The Very Small Story of Ali B38

Let me tell you the very small story of Ali B38. I’m in Place de L’independence looking for a cashpoint. I think I know which corner there is one. We stopped there last night on the way to see Corrine. Ben bought melons on the corner, he paid too much, unhappy.
A man passes me – coal, his teeth even, the white tips fighting the mange. Late forties? Fifties? Who can tell – I have not lived his life and made his face. He is clean, shirt and slacks.
He turns and speaks – francaise –
je parle anglaise, I say.
Ah, he says, I know you from the hotel lobby, you know me? It is Ali, you come, where you go? Where you from? The lobby.
Ah bien, I say. Never seen him before – the blag – I know this one. I smile, Londres, I leave today, I go visa, ca va, ca va. He holds out his hand to shake – I do – he does not let go. I walk, he walks, holding my hand with small talk. He says he shows me visa. I smile and go with him.
He is right, he shows me visa, we saunter across Le Place. At the bank door, I say merci bien, au revoir, merci, relieved as he does not follow me through into the lobby.
I withdraw CFA 30,000, enough for today, I need presents, the airport and in reserve. I leave the bank. He is sitting on a bollard outside waiting. Oh well. We shake hands again.
Bon, he says, you married man?
Non, I say and with a small grin, girlfriend, j’habite….I bring my hands together. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a shell on a cord of thin ratty leather.
For her, he says. Merci bien, I say dipping my head, and again, thank you, and I pat his shoulder, bien, merci.
I am married, he says, have childs, my child one year, today, l’anniversaire, we have goat, he draws his hand across his throat, the blood, we give then name, baptisme? Oui we have blood and goat for name.
Bien, I say, magnifique.
I wonder where this is leading and wonder whether to give him money for the shell, I begin calculating in my head, I only have big notes, how much have I got, how much do I need? The 5 Euro note left over from buying Drum in Brussels? Will he leave me be?
For your girlfriend, he says, and digs into his pocket again and gives me a string of black lead-like beads. You know? Obsidian, is good.
Merci, I say. He looks around.
Put in your pocket, he says and pats my leg. For you, he motions to the shell, for your girlfriend, he says folding my hands over the beads, for her, put in your pocket.
This is getting out of hand, I think. He pulls out a handful of pink paper wraps.
Gold from the mines, he says, for your girlfriend. He opens up a wrap, two gold coloured earrings.
Put in your pockets, he says. I do. What do I do now? Give him money? I put my hand in my front pocket, cupping my wallet. What do I do now? We are beginning to attract company. A man holding a tray of perfumes and scent, grinning and nodding. I recognise Kouros and remember as a teenager how desirable it was. Now Ali, we stand grinning at each other. I pat his shoulder again, wondering how we are going to do this.
He says, you help, the goat, we cut blood for the childs, you help with the goat, to buy goat?
Ah oui, I say, of course.
The man with the Kouros grins at me and offers up his tray.
Non merci, no monsieur, I say smiling.
I open my wallet. I think, I have my stock of CFA for today. I pull out my last pounds, a ten pound note. I fold it into his hand patting his shoulder.
British pounds, I say, for the goat. He has the note.
Francs, but francs, he says and shakes his head, I need to buy goat for the blood, baptisme today, I need to buy today, not pounds, francs, I give you my number, stylo, you have stylo.
I say, you have pounds ok, ca va, ok. I pat his shoulder. He shifts.
Francs, he says, I need to buy goat, francs today. I am standing with my wallet open.
Ok ok.
I pull out 10,000 francs. He takes it quick.
The pounds? I say. He holds the francs, down, away. The ten pound note is gone.
I have pounds back, I say, give me the pounds. He keeps smiling. I motion to the francs.
I give you francs, you give me the pounds.
Ah, he says smiling, oui, le francs merci, non pounds, francs for goat.
Oui, I say, the pounds? I hold out my hand. He shakes it.
We begin to laugh together holding hands. We know that I will not get the pounds. We know the deal has been done, We know he has by far the best of it, of this that is, I have given him much.
Ok, I say grinning, ok ca va. We grin.
He insists on giving me his number, I give him a pen even though we are done. Why? For pride? To restore my pride? To keep his? To say you have pride, here is my number.
I am Ali, you see.

ALI B38
526 . 711 40

He gives me back the pen. His number scratched weakly on a scrap of paper in his palm.
Au revoir, bien, bien, Ali, bien.
I turn back and go into the cashpoint. I will need more money now. He is not there when I come out. In my pocket, the shell on a string, the beads, the earrings wrapped in pink paper. I have his number. And I have this very small story from Ali B38.

