nigerian cronies. They have decided to move the camp further into the bush, to hide from the security forces. Some people are protesting that they do not want to move-actually protesting over their little hovels. They follow Obazee as he marches ahead of them saying, “I’ve given you the options. Take your pick.”
Patience and I watch those who are already untying their tents. I have no doubt how we must leave the camp now.
“Do you have money left?” I ask.
“For food,” she slurs.
She is sluggish. She took painkillers. I run my tongue over my teeth and spit. My mouth tastes bitter.
“It’s 500 dollars each to go by dinghy and 1000 dollars each to go by pateras.” She slaps sand out of her hair. “Who said?”
“Obazee. You should have come. Yesterday. He showed me the shore. He said we can go by sea or wait for months to sneak into Ceuta like people around here.” I tell her what I know. I know exactly what she is thinking. She has put her trust in the Lord. “Do you at least have enough to get to Tangier?” I ask.
She pushes out her bottom lip. “Mm-mm.”
“How did you intend to get to Spain without money?”
“I don’t know .” Perhaps she is waiting for a hand to come down from heaven and part the sea for her.
“Where are you heading for after Spain?” I ask.
“Rome.”
“What will you do when you get to Rome?”
“Work.”
“What work?”
“Jean-Luc, not this morning.”
“Tell me.” She waves her arms. “I said not this morning! You see what’s ahead of us, eh! We have to pack up and move. All my body is paining me, eh!”
“I told you mine.” She sighs. “When will you learn that you and I are not mates? They recruited me in Bamako. Hear? I’m supposed to be in Tangier right now, working. Understand? When I get to Rome I’ll continue to work. It’s bondage. Intercontinental. White men, African women. See?”
Does she think my eyes are the colour of weak tea for some other reason? What I see is myself playing football overseas, and Patience not having to sleep her way to Europe. I think about what she told me about the Israelites, that their main problem was that they did not have enough faith. Maybe they would not have needed to if they had had enough sense to stick together.
“I have enough for both of us,” I venture.
“Enough what?”
“Cash. To cross by dinghy.” She snorts. “I’m sure.”
“It’s true. I’m not bragging. It’s right here. I’ll share with you.” I pat my left sneaker. For a moment she purses her lips. Perhaps she is worried about our dinghy capsizing.
“What?” I ask. She turns away. “Oh, you’re young. What am I doing?” I poke her in the ribs to force her to smile. “Come on.” The woman pulls my face right into her armpit. “So,” she says. “Just like that, for no reason, you will help me cross the sea?” So long as the sea does not rise up against us. I hold my breath as if I am about to dive. Her armpit stinks to high heaven. She says she will go to Tangier and find a samsara there. She travels with another woman who is going there to buy chicken feet.
Morning. I began to untie our tent. Obazee is busy organizing the move to another part of the forest. Almost everyone has agreed to go, which means that everyone must. This is the way it is around here, all together, through the forest, up the mountain, up, two, three. One day, I fear they might move so far they will reach the cliff and fall off. Obazee makes his rounds and guides them like Moses. “You,” he says, snapping his fingers when he passes by me. “When is your mummy coming back?”
“She is not my mother.”
“Well, remember that by evening, we’re leaving this place.” I fold the tent as he walks on. The ground is bare except for our footprints, Patience and I. Noon. Most people have moved to the new site. Those who remain, gather clothes, pick up pots, and search for what is lost. I sit on the tent as if it is a mat and lean against a tree trunk. Obazee comes by again.
“She’s not back yet?”
“It takes long.”
“Not this long,” he says checking his watch. This time, he does not even stop to look at my face. I spread my toes. There is space in my sneakers now: too much space since Patience took my money. Dusk. I can count the people left in the camp, besides me. One of them is the woman who left with Patience. They have cleared up everything except for a sandal, a bucket handle and a red rag. Obazee startles me.
“You’re still waiting?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think you should come at this rate?”
“No.” I can spare him only one word at a time. He contemplates the little I have said and then bends to wipe his forehead with his shirt. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Maybe she got stuck. Whenever she appears, follow the way to the cliff. You’ll find us there.” He points to the others. I would prefer that he tells me to take my pick.
After they leave, I turn on Patience’s flashlight and flick through her Bible: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus. I cannot find the story. I reach Revelation and still cannot find the stupid story she told me, but you will not catch me running off like some girl. I will wait until morning if necessary. If I shiver it is because of the winds. They come from the desert and the sea. They carry sand and salt. They clash right here in the forest and can pierce to the bones no matter how well you are prepared for them; it is funny. I hope she drowns.
