Since I started this blog a little over a year and a half ago, the Fatou story is by far the most popular story. This story garnered the most feedback, the most commentary, the most views, and the most controversy ! Without further ado, let’s get into the sequel and find out what happened after that fateful day between Fatou and her husband, Ibrahima.
Shortly after Ibrahima’s death that morning, the kids started to wake up. My oldest, Chiekh, came into my room and found his father laying on the bed, with a sheet over his body. He took one look in my eyes and quickly understood the situation.
Cheikh: What happened?!
Fatou: I woke up and found him like this.
Cheikh: How is that possible? You didn’t feel him struggling or anything?
Fatou: Son, don’t pester me with questions. Ñio ko guissando (we are both seeing it as is).
Fatou starts folding clothes that were sprawled across the bed. She didn’t seem concerned at all about the corpse in their presence.
Cheikh: What do we do now?
Cheikh notices that his mom was not as frantic as he would expect her to be. Despite all the havoc his father wreaked upon their lives, she was still a devout wife, which he could never understand. She stops folding clothes and sits upright on the bed, her chewing stick nonchalantly hanging from her lips.
Cheikh: Mom, what is going on?
Fatou: Son, don’t bother. No one is going to ask questions, his health was already deteriorating.
Cheikh: How can you be so sure?
Fatou start thinking back to the pieces she laid down leading up to this event. She planned this over a two-month period.
Every time your aunt Rama gave me money for food for us to eat, I made sure to go without, putting a little bit away towards savings to buy the poison.
Every time I went by the neighborhood Imam, I asked for prayers concerning “Ibrahima’s worsening condition” and insisted no one could visit or Ibrahima would get mad at me for publicizing his “illness.”
Every day, I added a sedative in his food to make him lethargic. Any time someone would come over, he’d be slumped over in a chair or in the bedroom. I figured since he didn’t work and laid around the house anyway, it would not be hard to convince people outside the house that he was sick.
Penda [Fatou’s best friend]: Ay yaw, mome daal nii rek? (Wow, he’s still sick? He hasn’t gotten any better?)
Fatou: Bilay, mome daal nii rek, he just sits here or lays in the room all day. I’m treating him but it’s not getting much better.
Penda: Have you taken him to the hospital?
Fatou: You know how he is about the hospital. Besides, he does not want anyone feeling pity for him.
Penda: Ndeyesan. May Allah heal him, for your sake and the children.
The final time your father forced himself on me was the straw that broke the camel’s back – I decided to proceed with my plan of poisoning him.
Fatou’s face was cold as she explained her journey. For weeks, people stopped by casually and saw Ibrahima sedated and Fatou led them on a journey to believe he was on his way out naturally.
Fatou: Nobody is going to ask for an autopsy.
Cheikh looks at his mother, feeling chills stream down his spine. He could not decide if she was a true victim of this situation or a cold-blooded, calculating killer.