**Paris, October 29, 2020**
The next morning, tension hung as thick in the Vilepin apartment as the autumn chill seeping through the poorly sealed windows. After Jacques-Cartier's piercing glare and his weighty silence of reproach, I had no choice but to act—and swiftly.
Perched on the edge of my bed, I pulled out my old smartphone and began scouring job listings. Waitress, cleaner, shop assistant… The options were plentiful, yet each seemed to demand experience I lacked or a schedule clashing with my fragile circumstances. With stubborn hope, I sent out spontaneous applications, one by one, praying one might bear fruit.
Aunt Fatou, her face etched with the exhaustion of a sleepless night spent soothing her husband's rage, slipped quietly into my room.
—Maya, don't worry too much, my dear. Jacques… he's under pressure right now. The fine, the work… He'll come around eventually.
—Thank you, Aunt, but he's right. I must find a job and stand on my own.
Her sad eyes revealed she knew full well the path ahead would not be easy.
That afternoon, I ventured to a temp agency a few metro stops from Vincennes. The counselor, a young blonde with a professional yet distant smile, skimmed my barely filled CV.
—You have almost no experience in France, is that correct?
—I just arrived from Dakar. But I'm eager, and I learn quickly.
—I see… Unfortunately, without local references, it's tricky. And your legal status? Do you have a residence permit?
The question chilled me. My student visa—though I wasn't enrolled in university—was still valid, but for how long? I felt her gaze turn colder, as if my lack of proper papers was an invisible flaw already detected.
I returned home with a heavy heart, passing a neighbor in the stairwell who avoided my eyes. The silent hostility of the HLM estate reminded me I was not welcome here.
That evening, as Jacques-Cartier dined in silence—a silence more menacing than his previous shouts—I received a call. An African restaurant in the 18th arrondissement needed a dishwasher. The owner, a fellow Senegalese, seemed understanding.
—Can you start tomorrow? It's tough, you know—think you can handle it?
—Yes, of course! Thank you, thank you so much!
I wanted to shout with relief. Hanging up, I flashed a wide smile at my aunt and cousins. Even Jacques-Cartier gave a grudging nod, as if to say "finally."
But the next day, after three hours of commuting and a morning scrubbing sauce-crusted pots, the owner summoned me.
—Listen, little one… It's not that you work badly. But you're too slow. And… are you regular? No papers? Inspections are strict right now. Sorry.
He handed me twenty euros in cash for the morning's work. I found myself outside, humiliated, my hands still red from hot water and detergent.
Paris, which had shone so brightly a week ago, now revealed its harshest face: rejection, precarity, and solitude.
I boarded the metro, clutching my bag tightly. Then I spotted a notice pasted on the window: "Seeking cleaning staff for railway networks. Shift work."
With little faith, I jotted down the number.
I had to persist. For myself. To never again live under Jacques-Cartier's disdainful gaze. And above all, to honor the one in Dakar who believed with all her heart that her daughter would thrive in France.
Ma'a Ada… If only you knew.