I'm not from Spain, I tell him, but good luck!
Where am I from? he asks.
America.
America would be okay too, he decides, and could I help him get there?
What do Coby and countless other young men in my village and across Mali want to escape from? From poverty and a future without hope. These young men are so sure that there is no possibility of money or a job in Mali that they are willing to risk their lives to leave.
Mothers hand me their babies and tell me to take them home with me to America. Women offer to be my servant in exchange for a new life in America. Men propose marriage.
We spend hours and hours arguing over whether or not Coby should leave. He argues that there's no money to be found in Mali. I argue that he'll spend all the money he's earned on food and lodging and a ticket back to Mali, since he's sure that he'll come back. But I can't change Coby's mind. He knows he'll return with money filling his pockets, cash spilling out to build a new, concrete house and cell phones galore and meat for every meal of the day for the rest of his life: He's seen it.
Okay, well, when you press Coby, maybe he hasn't actually seen it. But he's heard about it alright, and he'll make it to Spain or America whether I help him or not. His wife, Little Banta, sits nearby holding their second child in her arms.
Coby does not speak Spanish or English. He speaks just enough French to make Banta think he's taking on airs (C'est ça!), and he's trained to grow millet and peanuts. He's not sure what kind of job he'll find in Spain, but he's sure there will be something. Maybe he'll clean someone's house, maybe he'll clean the streets. He's sure there must be jobs which toubabs think are beneath them, and he's probably right.
He doesn't know yet how he'll get there. A friend just left for Spain, but he left after his family had seen him off at the airport in Bamako, a visa and all the security that comes with it tucked into his pocket. Coby's route won't be quite so direct. Maybe he'll go up through the Sahara or across to Senegal and then take a boat from there. He's heard the stories of failure too, and there are a lot more of them. There are stories of the boys that died in the desert or the sea, stories of boys found by the police and sent straight back home, stories of boys who came home with nothing.
Coby relegates these stories to the back of his head. The story he believes in is the one of the boy who made it. It is the story of the boy who crossed the harsh desert and the high waters and landed in the world of money and opportunity. He stayed in a house with a countless number of his countrymen, found a job and before he knew it, his pockets were filled with money and he was heading for home.
I am always arguing with Coby, always coming up with reasons why he shouldn't leave. And there are many arguments to be made. But Coby keeps arguing back. And at a certain point, I run out of arguments and just have to look down and sigh. Who am I to argue over whether Coby should stay in Mali when I myself won't stay? Because, for all the hardships and pitfalls an immigrant might face, there will always be the possibility of making it big and striking it rich. And when you're not even making a dollar a day, the idea that you could make a dollar an hour, regardless of all the expenses and hardships you might face, is pretty enticing.
At a particularly weak moment, I admit to Coby that I might feel the same way had I been born a Malian citizen. I love Mali and I truly believe that for the most part, people are doing okay here. I also know, however, that the developed world is pretty darn nice. And that Mali's path to getting there, while progressing daily, is a long one.
At the end of Ramadan, a couple Peace Corps friends came to visit my village. Frustrated by my refusal to help him, Coby turned to Jennifer, dite Djellika Coulibaly, for help. When Djellika asked Coby why he wanted to go to America, he looked at her as if she was one light bulb short. Duh, there's tons of money in America. "Right," Djellika said, "because money grows on trees in America." Her voice dripped with sarcasm and we all laughed.
A few weeks later, Coby is again arguing with me about leaving for the West. "Fine. Pack your bags," I say, "but on second thought, maybe you should wait a bit. There's an economic crisis in America and there's not much money to be had."
Coby scoffs. "Djellika said money grows on trees in America."
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