Fallou Kansaye

The sun was barely up, but Bamako, Mali, was already awake. The market district buzzed with noise—vendors shouting, engines sputtering, people jostling. My battered old Peugeot 504 creaked under the weight of the family I was driving. A father, mother, and two wide-eyed children sat in the back, their silence as heavy as the heat that pressed down on us. They were leaving the city, heading to relatives in the countryside. They didn’t say why, but I didn’t need to ask. These days, everyone had their reasons for wanting to escape.

I’ve been a driver for nearly 30 years, ever since I left my village at 24 to make a life in Bamako. Now, at 52, I know these roads like the back of my hand—the potholes, the detours, the checkpoints. The car, held together by prayers and patchwork repairs, has seen its share of close calls. The state of the roads and the constant threat of accidents are enough to keep any driver awake at night, but I’ve learned to push the fear aside.

We passed through a crowded intersection, where two minibuses were locked in a shouting match over a scraped fender. Further on, the chaos thinned as we reached the outskirts. The children stopped whispering, and the only sound was the rattle of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires. The father leaned forward, his voice low. “You think things will get better?”

I glanced at him in the mirror. His face was lined, tired, like most I see these days. “Better? Maybe,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “But not soon. Mali has too many wounds. Wounds like this... they don’t heal quickly.”

He nodded and sat back. I thought of my own children back in the city. They’re grown now, and I thank God they chose other paths. These roads, they take you places, sure, but they also take their toll.

As we neared their destination, the father handed me a crumpled bill, more than the fare. “Thank you,” he said quietly. I nodded, watching as they unloaded, the children clutching their mother’s hands tightly. Then I turned the car around, heading back into Bamako. For me, the road never ends.