Corpus Civilization

Burkina Faso

The ground beneath him is bumpy, the wheels of the motorcycle reverberating back every bump in the road, right down to his teeth. The sun glares deep into his back, but he doubts it can turn his thinly clothed back any colour darker than it already is. Usually, every morning, when he rides his bike to the site, Issouf tries to enjoy the sun on his back, despite how harsh it can be. The rest of his time will be spent in a cold and damp place, after all. But today, his day had begun with no food in his belly and a simple sip of water and as he'd heard from the men on the site, "when a person's hungry, it's likely they'll be angry too." Or something like that. In any case, the reason behind his unusual mood was because he hadn't had any food in him in ages, and now he was off to work again after a sleepless night because his stomach kept growling and it echoed in his ears like a never-ending alarm. He lets out a breath and pumps his too-skinny legs harder on the bike, hoping, that by some miracle, the owners would pay him more if he got there a little earlier.

It only takes another half an hour to reach the mines, a desolate area filled with holes on different hills. Evidence of activity lined the entrance, not that there was a clear one. Dropping his bike near a pile of loose dirt, he rubs his legs to rid them of the dust clouded up on his shins. Approaching the owners is no hard task, as they simply look over him with half-closed eyes and scribble something down on the list attached to their clipboards.

"Get to work, boy." the owner in front of him pushes him in the direction of the closest hole. Issouf's been working here for eight? nine? years now, and yet the owners haven't managed to learn anyone's names. Issouf nods, grabbing hold of the wooden handle slipped into the back of his shirt. He pulls the tool out, resting it on the ground as he pulls up the flashlight hanging around his neck. The plastic part of the flashlight is tied with an elastic cloth on two ends, a handmade headlamp for the darkness of the mines.

In any case, the work was not going to complete itself. Issouf moves with slow, but sharp movements to the fourth hole they'd started just three days before. They'd made it surprisingly deep, but it was yet to be fully explored. Coming to a stop beside the buckets surrounding the hole, he picks up the one with the least holes, the metal warm beneath his fingers, slowly turning a burning hot under the beating sun.

Glaring down at the hole, Issouf determines the best way possible to get in. It won't be an easy task, with the rocky slide in and a watery landing. It never was, but this was probably one of the most dangerous ones he'd seen. The hole was much too deep to simply jump and the slide was much too steep to slide down on. He would have to improvise.

Grabbing hold of his pickaxe once again, he thunked it into the ground beside him, making sure to angle the long handle towards the hole. Holding on to the wooden handle, he begins to lower himself inside the hole, ever so careful of the rocks that tumble free in his wake. He grips the handle tightly, after all, that was the only thing standing between him and certain death. Slowly, slowly and ever so carefully, he begins his descent, whispering mumbled prayers under his breath. His feet make footholds in the dirt, toes poking in the grime, unheld by the flip flops that were now broken quite close to being beyond repair.

Each step terrifies him a little more, and he nearly whimpers in relief when the water laps at his heels. Planting his feet in the muddy water, he pulls out the pickaxe from the top and inhales, forgetting that this was an invitation for the smell of the mine to invade his nose as well. The never ending smell of rotten eggs, of wet dirt surrounded him completely. It didn't matter if he hated it. This place was as much home as his actual one. His mother had taught him to "never curse your home" and really, he was not lying, this place was home. He certainly spent more hours here than he did with his family. Another breath in, along with his first step into the darkness.

It doesn't take long for him to reach the end of the tunnel and when he does, he takes a moment to just breathe, switching on his flashlight. Looking up at the unstable roof, he calculates where it would be best to strike if he were to not make the whole tunnel collapse on him. There is nothing holding the tunnel together other than the dirt walls themselves.

At last, he chooses a spot and strikes down, first gently, just to test the stability, then a lot harder as he attempts to put in an effort. Sometimes, as he goes through the repeated motion of every day labour, he wonders if his life could've been better, if he'd made some different choices. Maybe if he'd been nice to everyone at all times, rather than letting anger take hold of him. Maybe if he'd been better at doing what he did now, maybe he'd be somewhere else now. Maybe if he'd found more gold, then he'd be in the Americas, studying law or medicine or trying to save the kids he was part of himself. He drifted in and out of his thoughts, allowing the chunks he pickaxed to fall in the metal bucket. His thoughts keep him occupied until a hand on his shoulder startles him.

He turns around, raising the pickaxe, only to notice that the intruder is his friend, Moussa, not an owner come to slap him for a lousy job. He lowers the pickaxe, sighing in relief then looks at his friend with a smile.

The two boys slap each other's hand as a greeting, choosing to stay silent and save their breath for the hard labour still left. They get to work together, back to back, a force to be reckoned with. Well, Issouf liked to think that.

They fall into a rhythm, Issouf hitting, the loud plunk! of the pickaxe reverberating through the cave and then Moussa coming straight after him, his own plunk! starting right when Issouf's ended. Issouf pretended it was a song that they were listening to and the sweat covering every inch of his body was because he'd danced too hard.

But when the cave rumbles back at them, he shivers, stopping his ministrations and urging Moussa to do the same. This cave rumbling isn't something that's happened before. Actually, it had. Only when...a cave was about to collapse.

When the realization hit him, Issouf pushed Moussa outwards, towards the hole on the roof, yelling words of panic and warning as the cave went down, down, some sharp rocks hitting them on their thinly clothed skin. They ran and ran, until at last they touched the sunlight, the cave still crumbling behind them. Issouf pushes Moussa up, the younger being smaller than him. His throat becomes hoarse quickly, lips parched as he yells at anyone to come save them. A face appears, one he recognizes yet doesn't know the name of. The other boy reaches out a hand and Moussa grabs on, being pulled out to safety.

Issouf scrambles, his wet toes pushing into the dirt, slipping before he finally finds a small ledge to grasp. He pulls himself up with the help of Moussa and the other boy, the rumbling behind him louder than ever before, knocking right in his ears. The boy comes back, this time offering a hand to Issouf, who grabs on tightly, still fearing for his life. His feet scramble pathetically as he is pulled up. His hands reach the top of the hole in the roof, pulling his too skinny body up and over the hole. The rumbling follows him and all three of them move back, eyes still curious despite the fear inbred into them. They watch as the hole fills up with dirt, the ground above collapsing a little, the only evidence of the collapse a small dust cloud that rises as at last, the rumbling fades.

By that time, the only thing that is on Issouf's mind, is that his dreams were pathetic and now he had to face the owners that probably had some very creative punishments ready for him. 

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By Jem