Fatou Ndiath

I still remember the heat and dust of Dakar, how the wind smelled before a rainstorm. We left Senegal many years ago—my husband, our two little boys, and I—hoping for a better life in France. We ended up in Marseille, in a cramped apartment in a quartier nord where hope and despair sit side by side. I am 58 now. My hands are rough from years of cleaning other people’s homes, and my knees ache from standing too long in kitchens that were never mine.

My husband worked as a night watchman. It was lonely work, but he did it proudly. We raised our sons with discipline and love, but we couldn’t protect them from everything. In this neighborhood, temptation is everywhere. My eldest got caught up in it early. The police raided our place when he was just nineteen. They found stolen goods. He’s been in prison ever since. That night, my husband wept for the first time in years. He never really recovered. His heart gave out six months later. Some say he died of sadness, and I believe them.

My younger son, the quiet one, promised us he’d never follow his brother’s path. I clung to that promise like a lifeline. He still visits me sometimes, stays the night. Last week, while tidying the small bedroom, I found a shoebox under the bed. Inside: a wad of cash, small plastic bags filled with powder, and a handgun. My hands trembled so badly I had to sit down.

I haven’t confronted him. Not yet. I lie awake most nights, imagining how to say it. What words could save him? What words wouldn't push him away? I fear if I accuse him, he’ll disappear—or worse. But if I stay silent, I might be digging his grave.

I fled a country once, hoping to save my family. Now, in the same city that gave us refuge, I watch it all slip through my fingers.