Understanding and appreciating the story
- What false details are on the narrator’s passport?
- Where is the narrator going? How does he raise his fare and at what risk?
- Describe the character of the narrator’s mother.
- Identify an incident of child abuse in the story? Is this an isolated case or is it happening in the world today?
- What is the narrator’s attitude towards his mother? Is he justified to feel the way he does towards her?
- Compare the living conditions at the camp to camps for Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) in Kenya.
- Write a short summary on the suffering that the illegal immigrants undergo as they try to move to another country.
- Identify instances of irony in the story.
- What is the relevance of the dreams in the story?
- Imagine you are the narrator. Write a brief diary of the days that you have spent in the camp.
Discussion questions
- Why do you think Africans are desperate to leave Africa and what do you think should be done to contain the situation?
- Based on the details provided by the narrator, debate whether the trek across the Sahara is worth the effort.
- The narrator argues that Africans make spectacles instead of fighting for themselves. Do you agree? Do you think a united Africa would be better equipped to fight poverty, disease, war and other ills affecting it?
- Africans may be desperate to leave Africa due to a combination of factors, including political instability, economic hardship, lack of opportunities, and limited access to education and healthcare. Many African countries face ongoing conflicts, corruption, and poor governance, which can lead to a sense of hopelessness and the desire to seek a better life elsewhere. Economic disparities, high unemployment rates, and lack of access to basic services can also drive people to seek opportunities in more developed countries.
To address this situation, comprehensive efforts are needed. African countries should work towards improving governance, reducing corruption, and promoting economic development to create more opportunities for their citizens. International cooperation is crucial as well, with developed nations providing support, investment, and fair trade deals to help uplift African economies. Additionally, creating educational and skill development programs can empower the youth and enable them to contribute to their home countries’ growth.
- The trek across the Sahara is depicted as an arduous and perilous journey with many challenges. While some individuals may see it as their only option for a better life or escaping dangerous situations, it is evident that the risks and hardships involved are substantial. Many travelers face life-threatening conditions, exploitation by human traffickers, and the possibility of deportation or rejection upon reaching their intended destinations.
Debating whether the trek is worth the effort involves weighing the potential benefits against the immense risks involved. While seeking opportunities abroad can offer a chance at a better life, it’s essential to consider the alternatives and long-term consequences. Focusing on improving conditions within African countries, such as economic development, political stability, and better social services, could create a more sustainable and safer future for individuals, reducing the need for such dangerous journeys.
- The narrator’s statement that Africans make spectacles instead of fighting for themselves reflects his frustration with the lack of collective action and unity among Africans to address their challenges. While it may be an oversimplification to generalize the actions of an entire continent’s population, there have been instances where divisions, conflicts, and a lack of cohesion among African nations have hindered progress and development.
A united Africa could indeed be better equipped to fight poverty, disease, and other challenges. By working together, African countries could pool resources, expertise, and knowledge to address common issues and find collective solutions. Regional cooperation could promote economic development, increase trade, and enhance security. Additionally, a united Africa would have a stronger voice in international forums, allowing for better representation of African interests and concerns on the global stage.
However, achieving unity among diverse African nations is complex and challenging, given historical, cultural, and political differences. It would require strong leadership, commitment to common goals, and a willingness to set aside individual interests for the greater good. Pan-African organizations and initiatives have been working towards fostering greater unity and cooperation, but it remains an ongoing process
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- The false details on the narrator’s passport are that his name is not Jean-Luc, he is not from Mali, and he is not a Francophone African.
- The narrator is going to Morocco illegally, and from there, he plans to cross the Mediterranean Sea to get into Spain. He raises his fare by selling marijuana, and he took the risk of duping his boss to avoid dangerous consequences.
- The narrator’s mother is portrayed as a woman who is manipulative and engages in questionable activities to survive, including prostitution. She is not supportive of her son’s desires and tries to control his life by dressing him as a girl when he was younger.
- An incident of child abuse in the story is the narrator’s mother introducing him to a Lebanese man who was known for liking light-skinned boys, insinuating that the man would only touch him. This can be seen as child exploitation and abuse.
- The narrator harbors bitterness and resentment towards his mother due to her actions and neglect. His feelings are justified to some extent, considering the neglect and manipulative behavior he experienced as a child.
- The living conditions at the camp are harsh and resemble refugee camps or camps for Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) in Kenya. Both places are marked by overcrowding, poor sanitation, lack of basic amenities, and immense suffering.
