In Passing

It starts with a WhatsApp call to her mother back home in Burkina Faso, Western Africa. 

“Hello,” answers the sleepy voice. 

“Hello? It’s me, Alima.” 

“Of course, it’s you, Alima,” her mother retorts. “Who else is going to call me at 2am?” 

“Sorry, mama.” 

“Alima, you’ve been in America for almost a year. How long does it take –”

“Mama, Mariam died.” 

“Hello. Hello? I can’t hear you. What did you say?” 

“I said –” 

“Hello…hello…hello…” 

Click! The phone disconnects. Alima dials again. Voicemail. 

Alima hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath, and tosses the phone on the chipped wooden floor by the heel of her foot. She really wanted her mother to hear that Mariam had died. That her death was sudden. Heart attack. That she died on the toilet while shitting. She wanted her mother to feel the shock as she did. To side with her, this once, and admit that life has no guarantees. That tomorrow is a doubt, not a certainty. Would her mother understand that? Would she finally understand that the actions she took to force Alima out of her old life and into American life were vile and cruel?

Alima was about to marry Seydou, the tall and elegant mechanic with a gentle touch and kind eyes. They had planned to move out of the capital to Seydou’s hometown in Banfora, a city in the southwestern part of Burkina Faso, where the air was fresher, the trees greener, and life calmer. But her mother had to ruin it. She had to decide that she wanted a bigger motorcycle like her neighbor’s and that her stall at the marketplace was too small and embarrassing. 

Oh, but why? Why reject peace when it sits at your doorstep? Why summon trouble by wanting a complicated life when you hold a peaceful, simple one in your hands? What’s more important than to love, be loved, and be with your family? 

But by then, it was too late. Her mother had gone out of her way to borrow money that promised a better life; money, which Alima now understands, won’t be paid back until her hair turns grey.

“I am not going,” Alima had told her mother when she learned about the loan and the opportunity to go to America. The memory of that conversation, of how she ended up in the United States, is etched in her brain like a bad tattoo–and now she couldn’t help but revisit it. No, I am definitely not going. What was her mother thinking? For the love of God, who would do that to their daughter? Alima was about to get married in a month. Why would her mother borrow money now to send her to the United States? Did her mother not see how long it took Alima to secure a serious relationship?

At thirty-three years old, with not even an ugly contender at her doorstep asking to marry her, Alima had gone to see the old clairvoyant, who informed her that she was born on an unlucky day and would never acquire wealth nor get married in this world or the next. Frustrated, Alima stormed out of the clairvoyant’s shed that day and went straight to Seydou, the mechanic working in front of the housing complex where she lived with her mother, and asked if he would go out with her.

“Of course,” he replied with a shy smile. “You are beautiful.”

What was her mother really thinking? Wasn’t her mother the one who constantly criticized women who have kids out of wedlock? Had her mother forgotten how old Alima was? Could she not comprehend that thirty-three was cutting too close for a woman to conceive? No, I am not going. 

“But it’s all done, Alima,” her mother’s voice had quivered with panic and worry. “Everything has been arranged, and the ticket has been bought. You can’t desert the plan now.” 

“There was never a plan for me to desert, mother,” Alima had said, walking out of their steamy one-bedroom brick house, leaving her mother speechless. Alima hoped that staying at Seydou’s house for a week would help her mother understand that Alima would not walk out of her marriage and go to America. She hoped her mother would find a solution to the problem she had created. However, two days later, while at Seydou’s, she received a call from the scumbag who had lent money to her mother. He informed her that her mother was in the hospital. His voice was as menacing as the eyes of a wild dog poised to pounce. “And listen,” he added. “Next time, I should put a bullet in her useless head.”

When Alima ran to the hospital, her mother was barely recognizable. She had a broken arm, one eye was so severely swollen that it had closed completely, and when she spoke, all her front teeth were missing.

It was clear. Alima had no choice. She had to go to the United States to work and pay the man back. She had convinced Seydou that she would be gone for a very short time, perhaps only six months. 