Dakar, Feb 2007

Little Children, Little Hands

To the first, barefoot, beside me
No words, just the little hand,
The local coin, put in his palm, I feel his fingers close
It is all his hand can hold, so small, his hand.

The second, my English change
A little silver, coppers, a few pennies
In his little hand.

That’s it, no more, no more
Non, non,
The pocket, the wallet, the notes
The lie
Non, no more.

Dakar Feb 07

The Man From Togo

English?
I don’t want money,
I come for work,
From Togo,
I am here months,
Don’t give me money,
Here is my insulin, my prescription, my syringe,
I show you,
Don’t give me money, no,
Please,
Come to the pharmacy,
Please, please, I show you,
Insulin, I inject in front of you,
I will wait, outside, you get money, from hotel,
I don’t want money,
Here is my prescription I show you,
Just this, please, no, just this,
I am diabetic coma see,
I have this, see sugar,
I don’t want your money,
No money, please, I wait outside,
You go, come back, I show you needle,
In front of you,
Please, no, please,
I will die, I die,
Please,
No money,
Please.

The Vengeful History of Gulliver Foyle

The following exert was discovered in a red book that seemed to have been purchased for the purpose. These are the words found in it. It was accompanied by a till receipt for 'A Pilgrims Song' by Dearmer, G upon the back of which was scrawled the following epithet:

'The purpose and dedication of a man's life can make itself clear when faced with the prospect of marriage.'


This is a depressing thought

That I will not be quietened till I discover the meaning of life......
The magnitude of the soul
To understand and accept destiny
to believe in destiny; fate; faith all spring

from fundamental believe

my disquietitude is of this

my fundamental belief

I ask myself what is true
but I only question the truth
- in the end

I am fundamentally unsure
that the meaning of life is in the surety

I have been convinced by academic argument
I am convinced everytime
those I refine and use again - forsaking old stances
mutating in vogue
till I am reconvinced

Only pain is real; elation is the misery of the sweet chord
the primordial elusive riff
it fails in repetition and pales in imitation

Dope exemplifies
my droop eyes
fear of a direct gaze

IF I DO NOT KNOW MY OWN SOULWHY SHOULD I FEAR JUDGMENT

A disgrace to my consciousness
unable to actually THINK about anything
not Ostrich way

try - say consider this
I blank - I fraid

see this artifice

vulnerability
a 1/2 inch between beasts
forget the psychotic killer; the inconsequential godhead
the ripper pales
it is the mob that murders

I am brimming
but brine;
liquidless - my conscious mind
I am not conscious of
my tongue

not confused, not......

just numb

with an increase of visual acuity

see

that's

me

A Moon Cut Like A Sickle

Freud and the Officious Fool

As a clown, I offered her a bowl of cherries,
not flat (like a mirror) or a painted smile portrayed.
She put on her glasses and perused what I’d given her.

What a laugh she gave - incisor, not inside her,
It would never be inside her.
The bowl’s glazed age, hard hairline and fractured,
made such a withered vessel, a rotten bough, petaless - but the fruit, ah!

She ate them all, all, sweet tempting Eve
as I watched salivating, keen and dog-eyed.

She ate them all, all and licked her lips,
savouring the saviour, and the juice on her fingertips.

She ate them all, all and sucked the flesh from the bones,then chewed the marrow and spat out the stones -they cracked at the bowl, bare and wet.

She ate them all, all, as I watched her
and hungered, a half handsome xylophone me.

She returned the bowl a skeletal wreck,
With a painted satiate smile,
Then dismissed me, clowned me, that Marie Celeste.
A jape, a jaded sweating mask am I,
She a liquid fairy, who cuts the grease-paint squeak:
And washed her hands of me.

No Fides she , the all,
Drunk from the grail so empty.

I will pass my hand through her,
And taste the space of her form,
the very atom of her being.
My hand for eons in her ions,
and grasp her frigid nucleus,
take the jolt, the essence of her Gaia,
and tear it out.
Leave her a negative, a nothing,
electric and dead;
Like a dog, this sentience I possess, is nothing.

Where is he going?

Where is he going
To die
To meet his destiny
His Armageddon
His image
His medusa
His valhala
His golden moment
His virility
His last stand
His final wish
The epitome of his reading
His holy place
His nobility
His fulfillness
His satori
The product of enlightenment
The knowing crust
The X, the christening
The moment of self love
Peace and confidence
Rest in mind
But filled with such afloatness
That all is just a sucked in expansion

It is the meaning of the spirit
And its moment
Its one action, rebellion or noblesse
A transendation
That carves a mark
A graffiti
In its brightness to know life.