- The story highlights the suffering of illegal immigrants who are willing to endure extreme hardships, including crossing dangerous territories and seas, to seek a better life in other countries. It sheds light on the desperate measures people take due to visa restrictions and the challenges they face as they embark on perilous journeys to reach their destination.
- Instances of irony in the story include the narrator’s mother, who had a daughter but dresses her son as a girl, and the fact that the Malian women in the camp, who are devout Muslims, do not extend hospitality to a stranger in need.
- The dreams in the story serve as a connection to the narrator’s mother, who appears in his dreams and offers advice and cautionary tales. They symbolize the internal conflict and emotional turmoil the narrator faces as he embarks on his journey.
- Diary Entry: Dear Diary, today was another long day at the camp. We moved to a new spot in the forest as Obazee said. Patience hasn’t returned yet, and I’m worried. I hope she’s safe. The winds are harsh here, and the conditions are tough, but I have to hold on. My dreams are haunting me, and my mother’s voice keeps ringing in my head. I can’t help but think about the risks and dangers ahead. I have enough money to cross the sea, but I wonder if it’s worth it. I hope I make it to Spain and fulfill my dreams of playing football. I miss home, but I can’t go back now. I have to be strong and keep moving forward. I’ll wait for Patience, and then we’ll decide what to do next. Until then, I’ll stay strong and hope for the best.
Study guide TWILIGHT TREK
By
SEFFI ATTA
- Setting
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The story is set in Gao, Mali. It then moves through Mali and Algeria upto Tangier, a Moroccan coastal town. This is desert country ant the travelers suffer the heat of the scorching sun and constant sand storms. The trek itself must take place in the night- it covers two nights. The travelers stop at a camp on a mountain just outside Tangier. It is a stinking mess.
- Plot
The story opens with the narrator receiving a fake passport in the name of Jean Luc from an agent in Gao, Mali. He narrates how he sold marijuana to raise his fare. Impatient that the money was not coming in quickly enough, he steals from his employer. He threatens to send a gang to sodomise him then slit his throat. The narrator scales up his immigration time-table and starts his illegal immigration journey.
At the start of the journey he meets Patience, a girl he travels with to the Tangier camp. During the journey they face a lot of suffering. It is a bumpy ride and the sandstorms drive sand everywhere. In the day, they have to hide under the truck from the scorching sun. What is more, their guide increases the fare by $100 or he abandons them in the desert.
They pay up and the second leg of their journey starts. Even this leg is disappointing. Their guide drops them at
the foot of the mountain and they complete their journey on foot.
When they reach the camp the narrator is shocked by the insalubrious conditions. Men, women and children all live under plastic sheets and there are no sanitation facilities in sight. Further, they are warned to be wary of thieves, Moroccan security forces, conmen and plagues. Their final destination, Cueta, presents a challenge to get to. Obazee says that he‟s been trying for six years but keeps getting caught by the police who beat him up.
The narrator finds out from Obazee how to cross the sea and what dangers each mode of transport presents and the cost. This information excites him and he shares it with Patience who has resorted to reading the bible for solace. He is ready to meet her crossing fee. She wonders where he would get the money from. He shows her where his money is hidden.
They wake up in the morning to find that Obazee is moving the camp further away from the security forces.
The narrator wouldn‟t move because he is still waiting for Patience who had gone to Tangier to find a “samsara”. He also discovers that she has taken his money. He waits to no avail. He has to start all over again.
- Conflict
The story raises conflicts at different levels. External conflict develops at two levels. First there is conflict between people. Second, there is conflict between man and nature.
The other level of conflict is internal. The narrator through his dreams understands that his mother‟s advice was worth taking yet he can‟t or wouldn‟t take it.
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We will now examine conflict in the chronological order that they are developed. i. Illegal immigrant and foreign embassies (pp109) The foreign embassies will not grant visas to illegal African immigrants effectively denying them an opportunity to move to Europe. The Africans believe they can still get to Europe. They will cross the Sahara and get to Morocco then cross the Mediterranean Sea into Spain. ii. The narrator and drug seller (pp 109)
The narrator disagrees with his mother and runs away from home. To survive he sells marijuana. Dissatisfied with how much he was making, he steals from his employer. His employer in return promises to send a gang to sodomise him then slit his throat. To avoid this treatment he starts his journey to Europe.
iii. The narrator and his mother
When the narrator was little his mother would dress him up like a girl. He would struggle during such treatment (pp109). When he got older, she tried to pimp him to a Lebanese man who liked light skinned boys. He runs away from home to avoid such treatment (pp110). Further, we learn that his dreams enhance this mother and child conflict. His mother tries to dissuade him from making the trip by narrating to him horror stories of illegal immigration attempts. He is still in Gao and would have turned back but he doesn‟t (pp110).