“Six months, my foot,” Alima breathes to herself now. With a salary of $250 per week at the hair salon and all the expenses she has here, it would probably take her a lifetime to pay back that bandit. She would probably end up like Mariam. Poor, fat, and unmarried. 

But to think that this is what happened to Mariam is unfathomable. Mariam was once an African beauty – a businesswoman with a comfortable income, desired by men of all walks of life. But they said it all started when menopause hit her early five years ago. They said she lost all appetite for men and developed a big appetite for food instead. She ate and ate and ate and naturally, she began to multiply by the largest denomination. 

Oh, Mariam, was your destiny inevitable? As Alima ponders this question, she realizes that she isn’t actually thinking about Mariam; she is reflecting on her own life. For the past year, all she has done is work—work and more work. She jumps to her feet and stands in front of the full-length mirror, where she thoroughly examines herself. She touches her breasts; they still feel nice and firm. She examines her skin, noticing that it is still soft and tight, and her face remains relatively youthful. Yet, she can’t ignore that Mariam is only ten years older than she is. Menopause is probably approaching for her soon. Maybe what the clairvoyant predicted is her destiny, and she cannot escape it.

But what about now? Wasn’t life happening right now? Does she have to wait until menopause catches up to her and puts her on her path to demise? Can she at least live and have some fun in the meantime? 

With a swift motion, she picks up her phone from the floor, calls Fanta, her Malian coworker, and asks if they can go dancing tonight. Fanta is young, popular, and beautiful, with deep dimples on her round face. She is dating an African man who works as a security guard at one of the clubs in the city. Fanta has always invited Alima to join them for dancing on weekends, but Alima has consistently declined, citing her difficulty in speaking English and her limited interactions outside of the small African community she knows. Fanta has told Alima many times that it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t speak at all while at the club; all she needs to do is find her way to the dance floor and have fun.

About an hour later, Fanta arrives in her boyfriend’s BMW to pick up Alima. Fanta was already at the club when Alima called her, so now she is surprised to see that Alima is still wearing the same sweatpants and sweater she had on earlier at the salon. “Why aren’t you dressed?” Fanta asks.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Alima replied. 

After searching through Alima’s wardrobe without finding anything suitable for clubbing, the women decide to swap clothes. Fanta will then drop Alima off at the club and go home to change. They are about the same size—both women wear a size 4—though Fanta is petite while Alima is taller. When Alima puts on Fanta’s metallic black mini skirt, it sits just below her curvy buttocks. The sleeveless off-white top that pairs with the skirt fits snugly above her belly button. Although the high-heeled black boots are slightly smaller, Alima insists they are comfortable enough to wear.

Fanta pulls out her makeup bag and embellishes Alima’s face with foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick that is as red as blood. She freshens Alima’s long braids with mousse and gel and pulls them into a ponytail. Just before spraying perfume on Alima as a last touch, Fanta removes her large gold earrings and puts them on Alima. 

“Watch out, ” Fanta says, turning Alima to face the mirror. “Here is my femme fatale!” 

“I look…beautiful!” 

“You are ravishing, Alima!” 

Fanta gives Alima a pill, assuring her that it will help her calm down and relax. When Alima expresses her uneasiness about waiting alone at the club while Fanta goes to change, Fanta takes her inside, sits her at the bar, and orders her a gin and tonic. “Drink,” Fanta says with a reassuring smile. “I promise I’ll be back before you know it.”

Quickly, Alima finds it hard to ignore the infectious energy of the crowded nightclub. The laser light displays, the pulsating music, and the vibrant, nonjudgmental crowd all fill her with a sense of joy she never thought she would experience. She begins to nod along to the beat, allowing the music to seep into her very essence. Turning to take a sip of her drink, she realizes her glass is empty. Fanta hasn’t returned, and Alima has no money, nor the ability to communicate in English to ask the waiter if she can charge her drink to Fanta’s card.

Alima glances at the man who has just sat down next to her at the bar to place an order. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment, but neither smiles. Eventually, the man’s gaze shifts to the empty glass in Alima’s hand. “And whatever she is having,” he says as he places his order. The bartender promptly refills Alima’s drink. After siping her newly refilled drink, Alima watches the man return to his table in the club.

What Alima doesn’t know about this man, besides that he is white, tall, and thin, is that his name is Paul, a twenty-two years old native of Pittsburgh, who stole money from a law firm he was working at to come to New York City, a city he has long been dreaming about visiting. Paul is obsessed with art, theater, and music. He hates being born poor and dreams of becoming wealthy. He came to New York City and lodged at the Waldorf to be among the rich and to feel like he was one of them. 

After finishing her second drink, Alima feels too much energy to contain. The dance floor looks appealing, and the music calls out to her. She sees Paul on the dance floor and makes her way over to him, where she flirts and dances with him, forcing away Paul’s dance partner, who couldn’t maintain Paul’s diverted attention. 

As if hypnotized, Paul only follows Alima’s movements and lets her touch his body however she desires. His heart beats faster. He is sweating. He is feeling it. A feeling he has not felt before. It is curious. Strong. And he does not want it to stop. 

After dancing to a few songs, Alima begins to feel lightheaded. She leans on Paul for support, thinking that perhaps the pill that Fanta gave her has started to kick in. Soon she is doubling over to puke. Paul helps her outside. But it is cold. Thirty-three degrees. Paul takes his blazer off and puts it around Alima as she continues to vomit. Liquid. Only liquid. Alima did not eat anything all day. She has been drinking and has taken a pill on an empty stomach. Now, her head is throbbing. Throbbing so hard, she might faint. She feels like she wants to lie down. She grabs Paul’s hand and says, “Go home.” 

“Sure,” Paul says. “You wanna go home? I’ll call an Uber.” 

She grabs Paul’s hand again and shakes her head. “You. Home.” 

It takes Paul a moment, but he understands what she means. Go to his home. Alima sleeps in the cab driving to Paul’s hotel, and Paul has to wake her up upon their arrival. 

Upstairs in the luxury hotel room, Alima heads straight to the mini fridge, where she grabs some salted potato chips and a large piece of gâteau de crêpes au chocolat. She devours them so quickly that Paul fears she might throw up again. To prepare for that possibility, he places a wastebasket next to her. After finishing the snacks, Alima walks directly to the bathroom, and Paul hears the sound of the shower running.

Paul breathes. Turns around. His hand grips at his hip, then lets it go. He does not know whether to sit or stand. He does not know what the girl’s intentions are. Does not know how to communicate with her. Knows he is deadly attracted to her. Then, the shower stops. The bathroom door opens. And the girl walks toward him naked. Paul swallows. His throat is dry. 

Damn! That is all he could think of. Damn! 

The girl moves closer. Paul is not sure if he is still breathing. 

“You want me?” the girl asks. 

Paul nods. “I want you.” 

The girl takes Paul’s hand and cups it on one of her pear-shaped breasts. 

Paul pulls in. 

Nothing can stop him now. 

Not even death. He is all in. 

It is around six o’clock the following day when Paul hears the sound of a door. Still dazed, he smiles with his eyes closed and reaches out his arm to the other side of the bed—it’s empty. As he opens his eyes, he realizes that the sound he heard was the girl leaving. He quickly jumps out of bed and hastily puts on some clothes. He doesn’t know her name. He has to know her name. He can’t let her go without knowing her name. He rushes out of his hotel room, takes the elevator down, and hurries to the lobby, where he asks the receptionist. She informs him that the girl he is describing has just left.

Paul hurries toward the revolving doors of the hotel lobby and slips out. He sees her across the street and shouts “Hey,” but she doesn’t hear him. He tries to run after her, but he is hit by a freight truck that is making a turn. His brain splits open. He is dead. 

The sudden screeching sound of a truck makes Alima turn. She sees traffic congestion forming around the area. She doesn’t know someone has been hit. She hears the honking and beeping and yelling, but that is normal because this is New York City. She turns around, her mind going back to her adventure last night. She smiles. Menopause, I am ready for you!