In the second dream, she alludes to the Promised Land, a story from the bible. However, the people who seek the Promised Land end up us taxi drivers, night guards, cleaners of plates and toilets and some become homeless sleeping in the cold of ghettos and streets. Yet others go on to become sex slaves or cultural slaves (pp113/4).
In his penultimate dream, his mother uses strong images of death to hint at Jeans imminent failure.
He still does not take her advice.
In the final dream she dismisses Patience as a common prostitute and that her reading of the bible was of no value. She gives him more stories of frustrated immigrants. He does not heed his mother‟s advice that he stays away from Patience and the trip.
- Illegal immigrants and nature
When the trek gets underway, the travelers find out that they can only travel in the night and the winds are very cold then. The sand too presents a problem. It hurts their eyes, stings their nostrils and mats their chests. It is also in their food and water. Their tongues swell so badly they cannot converse. Their legs are cramped. Others suffer from piles and wheezing chests.
The conflict with nature continues when they stop in the day. They suffer the scorching sun and hide underneath the truck to avoid the heat. There is however no escaping the sand which is all over them including in their underpants (pp112/113).
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- Travellers and Tuareg guide
At the start of the second leg of their journey, the travellers get blackmailed by their Tuareg guide. They are deep in the Sahara desert and the guide tells them to pay an extra$100 each or he abandons them. They pay up (pp114/5)
- Illegal immigrants and environment
- The camp is insalubrious
The narrator describes it as an open sewer (pp115). There is lack of privacy. Men, women and children all sleep under plastic sheets. The environment is a health hazard.
- They suffer constant bites from fleas. Many are coughing. They are warned that even the air that they breathe may carry plagues (pp115/6).
- At the camp they are told to beware of thieves, Moroccan security forces and con men.
- The narrator and Patience
She steals his money and heads for Tangier and the world beyond.
- Character and characterisation
- The narrator Independent minded
- When he was little his mother dressed him up as a girl and he‟d resist this.
- When she tried to pimp him out to a homosexual, he ran away from home.
- Gifted
He plays football very well. This is the main reason why he wants to travel to Europe where he hopes to develop his talent further.
- Friendly
Befriends Patience and helps her through the difficult times. He is willing to pay part of her fare.
- Naïve
Trusts Patience and tells her where his money is hidden. She steals it and abandons him at the camp.
- Braggart
He brags to Patience about his football skills and how he was going to make a career out of playing football in Europe.
- Irreligious
- His mother has not taught him religion. She says that Africans too can compile their stories in a holy book.
- When he reads about God promising the Israelites food, he says that he was tired and that the fairy wasn‟t going to help them.
- Themes
- Suffering
This is the best developed theme in the story. Identify all the instances of suffering that the travellers go through.
- Poverty
This is the real cause of the trek.
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- The narrator‟s mother earns a living as a prostitute. The money she earns barely covers expenses. She sells ground nuts to supplement. What is more, she is ready to pimp her son to homosexuals to augment her earnings.
- The Muslim women in Gao cannot afford to share their meal with strangers. There just isn‟t enough to go round.
- The highways are full of potholes and the taxis are in a state of disrepair.
- Opportunism
- The narrator takes advantage of the trust his boss has in him and steals his money.
- His mother is happy to have a child of mixed race. His light skin is particularly favoured by homosexuals and she had been grooming him to earn money from the trade.
- The Tuareg guide blackmails the travellers in the desert. He raises the fare by $100 at a time he knows they can‟t default.
- Patience takes advantage of Jean. He trusts her enough to tell her where his money is hidden. She steals it and does not care about his plight.
- Style Satire
Satire is made up of three literary devices: irony, wit and humour. It objective is to expose the vices and follies of individuals or societies in such a way that they appear ridiculous.
It is the heavy presence of irony in this story that directs our attention to satire. Let us now consider some of the outstanding instances of irony.
Irony
- The most important instance of irony comes at the start of the story and it‟s concluded at the end. The narrator dupes his master and steals his cash. During the trek he befriends Patience. He builds a tent at the camp which he shares with her; he promises to meet the cost of her crossing the sea and to prove that he can he shows her the where the money is. She steals it and abandons him at the camp. It is the same money that he had stolen from his employer.
- Another instance of irony that runs through the story plays out between the narrator and his mother. She raised him with only one purpose in mind: to pimp him
out to homosexuals. He flees from home because of this. However, throughout the trek she remains the only voice of reason through his dreams. She constantly impresses upon him the folly of his action.
- Obazee is also an ironic figure. He holds a degree. His knowledge and skills ought to be used in the service of the people of his country. He is however portrayed as lacking in imagination. For six years he is stuck in the camp described as an open sewer. All his attempts to get to Cueta have been thwarted by the Guardia Civil. He fancies himself as the leader of the camp. This is a complete waste of university education.
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NB: Find more instances of irony. Notice that each of these ironic situations points to a human weakness. That is satire.
Now let us examine the things that have been satirised in this story.
a) Opportunism (callousness of human nature and greed)
The writer satirises the callousness of human nature in taking advantage of those around them for personal gain.
The opportunists satirised in this story include:
The narrator
At the time Patience steals from him he has $1000. This means that he stole a lot of money from his employer. The money has not brought him any benefit. First, the journey through the desert has been a very difficult one. Now far away from home he is not only destitute but he has no way of salvaging himself. Further, his inexperience has made him prey to the older Patience.
The narrator’s employer
He deals in marijuana. This drug corrupts the youth. What is more is that he uses the young Jean to peddle his drugs and pays him peanuts. The result is that Jean steals from him.
The narrator’s mother
She raises Jean with the intention of pimping him out to homosexuals. This is child abuse. She lamely tells him about the Lebanese: “He‟ll only touch you”. Her son runs away from home because he does not wish to be a homosexual.
The Tuareg guide
His greed is satirised. Deep in the desert he takes advantage of the travellers and asks them for more money or he abandons them. The poor souls would die in the desert. They pay up.
Patience
Her greed too is satirised. Jean was ready to share his loot with her so that they cross the sea into Spain together. She however steals his money and leaves him destitute.
b) Brutality/ violence
- The police
The last time Obazee tries to get into Cueta illegally, the Guardia Civil catch him and beat him up severely. It is the Medecins Sans Frontieres that saves his life. (pp119) ii. Bandits
There is talk that travellers are sometimes attacked by bearded moslems and bandits when their trucks break down in the desert. There is no guarantee that the police would arrive in time to rescue them. Such stories make some women turn back at the last moment (pp111).
- Samsara
In his fourth dream, his mother narrates the story of the Senegalese girl who couldn‟t swim. The Samsara who carries her in his dhingy refuses to get close to the shore. He orders her to jump out of the dhingy into the sea and find her way somehow. (pp 121)
- Collective folly of illegal of illegal immigration
- At the end of the first dream, the narrator‟s mother tells him that the lesson to be learned from the deportation story is that the world is round and that means if one ran too fast, one might end up chasing the very homeland one is running from.
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- In his second dream she tells him the story of disillusionment. Those who finally reached The Promised Land wonder what they were chasing. They end up driving taxis,, washing plates and toilets, guarding buildings at night, sleeping in the streets, serving as sex slaves and enslaving themselves to the West through marriage (pp113-4)
- The illegal immigrants have neither clear plans nor the money to get them to Spain from the camp. The narrator says of the people in the camp: These people here are not like any villagers; they are like refugees on television, squatting under plastic sheets: men, women and children. The implication is that they choose to lead a squalid life yet nobody sent them away from their villages which are more comfortable than the camps.
- Obazee gives a very poor show for an educated man. He lives a squalid life and fancies himself the camp leader demanding to be addressed with respect. How can a man who doesn‟t respect himself be respected by others. He should be using his university education to improve the lot of his people back at home. Six years have gone by with nothing achieved and many more will go by because he can neither go forward nor turn back.
- POV
The story is told from the first person point of view. It makes the story credible. We would not believe that people can be so wicked or so stupid unless we hear it from the horse‟s mouth.
8. a) Appropriateness of the title Harrap‟s Essential English Dictionary defines a trek as a long journey usually on foot.
Twighlight, on the other hand is the period immediately after sunset.
Indeed the trek for the two days begins after sunset. In the day they rest to avoid the patrolling police. The journey is undoubtedly long although very little of it is done on foot.
Figuratively too, the sun is not yet up for this would be immigrants. They are not realistic in their ambition to immigrate.
- Significant event
The notice of revenge on Jean by the drug baron is the significant event in this story. He says that he could not afford to be sodomised against his will so he flees (pp109).
- Aim of the author
- Show the ridiculous lengths to which people will go to try and improve their lot.
- Show human suffering occasioned by poor decision making.
Q. 1
What are some of the elements that Sefi Atta exposes as ridiculous in Twilight
Trek?
Q. 2
Discuss the suffering the illegal immigrants undergo in Twilight Trek by Sefi Atta